The schoolgirls wearily traipsed through time. They’d begun in ancient Assyria, bright-eyed and fizzing with eagerness, gazing upward with wonder at the monumental winged bulls at the entrance to the British Museum. They call them Lamassu, their teacher explained, sixteen tons of alabaster, hewn almost three thousand years ago, and exquisitely sculpted into a fantastical creatures. They had been buried for millennia, as mighty empires rose, fought and crumbled on the sands above them. Now a new empire had uncovered and claimed the statues, and its unimaginable modern magic had transported the immense monuments over land and sea to the imperial metropolis of London.
The girls continued their meander through history, passing the spooky sarcophagi and cryptic carvings of ancient Egypt. Then on to stare at cases of the slightly more comprehensible domestic pottery of ancient Greece. Now the grey-skirted stream of girls had ebbed into Roman times, feet scuffing, heels dragging. Behind teacher’s back, yawns were being stifled, and outbreaks of sniggers and nudges were beginning when artifacts with willies were sighted.
Yet through the dozy fug of her torpor, something caught Jenny’s eye. She stopped and squinted into the brightly lit case as her classmates milled past her. Inside was what looked like a thin leather strap, discoloured black and desiccated by age. Had the object been intact it would have been as long as her forearm, but instead it lay broken in 4 unequal lengths.
Curiosity piqued, her eyes scanned the caption card beside it.
Leather (likely goat hide) ~140 BC.
Found: Tiburi (now Tivoli), central Italy, 1855.
“Believed to be a flogging whip, intended for the purification and fertility rites of the festival of Lupercalia. Celebrated annually, beginning on the Ides (the 13th) and climaxing on the 15th of February, these purgative rituals held such significance in the Roman calendar that the month of Februarius was named after them. Although Lupercalia was a fertility rite, scholars believe its proximity to the contemporary St Valentine’s Day (the 14th) is purely coincidental.”
Jenny quivered. Recently, she’d become a reluctant expert on the subject of flogging. Only yesterday she’d neglected to do her Latin homework, and been kept behind after school to finish it. And the school rules were very clear, pupils who missed an assignment would find themselves completing it – whilst sitting on a sore spanked bottom…
And so it was, that after the final school bell had rung yesterday, she’d trudged back to Room 12 and knocked on its antique-looking door. Three brass letters glowed dully at eye height, XII, this was her Latin Master’s room, after all.
“Veni!” shouted the voice behind the door.
She understood that instruction well enough and entered apologetically, wondering if she was to be scolded in Latin too. It might be less awkward, so much easier to ignore anyway.
Depositing her Latin books on a table at the front of the class, she tentatively approached his desk. There she stood, hands clasped demurely in front of skirt, as he droned on – in English, unfortunately – about her shocking laziness, the virtue of diligence, and the continuing relevance of Latin in the modern world. She silently disagreed with practically every word he said, all the while nodding earnestly.
His droning must have stopped, it was the sound of a drawer opening that shook Jenny from her reverie.
He had a mud-brown leather strap in his hand. They’d both been through this little ritual before, there was little need for explanations.
“Pull down your panties.”
Arguing was pointless, and from painful experience only likely to earn her a longer spanking, or another visit to the headmistress to hop and prance in her birthday suit under her cruel cane. And most likely, both.
Jenny’s wilful nature had already resulted in one visit to her headmistress. That time, Jenny had complained her tutor had told her to pull down her panties, expecting to hear her rebuke her colleague for his outrageous impropriety. But Miss’s response was unexpected and alarmingly blunt. Every girl in the school’s long and noble history had been spanked on her bare bottom, she’d said, something special about you, girl?
Miss had made it perfectly clear that what Jenny needed was a good lesson in humility. As she’d refused to bare her bottom when told, she’d now be baring everything. So despite her pleas, Jenny had soon found herself completely undressed and touching her toes. Miss had, of course, “seen it all before”, but that didn’t make it any less embarrassing as Miss altered Jenny’s stance to her satisfaction, her hands parting Jenny’s legs before a finger delicately spread apart her labia like wings of a butterfly.
And Miss was quite right about baring everything. As she was caned, Jenny’s lips parted wider and wider, until she couldn’t help revealing the slick little hole in her most secret place.
Even worse was to come. After her caning, Jenny was told to remain bending over whilst Miss inspected her, her fingers tracing each hot mark on her cheeks and every moist fold between her legs.
“I see being disciplined excites you, Jenny”, said her headmistress, as her fingertips gently stroked the glistening wetness where Jenny’s most intimate lips met.
“No Miss!” was all she could splutter in reply.
“Now be a good girl, and thank me for your correction.”
“I was… very naughty Miss”, Jenny whispered, embarrassment making her bare toes curl underneath her, “Thank you for my caning.”
Afterwards Miss had insisted on dressing Jenny in her discarded uniform. It was as if time was running backwards, as she made Jenny step into her panties, slowly pulling them up her thighs, up over her tender bottom to her waist, before finally tugging them to ensure they were snug around her damp crotch.
Then it was arms up to receive her little bra, which Miss fastened between her shoulders. Same again for her blouse, which Miss adjusted meticulously before doing up the buttons from waist to throat. Her skirt was wrapped around her waist and fastened, its hem tugged down to an appropriate level, and her socks pulled over her feet and up above her calves. Miss even put her shoes on, and tied her laces, which made Jenny feel like a clumsy child with a smacked bum, which just made her cheeks burn even brighter with shame.
Eventually only one item remained, her black and amber school tie. There was something about the way Miss handled it that made Jenny shiver, like it was about to be used to blindfold her, or to tie her hands behind her back. She was slightly disappointed when Miss just draped it around her neck and began tying a windsor knot; a pang that was wholly unexpected and disturbingly exciting.
Once dressed, Miss escorted Jenny back to the detention room, where – in an excruciating coda to the afternoon – she had to bend over once more and pull down her panties to reveal her newly acquired red stripes to her history teacher. He murmured approvingly, and then executed her original sentence, spanking her earnestly under the headmistress’s watchful eye until her bottom throbbed. Sitting down on one of the classroom’s hard benches after all that was just agony.
The lesson had been learned, and Jenny had taken her subsequent punishments more pragmatically. Standing alone in front of her Latin tutor, she dutifully reached under her skirt for the waistband of her underwear, slowly pulling her panties down to her ankles, in a motion that was as humiliating as it was unaccountably arousing.
On cue, she lowered her hands towards the floor, clasping her ankles just above where her white panties had gathered. There was a damp spot in the gusset, barely visible, but glaringly obvious if you knew it was there. There was just something about spankings that made her feel funny. She stared into the amber-coloured planks of the classroom floor, feeling her face blush hot. She looked back between her legs to see her tutor stand, and walk behind her.
Moments later, the hem of her knee-length grey serge skirt began to rise, accompanied by a cool draught that made the newly exposed skin of her thighs prickle. And just like that, her bottom was bare, bared and ready to be spanked. Instinctively she clenched her buttocks, hoping she wasn’t revealing too much of herself.
Then, a pause, as he tucked her hem into her waistband, ensuring that when she returned to her seat, it would be to sit on her newly spanked cheeks. Moments later, without warning, a loud slap echoed through the classroom, and Jenny felt a strip of her bottom sting and glow hot.
“Oooo… unus…” she gasped, remembering her duty to count out each whack, in the appropriate language, of course. She hoped she’d enunciated that word correctly, to her, it sounded like ‘anus’, which made Jenny even more self-conscious of her bottom hole, and compelled her to clench her legs together even tighter.
Another whack landed, this time on her other cheek “Duo!”
“Ah… tres… Ooo… quattuor… Ow… quinque!”
Her teacher spanked forcefully, as if channelling his displeasure into every stroke.
“Ooo… s-e-x…” she pronounced that number slowly, taking a whole breath to say it, letting it linger in the air, naughtily. Just saying that word was enough to spark a tingling between her legs, and make her start thinking about what would happen were she to unclench her legs and reveal what good girls shouldn’t.
“Septus!” she gasped. That earned a quick corrective slap and an admonishment. “SeptEM!”
“Oooo… octo! Novem! Ow! Decem!” The subsequent whacks were even harder, landing on alternate cheeks, painting pink the bottom of her bum and the tops of her thighs. He was clearly keen to ensure her discomfort when she was eventually sent to her seat to begin her homework.
By the time her counting had reached viginti she had abandoned any pretense of keeping her legs closed, and was now swaying and hopping from foot to foot after every slap of the strap, providing her disciplinarian with tantalising flashes of her puffy pink slit.
“Ow! Triginta!!” The spanking ceased on the thirtieth whack, with Jenny’s poor bottom hot, tender and aching. She stood up gingerly, resisting the temptation to break the rules and try and rub the heat away. Instead, with her panties still around her ankles, she hobbled miserably to the desk where she’d put her books, stifling a gasp as her sore spanked bottom was pressed down onto the unforgivingly hard wooden bench.
Jenny opened her Latin books, and began work on her translation exercise, something tedious about a girl named Claudia and her visit to a temple.
Her bottom glowed and tingled underneath her, the persistent hot stinging ache a reminder of her disgrace. She squirmed on her soreness, acutely aware of her little pea peeping out between her puffy lips, aching for attention, and the damp patch of dew she was making on the varnished wooden seat.
Meanwhile her tutor had returned to his desk, and was now engrossed in marking homework jotters, the ones that had been handed in on time. She wished he would go away and leave her alone, even if it was just for five minutes. She imagined that under his gown, his cock was painfully stiff, and any moment now he’d make some lame excuse and hurry from the room, down the corridor to the loos to relieve himself. The dirty old man.
She yearned to be able to reach down and rub: rubbing round and round, faster and faster, until the cruel burning was transformed into crashing waves of eye-rolling pleasure, reducing her to a shuddering, moaning mess, slumped over her desk, pink-faced and panting.
Instead, her pen scribbled drearily as she stewed in her own frustration.
As her bottom smoldered painfully beneath her.
Stupid language, she fumed.
After an hour of monotonous scrawling, Jenny had finished her assignment. She was promptly summoned towards her tutor’s desk, where she stood with her back to him, hands on her head, skirt still lifted, panties still bunched around her ankles, and most embarrassingly of all, with her bright pink bottom on display.
Jenny couldn’t tell if her almost interminable wait in front of his desk was due to the number of errors she’d made as he marked her work, or whether he was just enjoying staring at her round pink globes. Eventually, her work was deemed sufficient, and she was permitted to pull her panties up over her smarting cheeks, and was sent on her way.
By the time she’d got home, her bottom had stopped throbbing, which was an agonising missed opportunity. All the best orgasms she’d ever experienced had come soon after good hard whackings. She particularly enjoyed summer holiday visits to stay with strict Uncle Rupert. What a treat it was to have her pyjama bottoms pulled down, and be slippered and put to bed early. And then be able to spend the evening exploring under the covers with her fingers, rubbing and savouring her hot stinginess, and the delightfully musky slippiness it inspired.
Jenny was one of those girls blessed with a wonderfully creative imagination. Her favourite way to play was to lie back and replay her most cherished fantasy in her minds’ eye: imagining herself being stripped naked, tied up, and spanked until she came.
She’d clutch her sore bottom and impale herself, imagining the shuddering of each whack when her fingers were at their deepest. Deeper and harder, deeper and harder, until the throbbing of her spanking merged sensationally with the quivering of her climax.
Yesterday, she’d hurried up to her room and stripped off as soon as she’d got home. The pink patches on her bum were still warm to the touch, but quickly fading. Nevertheless the urge to play had now become a craving. She dived onto her bed and spread her legs apart.
And from behind her closed door there were the sounds of springs squeaking and little moans.
All of which might explain Jenny’s fascination as she peered into the case at the museum. She studied the timeworn leather fragments like a detective might hover over evidence at a crime scene, pondering the clues.
What’s your story, leather strap? she thought.
How many bottoms did you smack?
Were they naughty girls or naughty boys?
Did you ever spank a girl until she came?
“Jenny! Jenny Willis! Don’t dawdle girl!”
The headmistress was calling her. By now, her classmates had all drifted around the corner, ebbing into Anglo-Saxon Britain whilst she stood transfixed before the case, still mesmerised by a two thousand year old strip of goat hide, and all the stories it could never tell.
* * * * *
Two thousand years earlier, on the last day of Lupercalia, wolves were roaming the village of Tiburi.
Young women scattered as the wolves came into sight, shrieking and scampering away to hide. But the wolves proved relentless, prowling the streets, clambering trees, scouring the fields, the vineyards and the olive groves in search of their quarry.
The family of consul Gaius Claudius Maecenas had a Gods’ eye view from the balcony of the temple at the top of the hill. Far below them, a young woman in an indigo tunic could be seen scampering along the stony path beside a tilled field. She crouched behind a low hedgerow, hoping she’d be sufficiently concealed from the stalking wolves.
But from their vantage point, they could see the wolf run down the track towards her, long before she became aware of the approaching scuffing and pounding of his footsteps, and the panting of his breath. Too late, she glimpsed the wolf’s head towering above the hedgerows, its dead stare and vicious fangs, and instinctively took flight like a startled bird.
Shrieking shrilly, she fled down the track. Heart pounding, breath burning, now light-headed from the thrill of pursuit. Her sandals were impractical for running, and her barefoot pursuer was soon close enough to hear her gasps.
The chasing wolf was Marcus. He knew his quarry well: he’d grown up with her, played with her, and lusted after her. It had been a tremendous honour for Marcus to be selected to take part in The Chase. For the occasion, seven of the town’s fastest runners had removed their togas and donned wolfskins. The wolf’s head worn above their own like some macabre helmet, its fur covering their backs, but leaving the masculinity of their chests and loins uncovered.
In his hand, each wolf carried a long leather strap: a Februa, which had been cut from the hide of the sacrificial goat yesterday. As they roamed the town, some women would call to them, beckoning them over, staring coyly at their rippling physiques, and what dangled so enticingly between their athletic thighs.
Some would extend the palms of their hands to be whipped, others would lift their dresses or tunics and bend over. Some believed a short flogging on their bare bottoms would make them more fecund, others that it would bless them with greater satisfaction during the sexual act.
And some, like Cordelia, the field-girl dressed in indigo, ran. Some ran through fear, others ran out of the thrill of being pursued, to desire to be chased until every breath was like a fire in their chest, to be finally run to ground like prey and then be overwhelmed.
This chase, which had spanned the length the town, featuring numerous twists and turns along the way, did not have much further to run. She was tiring now, and there just weren’t enough good hiding places in the open fields.
And then he spotted her, crouching at the end of the track trying to recover her breath, near a high wooden gate. He howled, and began to sprint towards her, legs and arms flowing in blur of motion, his whip cracking through the air. Startled, she tried to spring off her feet, and scramble over the slats of the gate.
Just as she was about to fling herself over the gate’s highest beam, a hand grasped her ankle. She screamed in protest, begging to be freed, but her assailant was relentless, grunting as he ripped the shoulder from her pretty indigo tunic, before tearing the whole garment from her and throwing it to the ground in a crumpled heap.
Cordelia lay bent over the gate helplessly as Marcus’ thick fingers roamed across her naked body. He pulled her legs apart, growling as he explored her hot crevice, before his hands moved upwards to grasp and pinch her nipples. There was no warning when the first lash of the whip burned across her bare backside, she yelled, wiggling, struggling to escape, but he pinned her over the gate easily.
True to character, he didn’t say a word as he lashed her, instead only grunts and growls accompanied the relentless cracking of the strap. It wasn’t long before Cordelia’s legs left the gate and were dancing in the air, her cries diminishing as her fatigue overwhelmed her, as she slowly submitted to her indignity.
And then she felt something hot, moist and stiff poking her between her stinging whipped buttocks. She pushed back her hips in response.
Far away, high on the temple hill, they heard him howl.
* * * * *
Claudia, the consul’s eldest daughter, watched the two small figures gyrating by the gate from the brow of hill. She had a vague idea of what she was watching, something to do with the icky differences between men and women, and how babies are made, but she was still rather naive when it came to the details. Which was what had brought her to the temple, on today of all days. As the consul’s daughter, she had been afforded a rare privilege: to take part in the Rite of the Satyr, the ceremony of coming of age, a rite that would herald her entry to womanhood.
And then there was someone holding her hand. A young fair-haired priestess in an almost translucent peach-coloured robe.
“Venire…”, whispered the priestess, smiling coyly and glancing at the temple, as if trying to tempt Claudia into some secret conspiracy. Claudia opened her mouth, about to tell her parents where she was going, but a shake of the head from the priestess kept her quiet. The deep, earnest look the priestess gave her seemed to say: No, no need to seek permission; you’re not a child anymore.
Whilst her family’s attention was occupied by the scene at the gate, Claudia and the priestess drifted unnoticed towards the temple. It was a modest structure of creamy travertine stone, built not to glorify the Gods, or those who communed with them, but as an intimate space, a genius loci whose very nature might dissipate the mystical barrier between Gods and mortals.
Passing through the temple’s simple, cylindrical columns, the priestess led Claudia by the hand to a small antechamber where steam, lavender and woodsmoke wafted into her nostrils. On the floor fauns and nymphs frolicked sensually in an intricate mosaic, around a small round pool that was steaming invitingly. High above, sunbeams from tall open windows glimmered through the fragrant mist.
Claudia disrobed without being told and slipped into the hot steamy bath. The pool was deep, allowing her to stretch out and feel her tense muscles soften. When she closed her eyes and submerged herself completely, the world outside disappeared, just the water’s warm embrace and the surreal sound of it sloshing against her ears.
After bathing, the priestess helped Claudia from the pool and dried her with a linen towel, before encouraging her to recline on a long stone platform nearby, which turned out to be warm to the touch, and surprisingly comfortable to lie on. With comforting glances, the priestess parted Claudia’s legs and massaged a slippy oil into her crotch. Then she delicately shaved Claudia with a small razor until her lips were bare and smooth, and only a small neat triangle of her pubic bush remained, its apex pointing down to the hood of her clit.
The massage that followed was unlike anything Claudia had ever experienced. It began normally enough, Claudia turning over to lie on her front and being slathered with warm fruity, spicy fragrant oils. The priestess began at the tips of her toes, roaming the soles her feet, before sliding up the backs of calves.
Further up, the rubbing became slower, more sensual, the thumbs of the priestess lingering on her sensitive inner thighs, caressing every curve of her buttocks, then gently spreading her cheeks apart until her pink crinkled hole was revealed. The slick skillful fingers slid across the exquisitely sensitive skin of Claudia’s freshly shaved perineum. And then her little moans turned to gasps as the fingers strayed upwards. Her masseur shushed her, continuing to circle round and around, round and around, as if casting a magical incantation, an enchantment to open her tight little hole.
When the priestess did eventually sink her oily finger deep into her bottom, what shocked Claudia most was not the illicit nature of the invasion, but how pleasurable it felt.
Something about it made her feel naughty. So very naughty. It made her feel like she should be the one bending over that gate, that she should be the one having her buttocks whipped.
Much to Claudia’s sorrow, the priestess did not linger, withdrawing her finger and continuing the massage in long sweeps from her shoulders to her waist, soothing every muscle in her back and neck until Claudia’s fingers and toes tingled. Once she’d finished teasing her scalp and the lobes of her ears, she turned Claudia onto her back. She began by massaging the crown of her head, before moving downward to delicately rub her forehead, below her eyes, and then her throat, before her slick hands cupped Claudia’s small firm breasts.
From behind closed eyelids, Claudia felt fingers exploring the contours of her chest, rubbing her small pink nipples, and gently tugging them. No one had ever touched her in that way before, it made her acutely aware of her nipples, as if the rest of her body had become ephemeral, and the delightful feelings emanating from her breasts were the only sensations she could feel.
The oily fingers continued their journey, sliding down her tummy, circling the little triangle on her mound and tracing the regions of freshly shaved skin. Sometimes the fingers departed from their lazy circles, slipping down between her lips, finding them wider and fuller, and wetter, on every subsequent visit.
Claudia couldn’t help but spread her legs wider, basking in these delicious new sensations. She’d played with herself before, of course, but her immature explorations were ludicrously clumsy compared to this woman’s skillful manipulations. She felt hot breath on her little pearl, and then a kiss, warm moist lips gently skimming and sucking her most sensitive folds.
The priestess’s magical prestidigitations soon opened Claudia like the petals of a glistening flower. Her finger touched the entrance of her small pink slit, gently at first, rubbing, sliding through the girl’s own wetness. Then she probed deeper, just entering inside her vagina, feeling her tightness squeeze her fingertip. She poured more warm oil on her mound, letting it seep and dribble into her folds, massaging it into her slowly widening hole, as she gently slid in and out.
Her finger had penetrated to her knuckle when she felt a springy little obstruction in the smooth passage, and Claudia flinched. Some girls who took the Rite had no hymens, but that wasn’t important. For those who believed in the Way of the Fawn, virginity was a state of inexperience rather than innocence. A state of mind, that you had either embraced your sexuality, or you hadn’t. The meaning of the Rite wasn’t the deflowerment of young women, but their empowerment. Those fortunate enough to take part would have a memorable first sexual experience, far better than the uncomfortable fumblings in the dark that happened after one too many amphora of wine.
There was one last lingering kiss from the priestess between Claudia’s legs, and then she helped the woozy girl to her feet, and escorted her towards the sound of drums.
* * * * *
The ceremonial chamber was at the back of the temple, and entered through what looked like a fissure in bare rock. Carved into stone above its entrance were six words:
“Speluncam ire times… Aurea quaeris est.”
In the cave you fear to enter… lies the gold you seek.
Drumming reverberated around the small intimate chamber, a slow, processional, almost martial beat, thumped out by players elsewhere. The chamber was unoccupied and surprisingly sparse, without statues, tapestries or sacred adornments. Its walls were hidden by darkness; the space being illuminated by three large bronze mirrors angled towards a hole in the far wall, through which the afternoon sun streamed in impressive crepuscular beams, which were thrown by the mirrors down onto a single spot in the middle of the room.
On the floor, in the centre of this pool of light, was a long slab of white marble. Its base was only ankle high, and a foot length’s wide, and in its centre the stone had been sculpted into life-sized phallus. It had been sculpted erect, its bulbous head pointing towards the heavens, its oiled surface glistening with a golden hue in the reflected light.
The priestess lead Claudia by the hand towards the phallus, and as she entered the pool of light she could feel the sun’s warmth tickle her skin. Kneel here… the priestess suggested, pointing out the two hollows on each side of the slab where she should place her knees. Claudia did as she was instructed, sinking to her knees, so that her wet lips hovered just above the head of the marble phallus. Despite being just an inanimate shaft of stone, Claudia looked between her legs and could almost sense the cock’s eerie intention; it meant to penetrate her. It made her feel rather light-headed.
Claudia turned to the priestess, seeking reassurance, and noticed the woman had a leather thong in her hands. Without explanation, she looped the thong around Claudia’s wrists, tying them together, before pulling the thong through the iron ring fixed into the floor, just in front of her. Claudia was tugged forward until her elbows rested on the ground, and her raised bottom became her highest point, as if she was grovelling before a mighty king. Now she was very aware of the smooth slick tip of the phallus between her intimate lips. She raised and lowered her hips slightly, and could feel the cool hard protrusion slide up and down inside her slit.
The drumming was getting louder and quicker, a tempo of expectancy. As she waited, trying to imagine what might happen next, Claudia was acutely aware of the cool stone dildo just below her wet puffy lips. At any moment, she could plunge down on top of it, impale herself, cross the threshold – but something made her hesitate. Perhaps it was a wariness of opening a door without permission, or not quite knowing how the latch worked, or where the door went.
A shrill flute note somewhere in the darkness interrupted her thoughts, followed by the approaching clatter of what sounded like hooves on the stone temple floor. Claudia pulled at her bonds, suddenly scared; if a horse ran amok here, with her almost prone on the ground, she’d be surely be trampled.
Her eyes urgently searched the gloom beyond the light. Another long flute note sounded. Now she could make out a silhouette approaching, with arms and legs. And horns.
The Satyr revealed himself; a tall muscular man. The first thing Claudia noticed about him were the two curled goat horns on the sides of his head, which seemed to sprout out from his shaggy brown hair. The second was his complete nakedness, his bare chest, his bare limbs – and his bare crotch. Her eyes were drawn like magnets between his legs, he was remarkably well endowed, and his thick cock was already partially swollen. Which made Claudia even more acutely aware of her own nudity.
She forced herself to look elsewhere, noticing his legs were covered in wiry fur, and his feet, each clad in some sort of cloven-foot clog. The abiding impression was of someone half man, half goat.
He stopped in front of her, unashamed of his nakedness, in fact, almost encouraging her to stare at his stiffening cock. She’d seen plenty of naked men and boys before, her native climate was hot, and it was natural to undress whilst bathing, sunbathing and swimming. But she had never been so close to an erection, a spectacle she and her friends had long giggled about.
The Satyr held a wooden flute, and began to play a slow languid melody that silenced the distant drum beats. Now Claudia was aware of someone else at the edge of the light, a smaller, thinner figure, her limbs outstretched as she danced. She too was naked, save for a crown of moss and flowers woven into her auburn hair, and vines of small leaves and petals that seemed to cling to her body like ivy on tree. A Nymph, a nature spirit, a daughter of the forest.
The nymph danced around Claudia, as if introducing herself, whilst Claudia blushed to be seen in such a compromising position by such a beautiful creature.
The Satyr continued his musical seduction, a beautiful tune that seemed to say, come with me, and I’ll make your heart dance. In response, the Nymph orbited him, sometimes dropping to the ground, sometimes athletically leaping into the air, as if demonstrating her lithe vitality, her youthful fecundity, or her melodic submissiveness.
The sensuality of her dancing was obvious, even to someone as naive as Claudia. The way she presented her breasts, and arched her back, and spread her legs. A primal mating dance that she innately recognised despite her inexperience.
The Nymph’s fingers began to glide over the Satyr’s bare flesh. Tracing the contours of his muscles, his chin, his hips, running her fingers through his unkempt hair. Then she cupped his sac, caressing and cradling its precious contents, before beginning to tug and massage his swollen cock.
From footsteps away, Claudia looked upwards, spellbound. She never would have thought watching strangers behaving so intimately would be so arousing. It looked like play, an exciting, secret game, one she really wanted to join in. It made her insides ache, in ways that had never ached before, and she slipped slightly further onto the protrusion below.
He soon succumbed to the Nymph’s enchantment, his cock was rigid now, just like the one she knelt astride. As the Satyr stood playing his flute, the Nymph knelt beside him, taking the tip of his cock between her lips, as if it was her own flute, her fingers dancing along its length mimicking each note he played. Slowly she took more of him into her mouth, sucking and licking until his music began to falter. It wasn’t long before he set his flute down on the ground.
The Satyr knelt beside the Nymph, face to face. He looked deeply into her eyes, almost mesmerising her, before lunging forward, sweeping her up into a tight embrace. She clenched her legs, squeezing his cock between her thighs as they shared a deep passionate kiss. In a blur, he shifted his weight like a wrestler, rolling them both to the ground, so she now lay on her back as he loomed above her.
Claudia stared, enraptured by what was happening. They were almost side-on to her, and would have been within touching distance had her hands not been bound. So she could clearly see him pushing his thick middle finger between the Nymph’s legs, all the way in, and then sliding it in and out. The Nymph moaned in response, and they sounded like good moans, delighted moans, yes please, keep doing that moans.
A drum beat. Then another. From somewhere unseen, a slow rhythmic thumping started. The Satyr was almost on top of the Nymph now, his stiff cock teasing the folds between her legs, his arms supporting her as he licked and nibbled her breasts. The inevitability of what was going to happen next made Claudia’s heart race with excitement. She was going to see It. A man and a woman loving each other.
Slowly. Inexorably. Effortlessly. His cock entered her, as if drawn inside by some natural law.
He penetrated her deeply, pushing all the way in, holding her midway up her back as she arched and moaned. Claudia gasped, amazed, wondering where his huge organ had gone. Her own hole felt tight and tiny, there was surely no way she could accommodate an intrusion like that. She looked down at the stone phallus still pointing up between her legs, it was just as big.
The drumming quickened as he slid in and out of his lover. His motions were unpredictable, short thrusts, deep lingering plunges, rapid moan-inducing oscillations. At times the drumbeats slowed, and he responded by moving within her slowly and tenderly. Then the beat would suddenly quicken, and he’d thrust faster, and faster, until he began to ravish her in a noisy, wild, almost feral manner.
Claudia too found the beat irresistible, and began to gyrate her hips in time with his thrusts, feeling the bulbous head of the phallus slip in and out of her own wet hole. It was a very pleasurable sensation indeed.
A hot stinging slap suddenly seared Claudia’s bottom. She looked over her shoulder in shock, and could just see the priestess standing behind her, holding a long leather strap in her hand. After four more drumbeats, another lash landed. Claudia looked back imploringly, but was unable to catch her eye. Another lash. Again she recoiled from it, pushing down just a bit further onto the phallus. Her bottom was stinging now, it felt just like when she was spanked for being a naughty girl.
Claudia watched him fuck the beautiful Nymph in time to the drums, the faint clatter of his hooves on the stone floor part of a symphony of pants, squelches and moans. On every his fourth thrust, the whip would sting Claudia’s bottom. Yet she started to anticipate each lash, even looking forward to it, as an encouragement to ride her stone dildo a little deeper.
Claudia could feel a deep ache now, a new sensation, a yearning to be filled. It felt like she was taking the phallus as deep as she could, but knew it was possible to go deeper, like there was an unscratchable itch a full cock-length inside her. The whip stung again, and as she impaled herself in response, she could feel the phallus push against a tender spot, as if she’d played too recklessly and bruised herself inside.
Not every girl who participated in this ceremony deflowered herself. For some there was no desire, or they simply were not ready, the discomfort of penetration outweighing their urge for fulfillment. But Claudia was desperate to come. Her bottom was sore and smoldering, and watching the fucking was making her giddy and breathlessly excited. She pulled at her bonds, wishing she had just one hand free, so she could rub her secret pearl as she did when alone in bed to take her aches away.
There was movement in front of her. The Satyr rolling onto his back, and the Nymph moving to sit astride him. The Nymph faced Claudia, just an arm’s reach away, and looked deeply into her eyes as she sat astride the Satyr’s cock. She flashed a coy smile at her, before letting herself slide slowly down it, until she’d impaled herself fully.
Claudia could see the lust in the Nymph’s sparkling green eyes, and the escalating excitement in her movements. She began to match the Nymph’s ups and downs, pushing further and further, timing each plunge so each stinging whack on her bum coincided with the ache of the phallus against her tender spot.
Thump. Thump. Thump… The drums beat faster and faster, louder and louder, approaching an almost frenzied tempo as the two lovers approached their tumultuous finale.
Over the noise, the Nymph mouthed something to Claudia.
“Venire mecum. Venire mecum. Venire mecum.”; come with me.
And then the Nymph’s eyes closed. She arched her back, impaling herself deeply and crying out to the heavens in a delirious gyrating dance.
Claudia could bear it no longer. She felt her legs tremble, knowing in moments the whip would sear her bottom, and she would follow the Nymph to the bottom of her own cock.
A heat suddenly burned inside her, and then she was plunging down, deeper than she’d ever gone before. She felt the phallus push into her unscratchable itch – again, and again, and again, filling her completely, until she was caught up in an unstoppable excitement. A euphoric spasm reverberated within her groin, squeezing the stone dildo tight like a clenching fist, until she was overwhelmed by a wave of writhing, shuddering pleasure that seemed to make her whole skin tingle.
Claudia sat exhausted on the stone slab, her hot pink bum resting on the cool white marble. She watched her juices dribble down the base of the phallus shaft, the protrusion still rigid inside her, which she could feel herself squeeze as little quivers and after-shudders rippled through her.
Through her daze, Claudia realised the drumming had ceased. She looked back at the Nymph, and the beautiful woman smiled back at her knowingly, which made Claudia feel like one too.
A deep contentedness settled over Claudia. Smiles and exhausted breathing filled the silence, as time itself appeared to stand still. It felt like this moment of ecstasy in the warm golden sunlight should last forever.
Yet a thousand years hence the temple would be gone: torn down, and its stones used to erect a new church in its place. Where the marble slab now stood, a priest who’d never known love would stand and lecture his congregation on the perils of lust. Sexual delight was now sinful, a pernicious disruptive force, a temptation that would lure his flock from the path the Almighty intended for them.
A new age would have dawned, the rituals of Claudia’s time now dismissed as wild animalistic antics, replaced by a new era of divine enlightenment. Chastity and purity were now sacrosanct, a virgin’s innocence was a valuable commodity, a virtue to be competed for, a property to be bought and owned. In the pursuit of sanctity, her descendents would enslave themselves.
But this was of no concern to Claudia, she and her heirs would be dust by then. She would live out her years as the owner of her own body, true to her own spirit, sharing joy and living a life that made her happy.
Centuries later, the temple would be sacked by a barbarian horde, and the phallus Claudia had ridden was broken off and lost. After a bizarre sequence of events and bequests across dozens of generations, the shaft of perfect marble eventually found its way into the hands of a sculptor, who carved it into a chess piece. The stone’s bulbous head was sculpted into the crown of the white queen, becoming the most eye-catching item of the Lord of Verona’s chess set. Generations of boys, knights, warlords and dukes would pick up the smooth marble shaft, quite unaware of its intimate history, and the thousands of women who had begun lifetimes of sexual adventure impaled upon it.
The priestess gave Claudia the whip that had lashed her. She kept it in her bedroom in a small decorated clay urn, a very personal memento of her entry to womanhood. After a long, happy life, the pot was buried with her, and survived mostly intact until workers digging foundations stumbled across it.
Years later, the archaeologist who excavated the urn died, and willed his discovery to the Roman collection at the British Museum. Some say the difference between an antique and an artifact is an artifact continues to echo through eternity, subtly affecting the fates of those who encounter it. Most visitors to the museum tended to walk past those unremarkable blackened fragments of leather. But something had made Jenny stop, and stopping there would change her life.
* * * * *
The hand of her headmistress shaking her shoulder woke Jenny from her day-dreaming.
“What’s Lupercalia, Miss?”, asked Jenny.
Her headmistress looked past her, into the case, scrutinising the leather fragments within.
Ah, The Rite.
Jenny couldn’t have seen her small wry smile.
“Report to my study after classes tomorrow, Jenny”, her headmistress instructed, “And I’ll teach you everything…”
@spankingtheatre 15th Feb 2013