curved skin, sensing the underlying muscular tension of that well-made bottom. To test its resiliency, I dug my fingers into the softness, pressing till I encountered the underlying firmness of those heavenly mounds. The girl’s hips twitched under my loving ministrations as I fondled those supple fleshy mounds.

Continuing my examination, I crouched lower and let my cupped hand feel its way along the sculpted contour of one elegantly shaped thigh, starting just behind the knee and letting my fingers shape the swelling lines till they came to the top of the smooth thigh. Then I slid my hand around to sample the flesh of the inner thigh, silken smooth and warm with sexual heat. The girl shifted uneasily to feel my questing hand move up between her legs. I slid my hand up to fit my curving fingers to the plump bulge of her soft, furry vulva, a love-purse that was quite warm and inviting as I let my fingers play over its prominent swell. The girl’s hips writhed with a sensual excitement that she couldn’t possibly control as I fondled the soft folds of her sex. I heard a low moan escape her lips and felt a trace of moisture. I rubbed my fingers together, sampling her love-juices. The girl was clearly becoming aroused.

I slipped a finger between the slightly protruding lips and found her to be surprisingly wet. A quiver of excitement ran through her body, and she whimpered as the slick lips clung to the finger that was exploring her cunt. Her copious flow and excited reactions signaled that the healthy young girl might well be on the edge of coming. But my aim was to explore, not to excite her to orgasm. So, like any good explorer who has made his reconnaissance, I moved on, seeking new territory.

I slid my hands up to clasp those magnificent orbs and rudely pry them apart, opening her like a ripe peach to expose a cringing anus that tightened reflexively upon being revealed to the world. Holding her open with one splayed hand, I applied the fingertip of the other to the flinching rear portal and pressed, persisting in spite of the resistance I felt there, probing with my fingertip, indenting the tight ring of unyielding flesh. An urgent whimper came from the girl as no more than the tip of my finger was inserted up her ass gently but persistently. I diddled her there for a few seconds, while she strained and wiggled, and then I withdrew the offending digit and let the elastic cheeks snap shut, well satisfied with my inspection of her intimate parts. I smiled to myself, pleased at the thought that I might visit that hidden place once again, perhaps after her spanking, for the girl was entirely at my disposal. Having examined the miscreants thoroughly, it was now time to get on with the main event.

I noticed that my host had gotten to his feet to take up his position. He stood eyeing his cringing targets, slapping the wooden blade lightly against his palm, his face set in grim determination. I rose to my feet and took up a similar position behind and a little to the side of the second girl’s jutting posterior. From this position, I could easily reach both tempting targets. Setting my booted heels apart in a widened stance, I sized up the distance to each target, bringing my arm back in a shallow arc to test the range, tightening my grip on the paddle.

Now I took aim at the impudent bottomcheeks on the far end and swung.

“Thwap!” The wooden blade struck the jutting mounds-not hard, but decisively, for I never took Kimar’s “punishments” too seriously. I had no wish to hurt the girl, but only to leave her with a sharp reminder that would have her sitting down most gingerly for several days. The slave girl screeched her outrage into the gag at the sudden shock of the solid impact. I heard a duller thud come from immediately behind me. Kimar had found the range on a girl whose big, curvaceous buttocks had clearly attracted him-a most generous ass that I knew would give him the greatest of pleasure as each solid impact was followed by a keening yelp.

The resounding blows rang out repeatedly, punctuated by the muffled cries, as the two paddles came swinging down to flatten the sets of twin mounds, the first smack followed rapidly by another as we alternated between our dual targets. I watched the way the resilient mounds of the fuller ass bounced back, rebounding nicely at each swiftly delivered slap. And I saw the blade bite deeply into the hard little ass that waited anxiously on the end.

“Thwap… Thwap!… Thwap!… Thwap!” The whipping paddle repeatedly assaulted the solid impudent ass, sending the small mounds wobbling.

“Thwap!… Thwap!… Thwap!… Thwap!” The blade smacked the lush soft mounds, making them quiver wildly.

Thus we paddled the slave girls, lightly but methodically, using a series of rapid-fire shots that had the slaves mewing urgently into their gags. Their muted cries rose in syncopated rhythm with the crisp smacks, resulting in a regular cacophony that filled our tent.

Chapter Eight. The Eagle Turns To The North

Late that summer, ominous reports began to reach our ears of stirrings among the barbarous tribes of the North. Teuton raids on the slave caravans were increasing. Tax officials had been set upon, and now those worthies were refusing to visit the villages without an armed escort. The more civilized tribes were being threatened by the wild men from the North, who promised that the peaceful tribes would pay a heavy price for cooperating with their Roman overlords. The situation got so bad that it was no longer possible for us to remain idly sitting by, so I was not surprised when our orders came from Rome. The legion was to take to the field!

I was not looking forward to the hardship of a campaign after the long, leisurely days spent so pleasantly at Bernesium. It now seemed inconceivable to me that at some remote time, far away in the safety and comfort of Rome, a young lieutenant had actually complained of boredom and yearned for martial glory. Now, facing the imminent prospect of confronting the dreaded Northmen, I felt far less enthusiastic. Still, a Roman soldier must do his duty, so I ordered preparations be made for our first sally from the comforting security of our cozy, well-fortified home.

We hoisted the eagle and, with banners flying, we set off heading north; first to the farthest rim of outposts, and then beyond, to enter into the deep, forbidding forests. It was dark and gloomy under the huge trees, and the men trudged on in eerie silence. My horse seemed unusually nervous, twitching and snorting as if he sensed the danger that was all around us.

Less than a day’s march into the forest, our column was attacked.

The raid was sudden: a fierce, brief attack that came upon us in a flash as we were making our way patiently along the floor of a shallow valley. A piercing, bloodcurdling scream rang out, and we looked up to see a band of raging pale giants racing down the hillside through the trees, blond hair flying wildly as they flourished the axes and the heavy clubs these savages preferred as weapons. We barely had time to draw our swords and fall automatically into the defensive turtle, shields interlocked. Standing firm, we prepared to meet stoutly the pell-mell charge of the fierce barbarians.

In an instant their charge broke over the wall of shields, and they were upon us. The fight was fast and furious, a wild melee of war clubs thudding down on bending shields, and Roman broadswords slashing out at the barbarians’ flailing limbs. After only a few minutes of vicious fighting, the Teuton leader cried out, and the band fell back, melting away to disappear back into their forest haunts.

It had not been a very determined assault-more of a skirmish, really-one that didn’t appear to be well planned, but broke upon us helter-skelter. Perhaps a small raiding party had seen our column and decided to bloody a Roman nose or two before scampering off; or maybe they’d been sent to find us, to feel us out and test our strength, to see what Rome had sent against them. We bound our wounds and rested. And then we moved on.

The next day, our scouts reported smoke coming from a valley up ahead. As we crested the hill, we looked down on the smoldering ruins of a devastated village. The few dazed survivors who crawled from the woods when they saw the Roman standard told the tale of the vengeance of a mighty Teuton chieftain named Unix, who had demanded tribute and wreaked havoc on the village when they were unable to pay, slaying the men, burning their huts, and taking their women.

In broken Latin, one of the survivors assured us that he knew where Unix had made his camp, and he offered to lead us there. I talked it over with Sergeant Metellus and we agreed that the man seemed trustworthy enough. Moreover, it was obvious that we would have to come to terms with this Unix eventually if we were to subdue his revolt, so we decided to lay plans for an attack. We would move quickly but cautiously, throwing our scouts before us and stealing toward the barbarian encampment, hoping that the element of surprise might be on our side this time.

We marched that day and well into the night. Sometime after noon on the second day, our guide cautioned us to move more quietly as we were getting closer to the enemy camp. I had the men wait while the sergeant and I accompanied our guide, scrambling through a narrow defile and onto a rocky ledge that looked down on the sprawling enemy camp. We crept up behind some rocks and raised our heads cautiously.

The scene below was peaceful. Campfires were burning; blonde women clustered about them while children

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