TGirl Kim Becomes a Slave for the Weekend P8
- 3 years ago
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The Slave Girl Of "Spartacus" free porn video
I contrived to reach my freshman year in college still a virgin. My body was a temple of purity; I had not masturbated or even understood exactly how it worked. I thought everything of importance happened up inside you.
I trust that gallantry is not dead and some readers will disbelieve this. That some will believe, from my profile photo, that I am too cute and, if skinny, too sexy to draw the Old Maid card in high school. Well, as the dating-site option phrases it, “it’s complicated.”
My girlfriends in high school, and my mother, said I was adorably cute, with short black hair with bangs, a nice oval face with a straight nose, cute lips on the smaller side. My upper body in the starchy blouses we wore at the academy wasn’t hilly, but my legs in the short, navy blue skirt were long and slender and pale. I couldn’t have been THAT bad.
And I wasn’t, I don’t think. My tits grew, but, I mean, up to normal—no sudden fall harvest of cantaloupes on my chest or anything. My eyes were small but nice, usually squinting a little from the cigarette smoke. I didn’t avoid vice as such. Later, after college, there is photo of me on a park bench in Paris wearing no panties, my nice leg raised so my foot rests on the bench, my pussy curtains drawn back for your inspection. By then, I was in peasant-revolt-carrying-torches rebellion against ANY sexual restraint.
Let me, for Christ’s sake, get on with the story.
The abstinence I endured as a teenager was perversion. My view, not endorsed by the church of Rome, is that abstinence is the ONLY true perversion. Although a close second is lifelong monogamy.
Yes, I have been avoiding the moment I now have reached.
I was SO chronically horny, with such a swollen apparatus, down there, that my obsessive fantasy was a scene from "Spartacus." Whatever themes Spartacus manifested, the scene that became my obsession was insignificant.
Except to ME. A Roman legion has conquered some tribe, people of the desert, and, as usual, slaughtered all the men. But not the women. And they have one young girl stripped and pegged to the ground in a fleshy X. She is being ****d. A line of Roman soldiers is waiting each his turn to take her. Her body is “round and full”—um, not quite like mine, back then—but almost black with dust. Her wrenched-open pussy is being jammed by one horny soldier after another. She loses conscious, then dies.
The leader, a centurion, glances over, with a sneer, and says: “Are the women of Rome so virtuous that the whole Roman army must **** one slave girl?”
I WANTED to be that slave girl. So horny I could not conceive of being fucked too often. The whole Roman army would not be enough. TAKE ME.
This is the perversion called “abstinence.”
I cherished my fantasy in high school and into my first year at the women’s college. Yeah, women’s college. I would lie on my bed at night, naked, and let myself slip into my slave-girl fantasy. Spread my arms wide, my legs. Feel the desert sun on my breasts. And the crushing weight, again and again, of my latest r****t.
And…desperately try to blow on that penetration fantasy, as it were, to get it to burst into flames—ecstasy, or relief, or satisfaction.
Why do it? To be aroused is pleasurable even if frustrating. I had the pleasure of arousal and the near madness of frustration. Well, just your typical young woman coming of age. Sure, I at least knew where the r****t’s dick went. I ****d and ****d myself with my finger and it felt good—but not quite what I imagined…
A long three years.
Fast forward to college. My room. My roommate with the down-to-earth name, Jenny, and the down-to-earth looks, a farm girl’s body with sturdy hips, boobs twice as big as mine, a corn-fed face with blonde hair. Those mid-westerners. What a sweet girl. SO concerned. I could have done with less walking around the room nude, with her full ass swinging, rounded belly with a harvest of light-brown hair, and annoying boobs because they were both BIG and buoyant. The pink nipples were puffy, upturned like thumbs jerked at an exit. Had to love her, especially her voice, always breathy like your serving girl apologizing for forgetting something. No special evidence of her sex life, in the first month, but I had my suspicions. She would come back in a dreamy daze and I thought aha, well fucked. Because I KNEW what I would look like if I ever, ever got fucked by ENOUGH Roman legionnaires.
Well, I would lie on my bed reading "Spartacus." I had memorized the passage, though, so most of the time my eyes were closed and my attention on my cunt.
The book was snatched away. There came a braying friendly mid-western laugh, so girlish and palsy, and I jerked up with a start and my hand flew out to snatch the book. But Jenny, wearing only her brief panties, had backed away and was reading the book.
I violently heaved my legs off the bed, my face, I’m sure, a Hitchcock classic of terror, and I was crying, “Give me that. Give…”
She handed back the book. “Sure, here.”
I grabbed it, staring at her, betrayed, fucked over. Could she have read it that quickly?
“THAT’S what you read all the time?” she asked, her broad, healthy face frowning. I had glanced down, as I always did, at her Playboy—or so I imagined—boobs. As obsessive about the comparison as about my beloved gangbang scene.
“I know that scene,” said Jenny, dismissively. “Is THAT what you are reading ALL the time, lying on the bed? THAT’S your fantasy?”
All that remained for me was to decide how to take my own life, which was over. One cannot choose to die and just do it. It takes planning. I would have to start.
I was crying.
I had my hands over my face, I was gurgling with agony. I was standing there as though something tragic actually had happened.
Jenny came over and put her arms around me. I hated her, but I was too wiped out to pull away. I let her hug me, gather me against her great bosom, as I blubbered without restraint.
I felt her fluffy hair on my cheek, her arms circling me, my hips to her hips. Oh, mommy, mommy.
And she said, sadistically, I thought, in a gentle voice, “So you lie there having a fantasy about being fucked by the whole Roman army?”
I froze like captive fawn, my muscles gone stiff. She felt it.
“No, no, Ellen. It’s fine. But you’re that horny?”
Again, I stiffened in rejection, horror.
“Okay, okay,” she is patting my back, gently. She steps away a moment, surveying me as might a proud parent, her XXX breasts are bobbing slightly. Then, she closes in, gentleness on her broad, sweet face, and her lips are on mine, kissing me.
Oh body of God, what grotesque perversion from Hell is this? My skinny body tries to shove her away, but she has me in a hug. And now she is laughing. Laughing at me. A country wench with corn growing out of her ears is laughing at ME.
She gurgles, “Oh, sweet heart, you’re SO TIGHT.”
Before this becomes War and Peace or Remembrance of Things Past, let me, in the name of decency, fast forward.
A few weeks later. Things have been normal. Jenny does not brand my soul again with reference to my secret. She is friendly, as normal as a potato, shuffling around the room in her white panties with the black lace trim. Her ass is sedately peaceful.
I have not picked up the book, again. I don’t need to do so. I can recite the entire passage like the "Lord’s Prayer." I am partially healed. I may not need to kill myself this month.
One day, Jenny walks into the room, her wide, flat, golden mid-western smile radiant, and holds up a shopping bag. “Got something for you, Ellen. We’re going to have FUN.”
I am not the fun girl. I am serious, abstinent, still too skinny, and suspicious. I glance over my shoulder from my desk. Admittedly, I am sitting in bikini panties and my starter bra—just k**ding, it is a 32 B-cup thing. “What?” I ask.
She whips it out. Rope. Coils of softly expensive-looking silky red rope.
I am shaking my head as though to spin it off and send it rolling across the floor.
Big cuddly Jenny comes over, takes my shoulders, hauls me to the bed, sits down beside me—Mother Earth’s hips pressed to my boyish hips—her arm around me, her frank face smiling.
“You know you want to see what it’s like, Ellen,” she says, smile so warm, lips grinning, blue eyes like the sky in Iowa in autumn.
She weaves a spell. “Naked, your legs tied apart, arms tied apart, so beautiful, luscious, and all those men, those hard men, wanting you…”
“Hard…” I managed to stammer.
She giggles. “Well, that, too, baby.”
“Powerful warriors, almost boys, so longing, so needy, of YOU…”
Her soft hand on my bare thigh, caressing. And then, I startle, because her other hand, on my back, is unsnapping my bra
.
“No,” and I try to jerk around. She is strong. Must have done potato hoeing or something. Actually, her arm around my shoulders is like an iron strap around a barrel. “Click,” my bra opens and half falls forward.
“NO.”
But her fingers flick it off me and she is saying, “No, no. Don’t move, sweetheart. Don’t, baby.” And she is staring at my tits for the first time. I don’t walk around the room flaunting them, for God’s sake.
“Oh, you’re beautiful, Ellen. So sexy. They’re PERFECT.” My nipples are stiffening. I can’t help it. My breasts are sort of like cones, upswept to a point. And from that point rises a little tower, my nipple. Think of a mountain peak with a tower on it.
“Really?” I ask, blushing, my eyelashes batting, and obviously I am lost, now. Girl down.
“Oh, yes,” the words gush out. And you know what? She means it. She loves EVERYBODY and everything. Don’t mean to be sarcastic. It isn’t as bad as some things, right?
I glance down at the rope. I am aroused. Actually, it doesn’t take much to arouse you if you are 19 years old and never have been laid and never masturbated.
“Like this,” says Jenny, and she pushes me back onto my bed. I let her. After all, I still have my panties.
She lifts my legs onto the bed. She is standing over me, but dressed, so I don’t have to see those number 10 knockers. She has taken my wrist.
“Isn’t it like this?” and she is holding my wrist at one corner of the bed, and tying the rope. The rope is silky, soft. She ties it a little tight, but, hey, those Roman legionnaires were no wimps.
And the other wrist. “You’ve got to be at least as desirable as any slave girl, with your big brown eyes and these gorgeous, gorgeous long legs, baby.”
And she is tying my ankles. I am in free fall, intoxicated, eyes closed and weightless, the hot sun on my bare chest, my long, exquisite legs wrenched wide, my slim ankles tied far apart… All those Roman soldiers, really just boys, so sweet, and needing me so much…
“There,” says Jenny, straightening up, bright smile on her face. She is reaching behind her, lifting off her sweater…
She is standing over me, like a parent glowing in pride, but now she is naked—yes, I see her pussy overgrown with light golden hair that cannot conceal that flesh—I didn’t know, then, exactly what it all was—that stuff was pink and ragged and protruded. She seems proud of it. Her hands run down to it, do something with that cloak of pink, and a pinker button pops out.
I have let myself slide down the rabbit hole…tied helpless to my bed…
“Oh,” she says, as though an afterthought, “we have to get this off.”
She is gone for three seconds, then back, holding scissors. She is grinning, eyes my belly.
“What…” I begin to ask, and then, as she leans over, “no, no…”
“What do mean, no?” she asks. They don’t see your fucking cunt?”
She has NEVER talked that way.
“Where do you think they shove their big pricks, dear?”
Has never talked that way. The scissors are cold, just slightly, on my belly, as they slide down under my little panties, and Jenny is clipping, clipping, and I am gasping, “No…”
But then, she has finished, run over my pussy, my ass, up my back, and is holding the trophy of my panties up, for me to see, with a big smile.
“My panties…” I gasp, idiotically. What else? The flag of Egypt?
“I already have bought new ones for you,” she says. “Three pairs…”
“But…”
“But your pussy is bare, now, and all the stiff dicks are waiting and getting horny looking at the lovely, helpless, spread-eagled slave maiden staked out in the brutal, unforgiving desert. She is so beautiful—before they start on her.”
Before I can speak, she says, not at all gentle, now, “Close your eyes, and shut up.” And then, “Ellen, I swear, I’ll slap your tits from here to Thursday.”
I close my eyes. I am “in.” I am horny. I am ready to be violated by the whole Roman army. I can’t wait. I never have heard about “sore pussy.” I am a c***d.
But what the Christ is happening? Jenny is not here, over me; she is at the door. And girls are giggling. I heave upward, in a mighty abdominal crunch, and yelp, “Jenny.”
There are five of them, including Jenny, now standing beside my bed and grinning, looking down with curiosity at my 32 B-cup breasts, my sparsely haired pussy, and my long dragged apart legs.
Never mind what I said, right then. Not worth recording. You know, I gargled. I cried out half-coherent phrases, head shaking, pleading…
Jenny says, voice suitably ominous, “The Roman soldiers crowd around the spread-eagled girl, their eyes feasting on her long, slim legs, her belly, and the wide-apart, firm hillocks of her breasts, the nipples even now rigid…”
And I am a goner. My eyes close. I sigh. This is as near to orgasm as I have come, but somehow, my wrists tied, my hips immobile, it isn’t happening.
But SOMETHING is happening. I have sprung a leak. My hormones or something are gushing from between my legs and running down my thighs in a half dozen rivulets. It tickles. I cannot, CANNOT believe that my pussy is putting on this display of “do me.”
I shut my eyes tighter and see the line of looming, brutal men, with crisp hair on bare their shoulders and chests, faces tight with lust, no mercy, and down there…well, just what I imagine, of course…I have heard of erections…
I open my eyes, peep, and see them standing over me. All naked. Cute faces, flowing hair, various boobs all firm and bouncy, proud…
Then…I experience a sudden crashing sensation. I am SO horny, but what can happen? There ARE no Roman soldiers with stiff pricks…
Jenny’s voice, deep, rough, growls, “I’ll take the bitch, first.”
VERY good. My first r****t. But…I give a cry and try to jerk my hips away. I am writhing as though on a skillet. I NEVER have been touched there by anyone, ever.
A finger is rammed up my wet pussy. My pussy, in fact, is so wet I could accommodate three fingers. But I AM a virgin…
Jenny knows. The finger goes only so far, curls, and is stroking the roof of my cunt. Is THAT how they do it?
A thumb, circling, whirling, is teasing something outside my cunt, touching something that just might explode and blow us all away. Immediately, my hips jack up; I can’t help it. My dark-haired pussy is grinding around its penetration, trying to rub itself against the thumb.
A brutal voice, nicely done by Laura or Sally, growls “Let me fuck her. I’ll fuck the shit out of her.”
For a moment, the finger and thumb retreat. SHIT. Something big and stiff and long shoots up into my belly. A dick. The swollen member of a healthy young Roman legionnaire. This is violation.
And then I cry out in pain.
“Oh, Christ, you stupid shit. You busted her cherry.”
“She’s bleeding.”
I am coming down off my high.
“Get that dildo out of there.”
“Why? She’s already lost it? Sorry, I mean, but…”
Jammed in. Fuck, it’s hard. And I mean far up, and I screech. Not much to do to protect myself. Out now, sliding out, so beautiful, so filling, a dick, a real penetrating Centurion part…don’t let it end. Then, yow. It rockets back in. Fucking girls are going crazy.
A rough female voice says, “Give it to her. Who cares about some slave bitch? Fuck her and leave her here.”
That’s more like it. Blessed gentle fingers, maybe Jenny’s, are diddling inside me and that sweet thumb is strumming me on the outside.
Something is going to happen--soon. Something I have waited for so, long long…
But then, I hear, “Wait. Don’t let her come.”
“Come?” I wonder.
“Why?”
“I want to sit on her face.”
“Oh, no, not the first time…”
“Fuck you,” I hear, and a weight plops onto my chest, crushing my tits, and a warm, wet, fleshy pussy—yes, I DO know about them—clamps over my face. Merciless. I can’t breathe. This sopping, swollen apparatus covers half my face. And it is moving. Riding up and down, frantically. Any way I move my face to breathe, my nose and lips are covered, smothered.
I am panicking. I will die. I will suffocate in wet pussy. And I hear, “Lick it, bitch,” and, astoundingly, I feel a swift, really hard slap that stings my breasts.
“Hey,” I hear Jenny say. “Enough.”
I am licking like mad. Not sure what. My tongue is flicking and circling and twitching the engulfing wet meat that is drowning me. I jerk my head sharply to the side, gasp a long breath. Okay, I won’t die.
No one probably hears me grunt, “Uhhh,” because my mouth is muffled. Some length of hard, yearning, Roman-soldier dick has shot up my pussy as far as it will go. It hurts. I am sore, for some reason. But excited. An indescribably sweet sensation is flowering between my legs, a softness is sliding across my softness, taunting me till I could go mad.
And then I know. A tongue. Licking me. Licking “it.” And I know that “it” is going to happen.
I still lap the sopping slick pussy on my face, and that, too excites me. Because I can imagine she feels as I’m feeling. It all fits together. I lick madly because I want to be licked madly.
Down there, where it counts, the licking zooms to over drive and my hips are flinging, crazed. I want that SPOT, that one SPOT, to get licked harder. Kill it.
I am squealing. Loudly enough to bring the whole dorm except my screams are right into the enveloping pussy settled on my face.
My belly, my ass, go into crunch as I can’t bear the pleasure, but can’t shake it off--jerking my thighs, so I am yelping and then weeping. Weeping because it is so good. And shaking my head, which whips my lips across the clit I’m licking and suddenly whoever it is can’t stand it, and heaves off my face and I hear a gasp, “NO.”
A cold voice intones. “She’s dead. We fucked her to death. Just leave her for the crows.”
Perfect, boys. Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. Glad to be of service to Rome.
Blaze
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