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The auction was over. The Celtic woman now had an owner. She found herself being pulled along roughly by the slave who managed her new master's sedan chair. She stumbled along behind as the entourage quick-marched back from the auction house to the master's villa. The steward jerked at her leash, pulling her into a central atrium and shoving her to the ground. Either he didn't speak a language she understood, or his contempt for her was so great that he didn't see her as worth his trouble. She knelt on the cold tile floor in her rags and the entire world suddenly felt like it was crashing down on her, crushing her.

The tears that had been threatening soon became a torrent and she began sobbing, great heaving, racking sobs of mourning and loss. For her parents, her husband, her village and her people...but mostly for herself. She knew from her long march to the capital that such behavior always ended in a beating, but she was emotionally exhausted and completely overwhelmed.

She heard someone enter and pulled herself upright onto her knees, bowing her head to hide the tears behind a cascade of auburn hair, trying to stifle her hiccuping sobs, wondering what fresh hell the gods were sending. It was the man who rode in the chair, his rings and outer finery removed, clad in a white woolen tunic. "Let's have a better look at you in the light," he said. All she could do was stand there shivering while he slowly walked around her or turned her. He tried again to wipe off freckles from her arm. He tested her biceps, squeezed her ass, groped both tits, all very clinically. Nonetheless she started to cry. What was to become of her?

He drew her closer to a torch, as gently as the steward had been rough, and walked around her again slowly, examining her even more closely. She blushed under his scrutiny. He gestured at her to disrobe but she tried feigning ignorance. He was having none of it. He tore her tattered, filthy rags from her body, again not ungently, and continued his examination. He looked into her eyes and ears, made her open her mouth, spread her legs apart to examine her sex and her bottom.

He could see that she'd probably been raped more than once on the journey.

Abruptly he called for warm water, rags and a fresh tunic for her. He directed the kitchen slaves in the bathing of her, using pail after pail of water until she was clean. He walked around her one more time and appeared to be satisfied.

He had her taken to a chamber whose only furnishing was a large bed. She'd never seen anything like it, accustomed as she was to sleeping on heaps of straw. The man came in and made the same gesture at her to disrobe. This time she complied.

Gently he pulled her close and began touching her, lightly, her breasts, her sex, the mere touch arousing her involuntarily in spite of her circumstances. When his hand came away from her sex damp, he nodded, satisfied, and removed his own tunic to reveal a swollen, dripping cock. He grabbed her by her collar and forced her down onto the bed using his superior size to control her. He then proceeded to push his cock against her until he found entry, and raped her, pumping away vigorously until he climaxed deep inside her. He hooked her leash to the iron frame of the bed and pulled her in next to him, where he actually seemed to try to comfort and caress her. Soon he was snoring. She was trapped in his arms and began to cry again, silently, until exhaustion dragged her down into a troubled sleep.

The next morning, she woke alone, still chained to the great bed. In her exhaustion and despair she'd slept through his leaving. He seemed to have taken a moment to cover her when he left.

She wasn't sure what that meant, the tenderness and the rape, it was all confusing to her.

She turned toward the sound of approaching steps. It was not the master, it was the sedan chair slave who'd dragged her inside. He unfastened her chain and led her out of the room to the kitchen. Another slave was tending a fire and heating some sort of rod. The other three sedan chair bearers filed in and their leader seized her by the shoulders. She was forced to the ground and held down. She knew better than to cry out, but then she saw what the kitchen slave was holding and she began moaning in fear, starting to beg, to plead, shaking her head no. Of course none of them paid her the slightest attention.

The master strode in and took the white-hot rod. She was gripped tightly. As she felt the heat coming closer, she began to moan in fear, begging him in her own language to please, please not do this. Her cries got louder as the iron got closer and then for two agonizing seconds the hot brand was pushed into the soft flesh of her belly, just above her pussy, the acrid smell of burned meat filling the room. She fainted, her last sight the image of the master viewing his awful handiwork.

She woke a few hours later when the master entered the kitchen with another man. The master stepped aside so the man with him could examine her. He unwrapped the linen bandage from her belly and checked the wound. Another slave brought him a basin of water at his command, and the doctor salted the water lightly and gently bathed the wounded flesh. She winced but did not cry out.

Once the brand was cleaned he pulled a clay pot of salve from his bag, applied it to the brand, and then wrapped her in a clean new bandage. She was forever marked with the sigil of her owner.

She was livestock, nothing more.

[Dedicated to Haley]