The Past Is Never Dead

This story was written for the 2025 Literotica 750 Word Challenge. Below the asterisks are exactly 750 words.

Note to readers: the title of this story comes from William Faulkner's famous saying: "The past is never dead. It's not even past."

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"I just had the most amazing vision." The woman stared confidently into me as she said this.

"I've noticed you've been watching me," I replied. She'd been easy to pick out across the food court, pale-skinned in a red dress, sitting with some other women, but her eyes always on me. I'd followed her approach from my spot at a tea kiosk. None of the other women wore red, or even a dress. She outclassed them all.

I hadn't intended to come to this roofed open-air market in the middle of London, mostly populated with booths offering uninteresting artisanal trinkets. But it was across from my hotel and I was killing time before my talk.

"Do you believe in past lives?" she asked.

"You mean reincarnation?" I shrugged.

"I believe it can happen."

"To each their own."

"And I've had a powerful realization about you. About us."

"Really? I'm pleased to meet you." She had supple breasts, the bluest eyes, dark, dark hair. "But have we met?"

"In this present life we haven't. Until now."

"I see. And this realization. It was good?"

"Beyond good." She paused, her initial confidence fading, but she persevered: "You did something for me, something life-changing. Long ago. I don't know what yet, but it was special, heroic. I can still feel it strongly in this life. It was—" she hesitated— "sexual. I feel a debt to you, so large I don't know if I could ever fully repay it, not in a single life."

My profession is the past. I'm an historian. I grew up in Rome, among my ancestors' great works. I was here to give a talk on my specialty, ancient barbarian tribes of the Roman Empire. The invitation had surprised me. My theory is radical: that Romans, even soldiers, were individualistic, not just puppets in a monolithic juggernaut. Attending the conference would crash my schedule. I didn't know why I'd accepted.

"Allow me," she pleaded, "to repay that debt."

The whole marketplace seemed to grow silent, despite noise all around. I asked, "Are you offering yourself to me?"

"Yes. I think I am. I can't resist this feeling, and the longer I'm near you, the stronger it gets."

"What happened between us?"

"I think you rescued me from something— something monstrous." Quite understandable. History is littered with horrors. "It feels sexual." She smoothed her hair, lifting her chin to expose neck and cleavage. "Please."

My excitement rose. Refusal was impossible. Previous lovers had let me play power games, but never so totally, so immediately. They felt like practice now for this moment. "I accept. Tell me your limits."

"We were enemies, but you helped me and never hurt me. I trust you. So no limits."

I nodded. "Here is your first command."

"Yes. Please."

"Tell them."

"Tell—?"

"Your companions. Here." I felt compelled to protect her. From my jacket I took out my wallet and pulled out my card. "Give this to your friends. It has my contact details. Tell them."

"That I'm going with you?"

"That you've offered yourself to me without limit as my sex slave." She took the card and studied it. "So they'll know you'll be safe."

She looked up from the card with such a willing smile. I imagined her falling to her knees before me right in the market.

"Go. Say your good-byes."

She went over to her companions. The shock on their faces as she spoke told me everything. I knew the first way I would take her when she leaned over the table to tell them.

When she returned, I led her to a booth where I'd stopped briefly on the way in. I dislike shopping, but one piece had caught my eye, a finely made leather collar. I held it in front of her and unlatched it. "Tell me your name," I ordered. I realized we hadn't even introduced ourselves yet.

"Give your slave any name you want."

The name appeared. Perhaps I'd read it somewhere. "You are Eirwen." I put the collar on her. We touched for the first time. Her skin was like silk.

She staggered. I held her up. Her eyes fluttered. "I— was the third princess. I don't know what that means."

I knew. Per Tacitus, ancient Queen Boudica had two daughters. Raped in front of her by Romans. My ancestors. Tacitus had been misinformed. "I'm giving a talk. A new theory of history. You will accompany me there."

"And everywhere else you desire," she answered.