The Gallic Girl

This is a hard non-consent story with misogynistic themes, and while it ends in sexual bliss for the lead female character, the path to that fulfillment goes through a lot of cruelty. If you're reading this because you follow me for my more vanilla stories, please don't read on unless you're comfortable with a much darker tone.

All characters are 18 or older.

***

Gaul, 54 BC

The village was burning.

Marcus Aquilius strode between the flaming huts, sweat standing out in beads on his forehead from the intense heat. The acrid, pungent smell of smoke was filling his nostrils, laced with the rancid undercurrent of burning flesh. Behind him, he heard the choked screams of the remaining male prisoners being finished off by his men. No quarter and no mercy for this village. Those adult men who had not died fighting, or been trapped in their homes as the fire spread, would now meet swift deaths at the hands of the most disciplined soldiers the world had ever seen.

Caesar's conquest of Gaul was in its fifth year. The campaign had already dragged on for years longer than it need have done, and Aquilius knew that the general was growing impatient and frustrated. Where once they had treated the Gallic natives relatively humanely, in the past year Caesar had ordered increasingly ruthless treatment for those regions of the country that still refused to be pacified. In this wild, rainy, western part of Gaul, the native people had put up stubborn resistance ever since the first Roman legion had marched down their valley three years ago. Now Caesar's patience had run out -- and Aquilius couldn't blame him. These past months, Marcus Aquilius had lost too many of his own men to Gallic hit-and-run attacks to care any longer for traditional Roman clemency. If burning villages like this one and slaughtering all their men was what it took to pacify the region, so be it.

Besides, there were perks. Very good perks indeed.

Leaving the burning village behind, he strode back towards the camp. With typical efficiency, his men had already set up the whole array of tents in a field near the village: sleeping quarters for several hundred soldiers and officers, plus infirmaries, kitchens, storehouses, and -- set at the back, discreetly away from the men -- Aquilius's own large, private quarters. Night was drawing on, and there would be no more marching today: after a hard day of massacre, his men deserved a rest. He had already given orders to set the usual patrols and guard regiments, in case a Gallic counter-attack came in the night. Around a row of cooking fires, slaves were working busily to prepare an evening meal. All the practicalities were taken care of. Aquilius, and his officers, had earned their rewards.

One of those officers met him now at the perimeter of the camp, and saluted.

"All in order, sir," reported Regulus. The lieutenant fell into step beside his commander as Aquilius proceeded into the camp.

"Did the scouts take any more prisoners?"

"A few, sir. Captured trying to make a getaway through the woods. All men, sir, so they were escorted to the holding area."

"Good. They'll be dealt with soon. I've left clear instructions."

"Yes sir."

"And the stock-take of treasure from the village?"

"Completed, sir. It's not much -- they weren't a rich settlement. Couple of ceremonial goblets and some silver brooches."

"Good man." He glanced at the younger officer. Regulus was streaked with dirt and blood -- though he didn't look as bad as Aquilius himself. Both of them had taken a leading part in the fighting, and though neither was wounded, the sweat and gore of the combat clung visibly to their bodies.

Aquilius stopped walking, and took a deep breath. The cool night air filled his lungs, still scented with smoke. Regulus, who had paused deferentially beside him, waited patiently for the commander to speak. Around them, the camp bustled with activity, as off-duty soldiers made ready for the evening's revels.

"Very well then, Regulus. And what of our rewards for the officers?"

The young officer could not suppress a small smirk at these words. "They're all being held in the usual tent, sir. Lentulus has them firmly under control. He's ready to present them at any time."

Aquilius smiled. "Excellent. Go and tell him to have them ready in twenty minutes. And then go clean yourself up, Regulus -- you'll be off duty soon."

"Thank you sir," nodded Regulus. He turned, and strode away.

Pausing only to collect a clean set of clothes, Aquilius made his way down to the stream that ran along the bottom of the field. While the twilight gathered around him, he stripped, stepped into the icy rush of the water, and briskly scrubbed away the filth of the massacre. It felt like caked soot had mingled with the dried blood that clung to his skin, and feeling it fall easily away at the cold touch of the water was a deep, cleansing relief. Standing knee-deep in the stream, Aquilius closed his eyes for a moment, and took in the quiet. For the past many hours, he had heard nothing but the clash of swords, the crash of collapsing houses, and the screams of the villagers. Now, a deep satisfaction settled in his bones. It was the quiet confidence of a job well done.

He stepped out of the stream, dried himself, and put on a fresh tunic. Then he returned to the camp, and made his way to the tent where Lentulus was waiting for him.

A handful of other officers were already gathered outside the large, rectangular tent. In deference to Aquilius, they had waited to enter until their commander arrived.

"At ease," he told them, as they saluted at his approach. "Good work today. We've done our duty to Caesar here. You all deserve your rewards." He permitted himself a smile, and he saw the junior officers relax, reassured by his attitude. "Now then ... let's take a look at today's spoils."

He led the way into the tent. Inside, Lentulus stood to attention -- a tough, experienced slave-driver entrusted by Aquilius with the work of marshalling the rewards for the officers after each village was taken. And tonight, as always, Lentulus had done his work well.

Standing in a row inside the tent, their hands bound behind their backs, were the women of the village.

The very sight of them made a thrill run through Aquilius's body. The Gallic women stood before him, straight from the massacre. Almost none had intact clothes: their simple, homespun garments had been ripped and mangled in the carnage. A few were fully topless -- shivering, hands bound, unable to cover themselves, shame-faced at having their tits on show. But far and away the most arousing thing about the row of bound women standing before him was the looks on their faces. They stared at Aquilius with trembling fear in their eyes. Some didn't dare to look at him, but stared instead at the floor. Many of their faces were streaked with tears, and one or two were still sobbing quietly. He felt his cock stirring at that -- he loved it when they cried.

Some of these women had seen their husbands, brothers, fathers or sons slaughtered before their eyes. They had been dragged, screaming and crying, to this tent. They had been beaten until they did as they were told, bound with their hands behind their backs, and made to stand on show for the officers who had just ordered the massacre of their village.

And now, they were going to be used for their proper purpose. And it was clear from the looks in their eyes that they knew what they were here for.

Aquilius smiled with satisfaction. There was nothing he loved more than seeing women reduced to their natural state: submissive fucktoys who existed for no purpose but the pleasure of men.

Back in Rome, women understood what they were for. Back in Rome, women knew their place, and rarely did any of them question or rebel against the subservient status for which nature had fitted them. There were three types of women in Rome -- three roles that they might fill -- and each one was shaped to the same purpose: serving the needs of men.

First, there were wives. Aquilius fondly remembered his own wife: his sweet, obedient Metella, who was dutifully running his household for him during these long years in Gaul. He had picked her out as a young man, choosing her for her full, plump, cock-sucking lips, her huge, creamy tits, her beautifully curved hips and her smooth, alabaster thighs. She came from a rich family, of course -- he needed to make the proper connections -- and strictly speaking, she was supposed to have been a virgin until marriage. But her father had let Aquilius sample her, making sure her cunt felt good enough before he committed to the decision. He remembered the old man watching and nodding with approval as his daughter bent over the couch, lifted up her richly embroidered dress, and took her first cock like an obedient little bitch. Her cunt had felt perfect, and after Aquilius emptied his balls into her, he had shaken her father's hand and agreed on the spot.

Since then, she had been the model of a proper Roman wife. When he arrived home at the end of the day, she greeted him with a kiss, asked him sweetly how his day had been, and then, without needing to be told, sank to her knees. Metella understood that her purpose was to serve her husband's cock and be a breeding mother to his children. She directed the household professionally, keeping all the slaves in line, and she looked after the children with devotion and care. He had always been perfectly satisfied with her. She did as she was told, dinner was served on time, her tits had only grown bigger as she suckled the kids, and her cunt was still deliciously tight. What more could a husband want?

The second class of women in Rome were the courtesans. Oh, the courtesans -- how he missed them. That was the way for a young man to get his sexual education. Aquilius vividly recalled those dinner parties, when he and a handful of other rich men would meet for a sumptuous and decadent feast, each one bringing along a hand-picked courtesan to entertain them for the evening. With those teasing, mischievous smiles, and that naughty twinkle in their eye that said they knew exactly how to make a roomful of men happy, the girls would spend the meal flirting with every man at the party -- expertly ramping up the anticipation until the entire room was sizzling with tension. Then when the last course had been cleared away, it would be time. Girls slipping out of their dresses, the room suddenly full of naked, gorgeous babes, each one ready and fuckable for any man who wanted her. Girls climbing into men's laps, whispering in their ears, asking if they wanted to use them like the slutty little whores they were. Girls on the couches, taking cock after cock after cock, being passed around like toys.

A scene from one of those parties flashed across Aquilius's memory. He was sitting on a couch, clasping the hips of a cute little redhead while she bobbed furiously up and down on his cock, her lusciously bouncy tits jiggling in his face, her arms around his shoulders as she clung close against him. As he bit her neck, her heard her long, ecstatic moan mingle with the sounds of all the other girls in the room. Some were moaning, gasping, wailing uncontainably -- the sound of girls being ploughed hard with cock. Others were giggling with glee as men fondled them, squeezed their tits, spanked their asses, and passed them around. And then there were girls who were making no sound at all, apart from those exquisite slurping and gagging noises: the sound of girls using their mouths like good little sluts. Mingled together, a chorus of moans and gasps and giggles and slurps, it formed the sound of a roomful of women who had accepted their true and natural purpose: to be fuck objects for men. And as Aquilius let his attention focus on those sounds while the redhead bounced on his cock, he felt his balls build to a deep, sweet climax, until at last it broke. As he felt the cum surging out of him, he threw back his head and moaned with relief as he pumped his load deep into the whore's cunt.

Finally, last and by far the most numerous of the three classes of women, there were the slave-girls.

The enslaved population of Rome was huge. All the toughest manual labour was done by enslaved men, along with the women who were too old or unattractive to be worth keeping in the home. For fresher, hotter slave-girls, life could be easier, as they were often kept as maids, cooks, and other household slaves. And for free men like Aquilius, this meant a constant, readily available choice of obedient fucktoys.

He remembered the first time Metella had found him with a slave-girl. She had walked in on him in his study, where he was pounding the ass of a newly purchased Arab babe. The pretty little thing was bent over his desk, sobbing with pain while he relentlessly fucked her. Totally unruffled, Metella had walked over to him, kissed his cheek, and asked him sweetly if he would like to fondle her boobs while he came in the slave-girl's ass. That was his Metella: she understood what she was for. He remembered groaning with pleasure while he spurted his cum into the sobbing little Arab girl, his right hand clasped on Metella's huge, heavy boob, her mouth planting delicate kisses on his neck.

The life of a slave-girl in Rome was the perfect realisation of what Aquilius knew to be a basic, universal natural law: that women were objects. No matter what other roles they might perform, they were always, underneath it all, nothing more than objects to be enjoyed by men. Sometimes he might pass a slave-girl in the hallway and decide on the spur of the moment to fuck her, then and there, against the wall; and she would submit like a good girl, because she understood that this was the proper use of her. When Aquilius sent one of his regular letters to his closest friend in the city, a man named Fabius, he would always be sure to pick out one of his cutest slaves to deliver the letter, so that Fabius could enjoy her before sending her back. Fabius did the same in return, and it was always a delicious surprise when a fresh young babe showed up at the door clutching Fabius's latest letter in her hand, a look of nervous fear in her eyes. Sometimes, when Aquilius was done with her, he would come on her face before he sent her back to her master's house. She would have to walk through the city, and present herself to Fabius when she got home, with Aquilius's cum all over her face -- just to show that he had enjoyed her.

Of course, not all slave-girls submitted willingly. Deep inside every woman, there was a place of instinctive, obedient, total submission, where she accepted her true purpose and wanted nothing more than to be a fuck object. But while some women embraced that part of themselves swiftly and eagerly when a man first broke them in, others resisted, and resisted hard. This was particularly likely if they had grown up far away from Rome, where they might have been taught foolish ideas about being independent, deserving respect from men, or even -- most laughable of all -- having a right to say no.

That was how you ended up with stubborn, disobedient bitches who refused to accept what they were made for. Women like that needed to be punished and broken. Broken until they embraced their true nature, and were reduced to depraved little sluts -- begging for forgiveness, and begging to be used as the fucktoys they truly were.

So as Marcus Aquilius ran his eyes over the line of trembling, half-naked women before him, he wondered which of them would submit quietly, and which would not. Which of these girls would be quick to embrace their new roles as slaves? And which of them -- his cock stiffened eagerly at the thought -- would need to be thoroughly, firmly taught their place?

He began to walk slowly down the line of girls. As commanding officer, he had first pick; then the others would make their selections in rank order. There were slightly fewer girls than than there were officers, but that would not be a problem. Making a girl take two cocks at once was often an excellent way to humiliate and overwhelm her, and he knew that some of his lieutenants would relish the chance to break in a girl together.

A slim blonde thing with small tits glanced up at him fearfully as he paused in front of her. She stared at him with wide, doe-like eyes. Her lower lip was trembling as though she was about to cry. Amused, Aquilius took her by the hair and bit her neck, hard, while with his free hand he squeezed her tiny boob and flicked her nipple under his thumb. She whimpered loudly and quailed at his touch. Chuckling softly, Aquilius let her go, and moved on. She was cute, but he could tell there was no fight in her. And tonight, he wanted a woman who would need breaking. He wanted a bitch.

Half-dressed girls who shivered at his approach. Middle-aged women who stared determinedly at the ground rather than meet his eye. He took his time, walking past some without bothering to look closer, but pausing in front of others to consider them -- sometimes fondling their tits and pulling their hair to get a taste of their responses. No woman dared speak. Behind him, young Regulus had stepped forward -- even though it was not yet his turn -- to idly examine some of the girls Aquilius had passed over.

Suddenly Aquilius heard a loud spitting noise, followed immediately by a shocked gasp from many of the girls. He turned sharply around. Regulus was wiping something off his cheek, looking furious. He was stood in front of a scowling, black-haired girl who was staring at him mutinously. She had clearly just spat in his face.

All the women stared fearfully between Aquilius and Regulus, waiting to see how the Romans would respond.

Aquilius gave a grim smile. For a brief moment, he reconsidered the black-haired girl: spitting at Regulus was an impressive sign of spirit. But though she was pretty enough, she wasn't his type. And besides, this was a moment worth making into an example.

"Lentulus," he said calmly. "Take that one, and give her to the soldiers. Tell them she is to be gangbanged in the ass, on my orders."

Horrified gasps erupted from the line of women. One of them actually wailed with grief. A few of the waiting officers gave gruff, satisfied laughs. The mutinous expression had vanished instantly from the black-haired girl's face. She was suddenly looking nakedly, quiveringly scared.

"Yes sir," said Lentulus with relish. "I'll take her straight to the men after all the officers have made their selections."

"Good," Aquilius nodded. "And no olive oil," he added, referring to the Romans' usual choice of lubricant. "Un-oiled and rough -- and she is not to be brought back until every soldier in the camp has had his fill."

The girl gave a massive, whole-body shudder of fear. Smiling with satisfaction, Aquilius turned back to the line, and stopped to look at the girl in front of him.

She met his gaze. She had bright eyes, pale green but flecked with hazel, and she was giving him a hard, defiant stare. She looked young, perhaps in her early twenties, and she was very, very pretty. Her hair was long and chestnut brown, and her lips were full. She wore a torn homespun dress that still covered most of her body, but she appeared to have a healthy, curvy figure -- the swell of her bust beneath the ragged garment was clear.

Holding her gaze, Aquilius reached out, took hold of her dress, and casually ripped it down the front. The girl gave a slight flinch, and her mouth twitched in a grimace. Aquilius pushed the remains of the dress off her shoulders, and it fell uselessly to hang around her waist. She stood before him, topless and breathing heavily, but still determinedly not looking away from his face. Ignoring her expression, Aquilius studied her big, ripe-looking tits. She had the full, bell-shaped jugs of a healthy peasant girl. Aquilius took the girl by the neck with one hand to hold her still, and with his free hand began kneading and squeezing her left boob. It felt just as good as she looked. The girl's breast was creamily smooth and exquisitely firm, yielding just enough to the pressure of his grip, soft and heavy in his hand.