Dear reader: a foreword, and a forewarning. Please take a minute to read through it. It might, if nothing, save you a lot of time and frustration - or, potentially, give you something beyond the piece of smut you are about to read.
First and foremost: this is a long read for a piece of low-brow porn. It is very slow and story-heavy. There is also an introduction that comes before it, and should be read first. If you seek a quick and hard-hitting thrill, I'm not the merchant for the job. You see, I am a dirty fetishist. A proper degenerate. To surmise that is not difficult, as one look at the tags should suffice in that regard. But there is a bigger, more perfidious passion at work here. You see, I like the history of Rome.
As a dirty fetishist, I did the unthinkable and defiled one of my favorite countries with fantasy trash like elves and dwarves. Yet this is necessary, in my mind, as I truly think that women of extreme penility have little place in Roma Proper, and thus a more fantastical version of it for this degenerate purpose I devised. But much of it is real. A lot of men and women here described existed, and their fates and happenings are scores more interesting that anything I could myself invent. Rome is a fascinating place, unique, thrilling and exotic to our modern mind, but also vaguely familiar. The legacy of those fascinating people we carry to this day. And if this piece of smut-fantastic in any way shall catch your interest, I strongly, from my heart suggest: give Rome, and her history, a chance.
Read a novel from the Roma Sub Rosa series by Steven Saylor, who inspired me to try this project to begin with. Listen to a podcast by Dan Carlin, or drop a view fow Historia Civilis on Youtube. Reality is stranger than fiction - and often, much more interesting,
For your attention I thank you, and, without a due, I'll start.
The road to Fausta's villa was a narrow one, mostly hidden away from sight by vinaries and little gardens. The soil was not good; but a magos had ways to circumvent the deficiencies of nature, even if it required effort beyond any potential profit. Fausta did not pursue a farmer's profit. But she enjoyed wine.
Any guest, thus, was hidden from sight until he approached the final curve of the road. The sound of the approaching cart was loud, and heard from afar, hinting at old man Festus bringing fresh supplies from Ienua. But perhaps...
Fausta made her way to the portico, where the incline of the road could be observed. A few dolls came also, to meet the guests and tend the horses.
In a minute or so the arrived have become visible. It was a procession. A few on horseback. A few on foot. A large cart, draped with cloth held with rope. They wore cloaks; their horses were tired. To the eye they looked like any other traveler on a Roman road: a citizen with a retinue or a trader.
But Fausta smiled. She knew exactly who her guests were. They were no guests at all.
By the lonely horn of the forwardmost rider, she recognized Arcadia, and felt the first spark of happiness of the last few days.
...
They sat in the large study, where light shone through a wide opening in the ceiling and flowerpots of aurelic sunblooms pleased the eye. Arcadia, not Fausta, ordered food to be served, and the mistress was grateful. She would not admit how much she missed the sound of Arcadia's voice. Stern, with roughness more suited for a decanus in the legions than a woman managing a house, but with such a hidden capability for sultriness...
They ate light and spoke little while they did so. Fausta was old, even if no part of her elfine looks betrayed it. She didn't like to rush things where no such need existed. Arcadia, on the other hand, would not speak until asked to. The days of her slavedom were long past - the iron ring she wore could prove so. But her loyalty and her respect were stronger than chains.
They soon finished the courses. Fruits were brought together with young cheese and biscuits sweetened with honey. Fausta partook in more wine. Arcadia, for now, refused.
"You shouldn't hold back, Arcadia. Today, I'll offer you any wine. My father's stock, if you'd so desire."
"I'm too tired from the road, mistress. Wine would go to my head. I'd rather, to be honest, partake in other sorts of wine."
"Yes?"
"The one served only after sunfall."
She said so calmly, with barely a smile, and yet a note of shyness the pontiff could discern. Fausta smiled, enjoyed a sip. Her own harvest was not at all bad.
"You are a freedwoman, Arcadia. You are no longer the slave girl I purchased twelve years ago. Why do you fidget? Speak like a citizen. Demand what's yours."
Arcadia met her gaze, yet couldn't hold it, and hid her eyes. She was, in a way, Fausta's greatest treasure. Purchased on a whim in the Subura - as a funny rarity, a daemon-girl with just a single horn intact out of a pair. Her people, when enslaved, were normally dehorned; perhaps the slavemaster took pity on the particular daemon as to give her an interesting, asymmetric look, adding to her beauty - and her price.
"With that I struggle, mistress. You ask a taxing act of me."
"Do I?"
The daemon paused, and thought her next few words. She changed, with years. But a part of the Arcadia of yore persisted: a sweet and timid part.
"You do, mistress. There are things... things I cannot do. No matter how I am."
Fausta leaned in. They sat opposing each other, separated only by a small table, where their cups rested. The pontiff gazed at her dear servant in the eyes.
"You are my pearl, Arcadia. My wonder and my gift from the gods. Tonight, I will serve you any wine you'd like."
As they joined in a kiss, a doll silently refilled the pontiff's cup.
...
They moved to the guest room, seldom used other than for mutual pleasantries - be it of the mind or of the body. They drank more wine. The kiss mellowed the tired Arcadia; she changed to her usual tunic, adorned with a silver brooch, and accepted a new cup. They watered it down to savour the feeling and had it sweetened with thrakian sugar-spice. It was bliss.
"Tell me of your travels, Arcadia. Why did you take so long? I expected you a month ago, but got only a letter. Was there so much to do in Rome?"
Arcadia sipped and licked her lips. Like many women of her kind, she was a wild, barbaric beauty; a bit shorter then Fausta herself, but widely built, with an exceptionally strong back and limbs subtly lined with muscle. Her features were soft, but with a sharp jaw; her deeply-set eyes and thick eyebrows gave her an intense gaze even when calm. Her hair was burnt auburn, carefully swept in such a way to hide the wide stubble of her lost horn and accent the one remaining. Her breasts were small, but shapely, with youthful supple and pleasant pertness. She was not the classic vision of Venus. A greek would find her far too crude, too wide. A roman would find her distasteful and foreign.
Fausta found her sublime.
"No. We stayed little in Rome. I've met Lucinius and Felix Junius and inquired."
"Is there talk?"
"Some. The College is interested in your work, mistress. There is talk that not all of your secluded research is of well-spirited nature."
Fausta frowned.
"I hope that Felix was there to shut down such talk."
Arcadia nodded.
"He was. He also tells that whatever rumors of your dealings circulate there now, they soon will be outdated by a more interesting tidbit."
"That being?"
"They say that Quintus Caecilius is getting very old. His position as Pontifex Maximus is under question, and soon, a race will start to take his place. Felix foresees a man named Gaius Julius will win the election."
"I know of him. All the better, then, if he wins."
Arcadia curved her neck.
"Why so, mistress?"
"Because Gaius Julius is a beast of politics and will turn the College into a farce. Within this farce, I'll be free to do my work with little interdiction."
"If so you say, mistress. I know little of this Gaius beyond market talk."
"What else did you learn in the city?"
"Not much. I've pursued your leads, but most of them were cold. Not even in the Suburan closed markets were people willing to deal in this kind of stock."
