Mogador
By
Tacitus
(Note: This is the fourth in a continuing series. Prior episodes may be found in the 3rd and 4th Femfight Competition and Story archives.)
I
Cautiously the procession of torches proceeded down the slick, salt-spray coated steps, a lingering spiral of torches marking their progress to the depths of the dungeon. “Tell me again where you found her,” the short, swarthy figure demanded from the man at the head of the escort.
“Among the rocks on the north end of the island, my Queen,” came the reply, “She was nearly dead, wearing a torn linen shift, but no armor or weapons. All around lay the wreckage of a ship, but we could find no other survivors.”
“Is she Moor…or Carthaginian?”
“Neither. She is not from Mauretania and much too fair to be from south of the great desert. I thought she might be just another slave washed overboard from those pigsties the slavers call boats, but then we found what was left of the ship. It was not a slave ship and this woman has no chain sores on her wrists or around her throat. She…” the leader of the procession stopped at the large iron door, struggling to raise the crossbar.
“Yes, go on…” the woman commanded as she quickly skirted around those in front of her and drew up astride the dungeon’s threshold to assist in lifting the heavy iron bar.
“My Queen,” the leader stammered, lowering his voice, “She is like no woman, free or slave that I have ever seen. She is certainly not Roman, for they are weak and given to wine and depravity. Even half-dead, this woman’s strength and muscularity are evident beneath her tattered garments. It took three of my men to overpower her when she regained consciousness. I fear she is a warrior, perhaps like you a wrestler, strong and powerful. And though her body has many scars, they are the wounds of one who has seen many battles. Her body is marked by sword, spear and axe, not whip or rod.”
“I fear this warrior my Queen. We must kill her quickly…before the King finds out...and there is a contest.”
“Because you fear I would lose? And how do you know what wounds lie beneath her clothes, Watch Captain? If you have harmed her in the ways of men, I will kill you,” the Queen harshly retorted, and quickly stepped through the threshold as the heavy door gave way.
II
The whirlpools of revolving color slowly receded, replaced by throbbing pain in her upper shoulders, chest and groin. Xena was cold…very cold…and as she fought through to consciousness the shivers began, uncontrollable.
She was erect and spread-eagled, arms and legs held immobile by harsh cords suspended from iron rings, digging deep into her wrists and ankles. Hanging tense and rigid, nipples hard beneath the soaked remnants of the linen shift she wore when thrown into the ocean, the full weight of her upper body forced the strands into her flesh, skin bulging around lines wreathed in blood.
Where was she? She recalled the tremendous storm, the master unable to steer for the Pillars of Hercules, the main sail and rudder carried away. They had drifted for days, helpless to counter the storm’s continuing wrath. Then suddenly a distant light…rocks…and the terrible splintering of wood as the ship’s hull was mortally punctured, keel broken…screams from the doomed crew as thunderous waves washed over the main deck carrying all before them…and then darkness.
And now, again, darkness…dampness…the overpowering stench of fetid water gathered in shallow pools beneath her. Her eyes focused on nothing, staring numbly into the shadows ahead of her.
Suddenly a sharp noise, the shriek of rusty metal on iron hinges, and scattered lights, as a dozen torches, held aloft in the gloom and carried by shadowy figures, swam before her eyes.
The orange play of the torches over the flexing, heavy muscularity of the Warrior Princess’s thighs and upper arms as she attempted to maintain her balance fascinated the guards. They crowded inside the dungeon to see the woman that had been the talk of the Watch Captain since he chained her up in the dungeon, fondling breast and thigh in the process, and posted a single guard earlier in the day.
The Queen strode manfully across the glazed tiles of the dungeon floor, peeling away an ocean-soaked woolen cloak in the process. Her skin bore the dark tint of her Moorish heritage, tempered only by a copper patina that bespoke Mediterranean blood, most likely Carthaginian, also running in her veins. Beneath medium length coarse black hair, upward-slanting eyes again testified to a mixed heritage of many races that had washed up on the shores of northwestern Africa over the centuries. Wide shoulders, firm breasts, chunky hips and thick short legs and thighs were suggested beneath the bronze armor and short leather skirt.
Suddenly conscious of the slavering jowls and lecherous mutterings of her guards she whirled and screamed, “Leave us! Watch Captain, post a guard outside and wait for my signal. You have strung her up like a castrated bull. We will have no trouble with this bitch!”
The men quickly exited, leaving half-dozen torches to light the dungeon. The heavy bar slammed down, and they were alone.
The Queen walked around the suspended body, and then paused in front of the prisoner, gently caressing the taught muscles of Xena’s upper arms, accentuated by her position and dead weight. At the feel of her touch, Xena’s eyes opened wide, whites glimmering in the dim light of the dungeon.
“The Watch Captain was right. You are a fines specimen of womanhood…and thankfully, still alive. At least these pigs that make up our guards in this shithole have left something for me. Who are you?”
No response.
An open palm slap to the face brought a focused look of pain on the part of the prisoner, but no response.
“Oh, excuse me…you’re probably not a local girl!” The Queen shifted to stilted Latin and repeated the question. A narrowing of Xena’s eyes indicated at least an understanding of the query, though again there was no answer. Another blow, this one a clinched fist to the stomach and packing more power than the first, elicited a soft grunt of pain in rapidly exhaled breath, but nothing more.
“Very well, bitch. Have it your way!” the Queen hissed and producing a small knife from her cuirass, sliced through the tattered cloth, first bearing the Warrior Princess’s full breasts, then wide hips, and finally the dark furred triangle between widespread legs. Stepping back to admire the naked tanned body, abdominal muscles expanding with each breath, yet still trembling with pain and cold in the dim light of a half dozen torches, the Queen shook her head in admiration. “My, my…you are a fine one! Strong and virile…and I bet a good fuck too! Of course, the question is, with which sex, or, like Alexander, do you do both?” Again, a narrowing of the eyes indicated that the prisoner understood, perhaps more than just words.
“Okay, I’ll go first.
I am Dido, Queen of Mauretania Tingitana, great-granddaughter of Eurnoe,
Queen of the Moors and consort of Julius Caesar. The King of this distant province answerable
to the Emperor is a Numidian usurper, Juba II, pretender to a throne that is
rightfully mine. Regardless of his
pretenses, all my people know he rules this land at the edge of the world only
by the enforced consent of
“Though not built like one, he fucks me like a horse when he is not with one of his male Watch Captains. It matters little, for he loves me even less than I love him. Our relationship is an arrangement of convenience for both our peoples, and benefits the Emperor and the Empire.”
The Queen drew up close to the Warrior Princess, hands
lingering just above the full trembling breasts sloping to a taut stomach. “The Watch Captain was right about one
thing. You are most certainly not
Roman. Perhaps from
“Achilles…Alexander…Xenophon…Pyrrhus…all the Greek heroes of old. Even strung up defenseless before me, I sense the superiority of the ancients and Aristolean contempt in your face. Any other race would be scared to look me straight in the eye. But you, a proud Greek of a warrior race, do not know fear. Hate, certainly, and perhaps if I am right…lust…but never fear.”
“Yes…you are Greek…and only by unfortunate accident of birth not a man. Now don’t worry…your secret is safe with me. After all, I want the King to want me…and not you…and he does have a passion for things of your homeland…just like his Roman overseers, this Numidian dog longs for the glory that was Greece!”
“Of course, if you are Greek, you most certainly know how to pleasure both man and woman. It must be in the wine or olives of your land. There is no race that knows love, both ways, better than the Greek. So, let’s see, are you clean?” Lifting a boot to nudge the Thracian warrior’s thighs wider, she cooed, “Spread your legs…please…more.”
No response.
“I said spread your legs, cunt!” Dido screamed, drawing back and smashing her right fist between Xena outstretched legs. Her victim cried out in agony, full breasts flopping heavily between outstretched forearms with the force of the impact, tendons in bold relief on either side of her neck. Her blue eyes sparkled with rage, a deep-banked anger. She sought to remain still, but her breasts now thrust forward, nipples engorged and quivering as her body swung languidly in its harness.
When the swaying stopped, Dido grazed the flat of her tongue against Xena’s right nipple. “By saying nothing, you simply confirm the obvious. You are Greek and just like your people, never do as you are ordered until forced by one stronger than yourself.” She paused to suckle the other breast, inhaling sharply as the trembling but soft, dewy skin drew finely through her mouth, a dark musky smell emanating from the body strung up in front of her.
“So fine…so very, very fine. Like the wine of Ithaca, a taste easily acquired.”
She lowered her head again, nibbling first at one breast, then the other. The lapping sound of her tongue, coupled with the soft growling emerging from her mouth, made Xena shudder. In response, the Queen muttered, “Now my lithe pet, don’t be afraid. This won’t hurt a bit.” And with that she drew up face-to-face with her prisoner, tongue swirling about as she slowly, wetly, licked the Warrior Princess’s lips, cheeks and neck, while hands cupped and fondled her breasts. Drawing to the side, Dido’s lips caressed the pulse evident in the layered veins of Xena’s neck, nipping at the soft tan skin.
The Greek’s breathing grew deeper and more rapid as the Queen’s aggressive mouth moved lower, coasting languidly over the firm upper swell of the Warrior Princess’s breasts. With left breast cupped in Dido’s hands, she opened her mouth wide and fit a third of Xena’s right breast into her mouth, chewing on the tanned flesh, penetrating only deep enough to bring thin lines of blood to the surface marking the tracks of her teeth. She pressed her lips tightly around the erect, pulsating nipple, nipping, chewing and sucking in one fluid motion.
The Greek woman sensed she was losing self-control as her head dropped back, breasts thrust upward in response to the insatiable tongue and mouth. The Queen’s hands fluttered over her extended rib cage, stroked rigid abdominals and firm side flanks, and then abruptly dropped and ran between the Warrior Princess’s wet heavy lips.
“Give yourself to me,” the Moor commanded, as she now raised a thick thigh and began rhythmically assaulting the Warrior Princess’s dripping sex. Helpless to the loveless passion welling up within, the Greek woman released an involuntary, guttural moan.
“Oh yes, talk…talk!” responded the Queen, voice tight with tension, forehead now sheathed in sweat as Queen and prisoner began climbing together. The Moor was acutely aware of every inch of Xena’s firm but helpless body pressed up against hers, every quivering muscle, and her reaction to each thrust, first of thigh, then thick fingers. Instinct told her that the Greek woman was slowly building to a climax, and this knowledge drove her that much harder to work against the heavily muscled frame dangling before her.
Her own feelings nearing a peak, the loud scream emanating from the raven-haired Thracian signaled an unwilling fulfillment. The carnal pleasure so apparent in the Greek warrior now writhing uncontrollably, side strung in her harness, excited the Moorish Queen to the point of delirium. Pressed as intimately close as her clothing would allow to the magnificent body before her, she rapidly lost herself in the heat and passion of her unwilling partner. Rubbing against the once cold body now alive with the burning sensation of heated flesh, she delighted in the hard friction and abrasiveness of Moor on Greek, black leather on naked skin, until she collapsed, moist and exhausted, at the foot of the Thracian warrior still trembling above her.
III
The Queen stirred and slowly rose, carefully adjusting her black leather and bronze cuirass. Alert to her movement, though powerless, Xena watched her closely. “Well my warrior princess, would it only be possible to continue our relationship, I think we would both find it mutually rewarding.”
Xena said nothing, but thought it interesting that Dido would use the sobriquet by which she was renown in the Empire. “Did this woman know more than she let on?” the Greek woman pondered.
The Moor continued.
“Unfortunately, our relationship will be stillborn. In this land we have an ancient custom dating
from the days when the Phoenicians from
Xena said nothing, but inwardly began thinking that once again she was the pawn of some man’s carnal desires, be it the Emperor, some Proconsul in Britannia…or this King Juba II, whoever he was.
The Queen walked slowly, sensually, around the body gently swaying in time to rhythmic deep breaths being deeply drawn. There was something about the closeness of physical strength and pending combat that always stimulated her body. And Dido sensed she was not alone in that regard.
“Well, Greek woman, even silent, I sense you understand
what I am telling you. And looking at
this magnificent body of your, I am certain you would bear the King many
children…many sons…but I do not intend for you to get the opportunity. I will remain Queen, and after this impotent
swine of a king dies, I will throw his body into the sea and lead my people
against these Romans. They call our land
‘
“My strong, virile pet, I have spoken too long on issues that do not concern you. But understand I have promised myself and my people that I will destroy any competitors for the King’s desires, though I would gladly give up his daily attentions, feeble and inept as they are, to let you play the whore and submit to his lustful pawing and drunken caresses.”
“But alas, that is not an available option. Thus, we will fight, as I have before on
several occasions, in the large cistern beneath the fortress’s
battlements. The floor is cold, hard
tile, the sides, solid stone from the ancient Phoenician quarries ashore. These contests are open to only a select
few. The King, a few well placed Roman
overseers, and slavers who will bid to buy what is left of the loser, will be
present. If you are a warrior, as I
suspect, a gladiatrix as my
infrequent contacts from
“But here in Mogador, we are at the edge of the world. If you win, you will take my place as the King’s whore. Oh yes, they will call you ‘Queen’, but you will doubtless find things much different at the ends of the earth than you are accustomed to in sunny lands to the east. If you die at my hands, you will be thrown to the King’s hunting dogs to sate their appetites. And if you lose, but live, you will be sold into slavery and leave Mogador immediately. You will perhaps return to the land of your birth, but then maybe not. The Gods will decide.”
“And one thing more, my fine Greek warrior,” the Queen added almost as an afterthought, cupping Xena’s chin on her hand and raising her head to look her prisoner in the eyes. “See this long scar on my left side. A souvenir of combat with a Numidian bitch two years ago. You see, we fight in a manner the King likes, with fists wrapped in stud-impregnated leather straps. This prevents our fingers from being broken, so we can always serve him sexually as he desires, but the metal and leather wrappings are harsh. As you see on my face, the combat will leave scars and abrasions where it strikes flesh for the rest of your life, however long…or short…that may be.”
Softly running her fingers lightly down Xena’s face from dark hairline to full lips, she continued. “Too bad…such a beautiful face…so perfectly complementing a strong, nubile body. I only wish we could have had some more time together, but I want to destroy your chances of being able to satisfy the King’s lusts. If you lose before he sees you up close, he will not want to share his bed with what is left. And be assured, my pretty one, if I win no one who knew you in younger days will recognize what remains to be sold on the Empire’s auction block.”
“If only the King were permitted a harem. But then our Roman rulers would be jealous…and even far from Rome, the Emperor’s spies…and the long reach of the Senate…are always with us. So we will fight. One will win…and one will lose. Those are the rules. On the morrow we will meet.”
With that, the Queen extinguished all but one remaining torch and strode to the dungeon door. “Guard!” she yelled. Metal grating on iron, the pungent smell of the ocean, and then darkness.
IV
The Watch Captain drew back the cistern access door and threw Xena on the slick tile floor. “Later cunt, after the Queen has destroyed your strength, but before you leave with the slavers, I will have you. Count on it.” The door slammed shut.
The light from a score of torches several cubits above only dimly lit the bottom of the cistern. Xena slowly rose, clumsily adjusting a dirty linen shift she had been given when finally freed of her imprisonment this morning, the encumbering leather and metal wrappings about her hands making the task difficult. Even with hands encased in the hard leather, she rubbed arms and legs furiously, ignoring the friction and abrasiveness of the wrappings, feverishly seeking to restore circulation and movement before the contest began.
Xena knew, in her weakened physical state, she would have to win quickly. Any prolonged contest would inevitably result in defeat. She simply did not have the strength for sustained combat.
Amidst her feverish labors, she suddenly became conscious of another door opening and a presence close…very close…to where she squatted, aggressively rubbing her limbs.
She started as a voice came out of the shadows. “Yes, Greek woman. We meet again. But don’t worry. Our struggle will not commence before both of us are ready.” Eyes slowly adjusting to the dimness, Xena could dimly make out, in the shadows, Queen Dido. With hands also wrapped firm in leather, metal studs glittering dully in the dismal light, she began undressing, pulling a heavy leather jerken reinforced with metal up and over a face, now cold and implacable in light of the pending struggle.
Beneath the jerken, a short-sleeved woolen tunic rode up high on her arms and shoulders as the heavy bustier was removed. Her ass was round at the back and flat and hard at the sides, jutting out as a man’s. Heavy arms raised high, dark tufts of hair showed in her armpits. Her dark brown complexion, wide shoulders and sculpted breasts complemented eyes colored the bottomless black of night, shoulder-length raven hair framing a once beautiful face now marred by several scars of various lengths, testimonials to a career progression from slave to whore to Queen.
Aware she was being observed both by her opponent and the group above, she lingered slowly, alternately bending and stretching as the tunic slowly slid down and back over her powerful frame in a seductive ballet meant to both impress and intimidate. In both cases, she succeeded.
Dido was now ready. She began carefully stalking the cistern perimeter, eyed closely by the Warrior Princess pivoting slowly on her knee as she continued administering to her arms and legs. Sensing the Queen’s patience nearing an end, Xena cautiously rose, alert for any sudden movement on the part of her opponent. As she did so, Dido raised both leather-wrapped hands above her upwardly tilted head as if paying homage to those unseen above them, and then lowered them, immediately crouching low in a classic wrestler’s stance.
There was no signal to start. Eyes still adjusting to the light of a dozen torches high above her, Xena sensed her opponent moving toward her, arms again raised high above her powerful body. “A test of strength…so typical of the arena. These people do like their Greek traditions,” Xena thought as she hesitantly raised her own arms and grasped her opponent’s hands firmly with her own, leather-on-leather, stud-on-stud.
A momentary clinch, chest-to-chest, and then slowly, first one, and then both bodies began trembling with the strain, ramming hard against one another. Xena felt the Queen’s mass and strength begin to overpower her, as first her arms were extended, then wrists turned, and slowly the powerful Moor began driving her to her knees.
A grin slowly spread across the dark woman’s face, as she sensed the weakness still evident in her opponent after two days of being strung up in the dungeon. She would have to remember to pay off the Watch Captain for acceding to her request…and keeping this Greek woman’s nationality and imprisonment a secret from the King. The idiot—he had been told that she was merely a strong slave purchased last month in the slave market at Tingi, and accepted this flight of logic without question. As a ruler, he was an amateur…in and out of bed…but then, she already knew that!
Suddenly her triumphant reverie was broken as Xena shifted her weight backwards, threw Dido off balance and flipped her overhead to slam hard on to the tiled floor of the cistern. With the Moor groaning and holding her lower back in pain, Xena quickly rose, spun to her left, and dropped a heavy leg across her opponent’s neck. Trying the same tactic again, Dido anticipated the move, blocking it with her lower arms, then grabbed hold of Xena’s thigh and regained her feet. Raising the trapped limb high, it was the Warrior Princess’s turn to land hard on her back on the tiled floor. Thrusting the leg to one side, Dido dropped down, driving her callused knee hard into Xena’s thigh. The Greek woman cried out in pain.
Dido sensed she had regained the initiative, and retaining hold of Xena’s leg, she stood and smashed her right heel into the back of the Warrior Princess’s thigh, eliciting another cry of pain from the now defensive woman. Without relinquishing her hold on the leg, Dido bent over and began twisting the left ankle and foot at right angles to the remainder of the trapped limb, leather increasingly moist with the sweat of combat providing a particularly firm grip.
Another cry of pain, only this time Xena followed it by pivoting on her ass and grabbing the left ankle of the Moor, jerking hard and tumbling her to the tile. Seeking to break her fall, Dido released the trapped leg, and Xena quickly spun away, rising to her feet but clearly favoring her left leg. Dido also rose.
“Very nice, my sleek warrior!” chided the Queen. “We are putting on a good show for our King! Just like at Byzantium…or Rome…right?” Xena said nothing, not wanting to betray her personal knowledge of both arenas, where she had known great victories, but also, at the hands of Callisto, a terrible defeat. Again she thought, “How much does this woman know of me? Never mind…” She half smiled in acknowledgement, closed her stance, and stalked the Moorish woman.
They met again in the center of the cistern floor, locking up arms as they carefully moved full circle, searching for a vulnerable opening. Suddenly Xena broke the right arm embrace and seizing the left wrist of her opponent, wrenched down, then twisted sharply to the right and brought the Moor’s arm up high behind her back. Dido cried out in pain, grabbing her contorted left bicep as Xena renewed the hold, forcing the arm still higher and driving down on the Queen’s right collarbone with her left forearm to accentuate the pain of the hold. The Moor shifted back and forth trying to ease the pain, but to no avail, as the Greek woman kept the pressure on. This was wrestling in the style and manner of the Olympiad, sequentially breaking down an opponent’s arm, shoulders, and finally, legs. It was a discipline in which she had trained for years.
Xena suddenly relaxed the hold without releasing the wrist, and jerking the damaged arm out again, quickly wrapped her left arm underneath her opponents, locked down on the shoulder, and drove her opponent to one knee. The strain on the Queen’s shoulder was evident in gasps of pain and frustration, as her movements to break the hold were again countered by the aggressive riding tactics of the Thracian warrior.
Then Xena again relaxed the hold without surrendering the now severely strained wrist. Quickly spinning to her opponent’s back, she ran her left arm under the armpit and up around the neck of the hapless Moor, by now thoroughly confused as to the speed and execution of a variety of holds for which she had learned no counter. Finally releasing the tortured left wrist, the Greek woman ran her now free right arm beneath the other armpit, locking both hands at the base of the Moor’s neck. Rising to full height, biceps bulging with strain and power, lower back muscles bold in relief, the Warrior Princess lifted her opponent completely clear of the cistern floor, arms driven high, tremendous pressure being placed on the Queen’s neck.
It was an overt display of Greek wrestling prowess and from the distant smattering of talk, high up the wall, Xena’s wrestling skill was fully appreciated by more than just the woman who was her victim. Seeking to again assert her superiority, Xena released the hold, but as the dark woman sought to shake out her arms and flex her contorted wrist in seeming frustration, the Greek again cinched up the hold, lifting her helpless opponent off her feet, only this time arching back to ensure the Queen’s spine absorbed all the stress of her dead weight. A throaty whimper and a stream of spittle slowly edging from the Moor’s mouth were ample testimony to the power of the hold.
Suddenly Xena reversed her stance, released the hold, and drove her opponent into the floor. As Dido struggled to her hands and knees, the Warrior Princess dropped all her weight on the proffered back of her opponent, cinching up under the Moor’s rib cage as her tortured arms gave way under the sudden impact of the Greek warrior. Xena held the bear hug only momentarily, then moved her arms higher, renewing the crushing hold, only this time squeezing the Queen’s breasts. Belly to back, the two Amazons writhed back and forth, one riding the other for a fall, one breathing deeply in triumphal exertion, the other wheezing in pain as a seeming invincible weight crushed down on her back, smashed her breasts, and reduced her breathing to a series of painful, tortured gasps. Another moan…another satisfying rustle from above…and the Greek woman released the hold and regained her feet, confidently smiling as her opponent struggled to fill lungs, regain composure, and painfully gain her own feet slowly, one leg at a time.
But as the Moor rose, Xena noted a half-smile resident in a face otherwise marked by sweat and fatigue and seeming defeat at the hands of a superior wrestler. Suddenly, the Warrior Princess realized that it was she, rather than her dark opponent, who was the victim in this stratagem. What Dido lacked in strength and wrestling skill, she had openly conceded. What she had, the cunning of an ancient people of the desert deceiving and defeating a seemingly superior enemy, she was using superbly in a carefully mounted initial campaign of weakness and resignation.
This deliberately choreographed series of classic wrestling moves they had engaged in, all to the apparent disadvantage of the Moorish woman, had been but a clever ploy to lure the more powerful Greek woman into utilizing her initial superior strength at the expense of her rival. Dido, knowing of Xena’s near drowning and subsequent imprisonment, sought to first destroy her endurance, then her strength, the charms of her body, and finally, her life.
This Moor, regardless of her limited education and lack of exposure to the greater world to the north and east, was clearly much more knowledgeable in the ways of the arena, and the only strategy that would see her triumphant, than Xena had originally thought!
So much for the Olympiad…and the rules and mores of Ancient Greece. This was now to be a struggle, in the manner of the gladiator, to the death…the Roman way!
But a question remained in the mind of the Warrior Princess: “Did she, herself, have enough strength left to see this struggle through to a victorious conclusion? Let the Gods decide who was more worthy! The die was cast.”
Yelling out in frustration for having naively fallen prey to the deceptive ploy, Xena advanced quickly on her opponent, and momentarily assuming a boxing stance, drove a leather-wrapped fist flush into the Queen’s face. The force of the blow stunned the Moor and drove her backwards, stumbling into the far cistern wall. The studs had cut deep into her left cheek, blood flowing down from a reopened wound to her throat and chest. With back against cold rock, she blew out her nose to free it of blood, inhaled deeply and brought both hands before her face, anticipating another attack by the Warrior Princess.
She sensed her opponent had now divined her strategy, perhaps too soon. The discipline of the Olympiad was now to be replaced by the kill-or-be-killed logic of the battlefield…and the arena. So be it.
Her fighting blood up, Xena did not disappoint, stepping forward and driving studded fists hard into the Queen’s chest, and as the arms dropped in defense, another blow into the already deeply cut left cheek. The Thracian warrior managed a sly grin through her own growing fatigue, feeling that her bold initial strategy might indeed pay off before she succumbed to the cunning and brute strength of her dark adversary.
For her part, Dido sensed that her opponent’s early surge of overwhelming power could not be sustained, and she had already survived the best the Greek Amazon had to offer. As Xena launched another fist towards her stomach, the Moorish woman coiled over the offensive arm, taking the blow deep into the pit of her stomach with a guttural “Ugh!” But rather than simply recoiling in pain, she instead drew the Warrior Princess in close, clenching against her firm buttocks, shoulder in close to the flat belly, thick arms slipping upward to wrap tightly around the Greek woman’s waist.
Half rising for proper positioning, she leaned back against the cistern wall to support the Warrior Princess’s weight, then abruptly lifted her left knee and drove it hard between her opponent’s thighs. Feeling Xena rebound in shock and pain she repeated the maneuver, deriving sensuous pleasure from the feeling of her rock-hard limb sliding up and between the equally firm, sweaty thighs of her opponent, driving home the sharp pain to her womanhood. “And who said power was the ultimate aphrodisiac?” she thought, smiling through the sweat and blood of the struggle!
Again Xena trembled with the impact, but then sought to counter the Moor’s move by driving sharpened nails deep into the lower back and pulling them up towards the shoulders, shredding the woolen shift and raking bloody furrows into the dark taught skin of the Queen’s back at the same time. Now both warriors, locked together, rotated against the cistern wall, first one then the other being spun into the cold, hard rock. Arms intertwined, thighs jamming low and close in frenzied succession, full breasts interlocked in tight embrace, neither woman could gain lasting advantage over the other. Cries of pain alternated with frustrated curses, as both slipped, pulled, punched and fell against one another.
But as the seemingly equal face off continued, Xena felt herself slowly weakening in the arms of the powerful Moor, who now with a particularly hard chest-to-chest clinch around the lower back, elicited a new cry of pain from the Warrior Princess. Clearly those upper arms and shoulders and this particular hold were the Queen’s strongest wrestling suite, a crushing grip fueled by rippling muscles by which she had always won victory. She chose now to employ it, her concealed talent and emerging attributes seeking final resolution of this desperate struggle.
In response to the powerful, seemingly invincible hold, the Greek’s head rocked back in agony, then forward seeking respite from the strangling grasp, falling impotently on the shoulder of her tormentress, tasting the sweat and blood of this dark woman for the first time. On instinct, Xena opened her mouth and sank her teeth into the Moor’s shoulder, tearing at the powerful muscles tightly knotted in the painful bear hug she was being subjected to.
Dido screamed anew and attempted to twist away, but to no avail, as a new flow of blood added to the crimson stain now showing through the remains of the linen shift. Another renewed attack from Xena’s mouth, another scream, and the strong belly hold was broken as the Moor grimaced, mournfully clutching her shoulder, while Xena fell to one knee, arms holding on to either side of her brutalized rib cage, gasping and struggling to draw air into nearly crushed lungs.
After a momentary pause, the Queen threw off the tattered remains of her shift and moved first, arms upraised to protect both bleeding face and shoulder. But the Greek stayed low, and absorbing a downward blow on her back, ducked under the follow up forearm and drove a right fist deep between Dido’s thighs, viciously pulling and twisting once a firm purchase was gained. Uttering a tearful cry of pain as the studs cut into particularly sensitive skin, the Moorish woman fell to one knee, the other leg thrashing frantically, seeking to escape from the vice-like grip between her thighs.
Suddenly releasing the painful hold, Xena pivoted on one knee and slammed the other directly into her opponent’s firm stomach, accompanied by a companion blast that exploded into the darkened curls of the Moor’s now visible pubic mound. Dido slumped to both knees, hands holding her brutalized crotch. Blood slowly seeped between her fingers and wreathed the inner surfaces of both thighs.
Xena reached down, pulled Dido to her feet by the hair, and threw her, face first, into the cistern wall. Closing her opponent as she rebounded backwards on impact off the solid stone, the Warrior Princess dropped to one knee and drove a stud-impregnated right fist deep into the kidneys. As the dark woman fell forward, doubling over, Xena rose and rammed a double fisted hammer blow into the base of her opponent’s neck. The Moor collapsed to the floor, only to be hauled to her feet again and slammed into the cistern rock. Dido hit hard and bounced off, half turning towards the Greek woman again approaching her.
In desperation, Dido lowered her head and bulled forward, butting her right shoulder into the firmly muscled abdomen of the Warrior Princess, driving her back against the wet cistern wall on the opposite side of the enclosure. Xena reached down to grab hold of the Queen’s hair, but her fingers, thick with the leather wrap, were jarred loose with the force of impact, striking slick, moss-covered rocks. Desperate, Dido allowed the dazed Thracian woman little time to recover as she drove her shoulder again into the stomach of her opponent. Xena wheezed loudly as the air was again driven from her lungs, sagging against the wall for support.
The dark Moor grabbed the Greek woman by the throat, immobilizing her, and then drove a leather wrapped fist into the unprotected stomach now visible through the shredded shift. The devastating results were clearly etched in Xena’s face, as her eyes widened in pain and a strangled gasp escaped bruised lips. Dido repeated the blow with increasing power, studs tearing bloody furrows as they skidded across the Warrior Princess’s sweat-sheathed stomach, the abdominal wall of muscle, once so firm, growing increasingly soft.
With each powerful strike, Xena’s body raised slightly off the tile, only to settle down again to await the next penetrating blow. The Warrior Princess was now sagging, kept erect only by the thick forearm of the Moorish Queen, the Greek’s once powerful arms dangling helplessly at her sides. The battle was lost and both victor and vanquished sensed the inevitable outcome of their struggle. It was only a matter of time.
Xena’s head lolled forward, sagging on to the Moor’s forearm for support. Painfully recalling the Greek woman’s teeth, Dido turned abruptly, grabbed the beautiful, vulnerable neck and snaked a thick right arm under the Greek’s left leg. Squatting and then flexing, she lifted the hapless woman’s body up and over her shoulder, slamming Xena hard on to the tiled floor, then swarmed atop the prostrate form, slapping, punching and biting.
Quickly switching to one side, the Moor drove two hammering fists into the Greek woman’s abdominals, ensuring each blow skated across the formerly taunt belly, studs again cutting deeply into the tanned skin. Xena tried to block a third blow, but only succeeded in deflecting it to her face and throat. Gagging, she curled piteously in a ball, intent on simply surviving the savage onslaught to which she was being subjected.
Momentarily standing, the Moorish Queen reached down and tore the tattered remnants of the dirty linen shift from her victim’s body. Then grabbing a fistful of dark tresses, she hauled her opponent back to her feet, only to position her for two driving forearm smashes into the Greek’s chest. Xena’s heaving, pendulous breasts and thighs, now boldly erotic in their wanton nakedness, jiggled suggestively from the power of the blows, accompanied by a cry of pain as driving forearms were replaced by hammering fists into her stomach and pubic region. The Warrior Princess, her endurance near an end, sank to her knees, heavily muscled belly incapable of resisting the powerful blows being driven home by her adversary.
Again, hands deep in sweat-slick tresses, the Greek woman was lifted up, then slammed against the wall. A glancing fist to the face followed by a knee to the groin, spun her around. Dido, sensing the fight was rapidly going out of her once powerful adversary, grinned in cruel satisfaction as she drove two studded fists into the kidneys and lower back. Xena, moaning and spitting blood, reached back with both hands in reaction to the pain, but a quick chop to the back of the neck saw both hands fall numbly to her sides.
The Moor, fingers outspread to the limits of the leather wrap, sank her right hand into the Warrior Princess’s buttock under her hamstring. Deriving clear satisfaction from the resultant shriek of pain, Dido repeated the tactic by driving her left hand deep into the hamstring under the Greek’s left buttock. Another cry of pain was brutally silenced with a head butt that drove the Thracian’s face, full force, into the hard rock before her.
The Queen, hands still driven, claw-like, into the upper thighs of her opponent, jerked hard and pulled the Greek woman away from the wall. Xena fell on all fours, as her nemesis quickly straddled her, pulled hard on the raven hair before her, and drove a stud impregnated fist into the Greek woman’s forehead, and then into the defenseless, proffered throat. Grinning savagely at the resultant explosion of blood and spittle, the devastated body and morale of her opponent now apparent to both contestants and spectators alike, she quickly rose, whirled to one side, and drove a hard kick into the Greek’s stomach that flipped her over on her back.
The Queen again straddled her listless prey, and lowered herself across wide hips. Striking naked skin, studs tearing into the voluptuous chest of her adversary, Dido laughed haughtily as she tore at vulnerable nipples with extended fingers. Xena’s full breasts bounced and jerked, brightened by abrasive patches of pain and slowly oozing blood. The Queen gripped them again, crushing them against one another, tearing at swollen nipples. Slapping her hands around the bases of Xena’s breasts, her mouth plunging down into the Thracian warrior’s full cleavage, mouth open, teeth barred.
An exhausted, spent Xena screamed in pain, bucked and twisted desperately, legs raised in a fruitless quest for protection. Feet stomped frenetically in pain on the cold tile floor, the meat of her thighs quivering with the shock of impact, but Dido’s weight pinned the Greek woman down, subjecting her ravaged body to unlimited torture.
Desperately, the Thracian warrior reached for her tormentress’s face, buried deep between her breasts, sharpened nails finally finding purchase in the Moor’s ears. Xena wrenched outward and upward and dug deep, opening up three stud-impregnated trenches, tearing down from the jaws to the tops of the Moorish woman’s breasts as the offending head of her adversary was forcefully extracted.
Face contorted in abject rage at Xena’s tactic, the dark woman half raised, then drove a horny knee hard between Xena’s thighs. Snarling and spitting blood from her new facial wounds, the Queen again dropped to her knees and grappled Xena’s legs on to her thick arms. She heaved them over each shoulder, then dug hands and nails into the Warrior Princess’s full hips. Rearing backward, with Xena’s body slanted outward, muscular but listless thighs slung over Dido’s dark shoulders, the Warrior Princess was helpless.
The Queen posed, feral and gloating, just above the Greek woman’s split pussy. “Two could play the disfigurement game!” she thought. Abruptly lowering her head with barred teeth, she tore at the proffered moist lips immobilized before her. Xena screamed, her back spasming into a tight arch from a pain more dreadful than any she had ever experienced. Vainly seeking to rid herself of this terrible presence between her thighs, she twisted, writhed, and tried to force spent thigh muscles to forcefully contract about her torturer’s head, but they refused to respond. She was helpless, her strength gone, resigned to suffer whatever cruel fate the Gods would decree.
Dido momentarily relaxed her hold, but as the spent Greek’s body sagged, pulled away, and then drove four leather wrapped fingers into the sexual mound her teeth had just ravished. Another scream of pain, this one even louder than before, but the Queen was oblivious to her sobbing, ravaged opponent begging for release from this torture. Remorselessly, the reaming went on and on, Xena’s belly heaving, her mound impaled on the Queen’s ravenous fingers and metal studs.
And then suddenly the screaming and contortions ceased, the Greek woman’ senseless body trapped beneath the full weight of her dark adversary. Dido uncoiled from her victim’s legs and slowly rolled forward, crushing Xena’s face beneath her ample breasts. Lying atop the supine Warrior Princess, a supreme look of pride and victory washed over Dido’s savage countenance.
Satisfied that both King and slaver appreciated the magnitude of her total domination over this Greek stranger, she quickly shifted to a sitting position astride Xena’s stomach, looking down into the scarred, bloody, still face beneath her. With the struggle at a victorious end, the fires of hatred and lust to kill the Greek woman were suddenly banked.
Recognizing the helpless position of her defeated, ravaged opponent, who had fought well and long, but was always destined to lose, Dido began lightly caressing the unconscious, bloody brow before her. Gently kneaded the full breasts splayed between her own firm, sweat sheathed thighs, Queen Dido slowly rose, stepped carefully over the unconscious body below her, and strutting around the cistern perimeter, raised her powerful arms upright in absolute victory.
Even for such a small audience, the cheers and applause
were surprising. It had been a fine
contest, one many would have celebrated in the arenas of
The door opened, Dido exited, and quickly the Watch Captain and a single guard entered. No sense in arousing the passions of those above for this defeated, yet still magnificent body splayed out on the cold tile of the cistern floor. A careful examination and consideration of this Greek warrior woman, even in defeat, was not desired.
The Watch Captain clearly understood why the Queen wanted this woman taken from Mogador immediately and sold into slavery before her natural, if permanently scarred, beauty and recovered strength posed further competition for the King’s affections, either in arranged combat or in his bed. His Queen had won once in the cistern. Both Moors, male and female, were not confident that victory would attend another contest between these two Amazons. As it was, even exhausted with the fatigue of her near drowning and subsequent imprisonment, the Greek woman had come close to victory.
Xena’s body, heavy and still, lay sprawled on the wet floor of the cistern as the King’s attendants fastened ropes beneath her armpits to drag her unconscious form to the slave ship at the wharf. But the combination of cold, dampness and the rough abrasiveness of the hemp rope as it tore into the tender armpit flesh elicited a deep moan and weak movement of arms and legs from the prostrate Warrior Princess.
The slaver with the highest bid peered down into the cistern, concerned. “I thought I bought a slave that a Roman senator would pay dearly for, not a corpse.”
Queen Dido, in a silk gown and now reunited with her King in the viewing area above the cistern, snarled, “Take it from me. She’s strong…she will live.” Then realizing that the King’s attention might be diverted to her victim, she quickly drew his hand to her engorged breast, while dropping her own to fondle his erect cock. The King smiled wanly as they adjourned to the bedchamber for a passionate celebration of victory, knowing that his Queen’s strength, both in arena and bed, was greater than his.
Below, flat on her back, Xena slowly regained consciousness, but kept her eyes closed in pain, an all too human, badly beaten warrior. Covered throughout with bruises and bleeding from harsh abrasions of the studded leather wrappings of her victorious opponent, her strong shoulders, arms and thighs trembled in pain and fatigue, blood flowing down her chin and throat from both her forehead and a deep gash stemming from right ear to mouth.
Even with the Watch Captain’s probing hands stroking her maidenhood, she could but listlessly stir as manacles were snapped on her wrists and an iron collar brutally slapped and locked around her throat. Xena, Warrior Princess, once Champion of Rome, could barely muster the strength to stare vacantly ahead as she was abruptly pulled to her feet and, stumbling and staggering under the weight of the heavy chains, led off to the fetid hold of the slaver’s vessel.
V
“Tell me Theodorus, do they think it is her?” the decurio demanded.
“Those that saw her on deck in
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far, if she is who I think she is!” the decurio derisively laughed. “Still, this is very interesting…and my agent bought her as I directed?”
“Not yet, my lord. The slaver is not due in Tarsus for a week.”
The back of a heavily callused hand slapped the Spartan
hoplite hard across the face.
“Theodorus, you fool. Must I do
everything…spell out every detail to you and that idiot for an agent in
“You let these disease-ridden Greek auctioneers fondle her body on the block when she finally gets here…you know, they all copulate with sheep…and she won’t be worth a pitcher of warm piss to me…or anyone other than these flaccid Romans who call themselves men.”
“I want her bought with gold…hard coin of the realm…on the
pier at
“Yes, my Lord.” The retainer turned to go, but hesitated at the sound of the lilting, high-pitched voice.
“And Theodorus my love…I want you to do this yourself…as a favor for me. Tell no one of your mission. And when I am done, you may do with her as you please.”
Grinning, the hulking soldier turned half-about, and saluted. “Callisto, your every wish is my command.”
“I wish,” she muttered, thinking how quick he was to arousal…and even quicker to be done and spent. But then more loudly, in a dismissive, commanding voice she gestured with her hand, “Very well…be gone.”
“Must I do everything myself?” the powerful warrior-nymph reprised as she turned back to the bed on which lay her fully nude Cilician slave.
“Now lie still, whore,” she commanded to the recumbent woman beneath her as she straddled her waist and reached behind to unfasten the leather and bronze cuirass. “At least I don’t have to explain to you how to fuck me.” A deep scar and discolored patch on her left hip bespoke a serious injury still healing. She momentarily grimaced as the edge of the heavy cuirass scraped over the festering sore, to be solaced by the tender menstruations of the slave’s hands stroking her flat stomach and kneading firm abdominals.
Thinking through both pain and pleasure as she shrugged off her leather skirt, she briefly fondled a single-holed obelisk of dark green jade hanging from her neck on a gold chain. Now fully naked except for this exquisite piece of jewelry, she smiled slyly as long fingers stroked its smooth texture, then abruptly dropped to the warm moistness of first her own, then the Cilician woman’s, inner thighs. The pendant swung outward as a mane of blonde hair enveloped the slave, rhythmically swaying as two bodies became one.
VI
The daily beatings had stopped once the ship’s master realized the physical pleasures administered by this Greek slave would only improve if her magnificent body, nearly destroyed in defeat, were able to fully respond to his horny hands and voracious sexual appetite. So now Xena was permitted topside during the day, chains unlocked, allowing greater freedom of movement to her administering hands and mouth. But the heavy iron neck and wrist collars remained attached, ensuring she would rapidly drown if so foolish as to jump overboard.
The interminable nights in the hold of this stinking ship had not been kind to the Warrior Princess. Bathed in sweat and filth of the slave pen, she emerged barely clothed in the Mediterranean heat each morning. Her muscular arms and thighs, banded with darkening bruises, were only slowly healing, souvenirs of the slaver’s truncheon as he brutally beat her for initially refusing to service his desires. While no longer routinely struck, her thick dark hair was tousled in dirt and wildness from the incessant sexual demands of her captors. Her face, still streaked with blood and festering open wounds, remnants of the fight in Mogador’s cistern, was sunburned and deeply scarred on the right side.
But squinting in the harsh morning sunlight as they made landfall at Tarsus, she sensed the worst was over. Downwind, for the last time she smelled the fetid breath and body stench of the slaver as he came aft for his ritual of brutal groping and quick, sometimes still-limp, satisfaction, enviously watched by those of the crew already on deck at an early hour.
As dirty gnarled hands began crudely fondling her breasts through the thin shift and the swarthy, wine-sated countenance of the master’s face neared her lips, she once again lost herself, as she had done repeatedly since leaving Mogador, on the currents of epics she had learned as a child. She hardly felt probing hands searching between her thighs, sun-parched lips suckling her breasts or the sudden back pain as she was thrown on a crate of figs and drunkenly mounted.
Instead, she was one with Athena, the Goddess of War and Wisdom, silently reciting from Homer’s Odyssey:
She bent to tie her beautiful sandals on
Ambrosied, golden, that carry her over water
Over endless land on the wings of the wind
And took the great haft of her spear in hand
That bronzed shod spear this Child of Power
can use
To break in wrath long battle lines of
fighters.
She never felt him entering her, or heard her own
strangled gasp as she again feigned sexual gratification in the embrace of this
animal. Instead, she was aboard
Odysseus’s ship, the hot, bright sun a warming embrace to fatigued muscles,
with golden armor and laurel wreath laid out for all to admire, a virile Greek
warrior returning victorious from