The General's Virgin Slave Read online

  Amanda Adams has been waiting a long time to find the perfect man. She just has no idea she's been waiting two thousand years. Until she walks through a bathroom door and into another world.

  Is she dreaming? Is she dead? Suddenly Amanda finds herself living in first century Britannia, working as a slave under Roman rule and catching the eye of feared general - Marcus Cassius the Invincible.

  As the general's bed slave and renamed "Axa", she knows there is only one way to survive. The arrogant Primus Pilus might have a hundred bed slaves at his disposal but she is the only virgin among them. Can she keep his interest long enough to rise to the top of the pack? The higher she climbs in his affections, the further she has to fall. But just where will she land? And while she's falling, maybe Amanda will finally fall in love.

  The General’s Virgin Slave

  by

  Georgia Fox

  M/F, ANAL SEX, SPANKING,

  AND PUBLIC EXHIBITION

  Twisted E Publishing, LLC

  www.twistedepublishing.com

  A TWISTED E- PUBLISHING BOOK

  The General’s Virgin Slave

  Copyright © 2014 by Georgia Fox

  Edited by Marie Medina

  First E-book Publication: September 2014, SMASHWORDS EDITION

  Cover design by K Designs

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2014, Twisted Erotica Publishing.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  Prologue

  Last Night

  Toga parties. Just another excuse to grope someone while barely dressed and vomitoriously drunk, she mused. It was really only one step up and slightly less sexist than a Tarts and Vicars party.

  But it was part of university life, as Amanda Adams, second year history student and partial hermit, was forever being reminded. She'd spent her first year buried under books, getting excellent grades while being labeled unsociable and a snob, so this foray into the dark realm of dorm parties was an effort to be more outgoing.

  "Silly me," she'd said to her best friend, Chrissy. "I thought we came here to study."

  "We're supposed to have fun too. We're bright young things. Let your hair down, Mandy."

  Chrissy only called her Mandy to prick her temper. Everyone knew she hated that.

  "It's Amanda. I was christened Amanda. Is it so hard to say the extra syllable?"

  "Yayuss," Chrissy slurred, because they were ten minutes into the party and she was already halfway drunk on some foul mixture she would probably bring up later all over the sofa in their flat. "But why are you wearing that? It's not a toga. That's our bath mat...and that faux fur hearth rug my aunt sent me for Christmas and... why is your face blue?"

  Amanda replied proudly, "I am a member of the Iceni tribe. The blue paint is supposed to be woad, which was applied in battle to terrify the enemy."

  "An icy what?"

  She sighed. "The Iceni tribe rebelled against the Roman invasion of Britannia in the first century A.D. Ever heard of Boudicea?"

  Chrissy looked at her blankly and hiccupped.

  They were still only in the hall and Amanda already felt the will to endure this party seeping out through the flip-flops on her cold feet. "I don't know why I bother," she mumbled, sullen.

  "I don't know either. Why couldn't you just wear a bloody sheet and call it a toga like everybody else? Only you would use a party to give a history lesson."

  "Well, somebody ought to make an effort."

  It was a great thorn in Amanda's side that they lived here in the beautiful city of Bath and yet her fellow students never seemed to appreciate the history all around them. It was such a waste. Sometimes she walked in Parade Gardens and looked over at the spectacularly romantic view of Pulteney Bridge, then watched other people hurrying along, with their heads down, talking on phones, paying no attention to their surroundings. It made her want to cry and she wasn't the weepy sort.

  "I suppose you're rebelling against all these toga-wearing, pleasure-loving Romans," Chrissy added.

  "Exactly."

  Leaning one exposed shoulder against the wall, the other girl shook her head, laughing. And now, again because she was tipsy, out it came, "No wonder you're still a virgin two years into university."

  Amanda gripped her "spear", which was actually a tent pole, and tried not to let the wound of that accusation smart. But it did. Contrary to appearances she didn't particularly like being left out. It just happened that she never could fit in. Sometimes, when she stopped and thought about it, Amanda wished she could be like everybody else, but there was a switch inside her that couldn't turn off. Or on. Depending upon your point of view.

  A therapist once told her that she had abandonment issues because she was given up for adoption by her birth mother at four days old. But for Amanda that was not enough explanation. No answer was ever good enough to explain some of the things that went on inside her. Pictures, ideas, imaginings...things she daren't share with anyone.

  Well, this year she'd promised her friend to try being more approachable and open to new experiences. After all, as Chrissy pointed out, another year had gone by and still no boyfriend.

  "You're the only nineteen year old virgin I know," she would say to Amanda with a tone of disbelief. "Except the ones in smut movies and romance novels. Girls that supposedly never even masturbated and get freaked out the first time they orgasm because...oh no, why are they wet? Where has it come from? Makes me wonder how they ever advanced to being able to tie their shoelaces, or use a fork without hurting themselves."

  You guessed it. Just as ignorance about history was Amanda's pet peeve, gormlessly naive, romance novel heroines were Chrissy's.

  "If you don't get a move on, Mandy, you'll know more about ancient people than you do about modern men. And I can assure you, today's men are much better company."

  "How do you know that?"

  Chrissy arched an eyebrow. "Er...they shower and use toothpaste."

  So apparently that was all it took to please Chrissy. But Amanda found men her age irritating, weak and aimless. She didn't hold back from telling them that either, and didn't see why she should.

  "The thing about you," Chrissy assured her with all the gravity of drunken concern, "is you always have to win. You always have to know better. Men don't like that."

  "I always have to win?"

  "Arguments, games. Anything. You can't stand to lose."

  Amanda gripped her spear tighter.

  "Sometimes," added Chrissy, "I think you'd do anything to prove a point."

  "So I'm just supposed to back down and let someone step all over me?"

  "Don't be so defensive. There must be some man somewhere you'd find interesting. If you only gave him a chance."

  Pah. Men her age got excited about tits, beer, football and cars. None of those things were interesting to her and men who tried to chat her up didn't bother trying to find out what did interest her. They didn't have to waste the time, of course, because there were plenty of girls around who just wanted to get laid.

  Like Chrissy.

  "If I don't get some serious cock tonight," her friend exhaled in a gust of Pernod and blackcurrant, "I think my virginity will grow back. Do you think that's possible?"

  "No." It was no more likely than Chrissy not getting sex. Or Amanda getting any in her unflattering Iceni outfit and sky-blue face-paint. No doubt, a therapist would say she dressed that way deliberately.

&nb
sp; Two final-year students, clad in bed sheets, trainers and paper laurel wreaths, had wandered over, brazenly eyeing the girls up, plastic cups in hand. One of them looked at Amanda and squinted. "What the hell are you supposed to be? A smurf?" He laughed so hard at his own joke that beer shot out through his nostrils.

  "She's an ice queen," Chrissy explained with comical solemnity.

  "Iceni," Amanda corrected. "A member of the Iceni tribe, which—"

  One of the students snorted into his cup. "Ice queen. That's appropriate for Miss Frosty Arse."

  His companion added, "She probably pisses icicles."

  They cracked up laughing, the way soused fools usually did at anything not remotely humorous.

  Amanda waited for the laughter to choke out and then said solemnly, "I always admire a man not afraid to look and sound like a fool. It takes great courage to show ignorance. Don't you have a ball to run and kick somewhere?"

  Suddenly she had a grinding stomachache. Her period. Great. She didn't have any tampons with her either and Chrissy certainly had nowhere to hide any.

  "I need the loo," she muttered, pushing through the group to find the stairs.

  Debauched Romans littered her path, forcing Amanda to poke them with her tent pole as she clambered through.

  "Why is your face blue?" someone shouted as she stepped over their sprawling legs.

  "Why are you stupid?" She hurried on without stopping to explain this time.

  On the landing three girls already queued for the bathroom. Amanda, naturally, was the only rebel among them.

  "Does anyone smell burning?" she asked, suddenly getting a whiff of smoke drifting up the stairs.

  No one answered.

  Splendid. The house would probably burn down because of an untended spliff and she'd be stuck in the toilet. A fitting end to her awkward, frustrating, unfulfilled life.

  None of the girls waiting there had a tampon, although they were equipped with mascara and lip gloss— like any Roman citizen worth her salt, she mused.

  She'd have to make do with whatever she found in the bathroom.

  But what she found on the other side of that door was something stubborn, virginal bookworm Amanda Adams could never have expected in her wildest dreams.

  Chapter One

  Aquae Sulis, Britannia, A.D. 64

  Marcus Cassius watched flames devour another hovel and listened to the screams of the filthy, reckless natives as they ran into the swords of his men. Some of the fools thought they could still fight. Thought they still had a chance. He couldn't decide whether these Britons were the stupidest people he'd ever invaded, or the bravest.

  He blamed it on the memory of Boudicea, who had, a few years ago, led a revolt against the Romans. For a while, the widow of the Iceni king had caused the Emperor's legions a great deal of trouble, but she and her army were stopped eventually and slaughtered. Unfortunately, that made her a martyr in the eyes of these primitive tribes and so, once in a while, they stirred up unrest and had to be reminded of their place under the heel of Roman rule. These Britons were slow learners.

  In any case— Marcus yawned wide— the rebels would capitulate, or they would die. Their choice. It shouldn't be such a difficult one to make. Surely they recognized the benefits of the living under Roman law, and all the advances that would drag their feral tribes into civilization. They only had to look around them at the buildings of Aquae Sulis to see the future.

  Some tribal leaders had thrown in their lot with the Romans and done well from it, but some still fought. Stubborn, quarrelsome, scrappy little dogs. As if they had something worth fighting for.

  The warhorse under him shook its mane and cropped at the grass, as weary and disinterested in this scene as his rider, sensing the malaise perhaps. Marcus realized his pulse beat hadn't even quickened at the sight of blood. He felt no urge to join in the destruction of this nest of Druid spies and so his gladius hung at his side, unused today. What he'd really like to do was go home, bathe and eat. For such a small and simple task as this razing he would not usually have come out today, but Marcus considered this jaunt a training exercise for some of his new recruits, and he always oversaw the rigorous training of his men. He didn't ask them to do anything he couldn't or wouldn't do himself.

  He stared dully at the bouncing bared breasts of a young female as she ran, chased by two of his men, but there was not the slightest stirring in his cock today.

  Must be getting old.

  And now, to make his dreary day complete, here came the rain again.

  The weather on this island of savages was enough to press a man's spirits into the dirt. He felt the chariot wheels of the gods, rolling overhead, thrusting him down, trying to squash his will to go on. Testing him.

  But Marcus was not a man to be crushed or trampled. He was there to do a duty, and it would be done. The Roman Emperor wanted this fertile land and the feral natives would simply have to be subdued. One way or another.

  He sniffed at the charred air as he watched his soldiers chasing down the last of the rebels. Knowing victory was at hand, Marcus removed his helmet and wiped a forearm across his brow, sighing deeply. Rain pelted his face as he looked up, squinting at the bleak sky, where grey clouds the color of a dead man's rotting flesh, interspersed with pus-colored bubbles, hung low overhead. On days like these he missed his home— the bright, clear, Mediterranean blue and the warm, sweet, fragrant air he hadn't felt in two years. What he wouldn't give to be back there, on his father's farm, drinking good wine instead of the pig's swill here, strolling in the pleasant olive groves instead of facing surly, disobedient, ungrateful natives. But Sicily was a world away.

  So here he was, getting the job done for Emperor Nero. He was an obedient soldier of Rome and would be till death.

  Suddenly a hard object hit the side of his unprotected head and bounced off. Fortunately for Marcus he had a hard skull and a high tolerance for pain. And the scars to prove it.

  The projectile— a spear-like piece of strange metal with no point— landed on the soil by his horse's hooves.

  Marcus touched his temple and saw red on the tips of his gloved fingers.

  Now, for the first time that day, his pulse quickened. With fury.

  He turned to find a woman standing there. A woman, of all things, had wounded him!

  "Oops," she said. "Sorry." The expression on her woad-painted face suggested shock, but even through the blue paste and mud spatters, she was beautiful, her features more finely wrought than those of most natives. He hadn't seen such a pretty face in two years at least. The swell under her ugly gown suggested full tits —milk-heavy perhaps—and what he saw of her legs promised slender length. They were smooth shaven, unlike most Briton women. She held her head high on an elegant neck.

  There was something almost noble about her. If they were in Rome instead of this dank armpit of an island, he would think her the daughter of some grand patrician family. Someone who had dressed up in a disguise to attend a festive gathering.

  He'd heard of the "thunderbolt", known to strike a man down when he sees the woman of his dreams. But having never experienced it for himself, and being a practical fellow, a disciple of the principle "Vide est Crede"— seeing is believing— Marcus had always scorned the idea. Until now.

  For the first time in weeks, Marcus felt the prickle of sexual interest. His seed surged. At last. Praise be! He'd begun to think his cockerel would never crow again.

  Her feet appeared stuck in place for a moment. Then her eyes widened, and she gathered her wits and ran. Leaving her odd sandals behind in the dirt. The hood of her garment fell back to reveal bright copper hair. It looked like another flame darting and dodging away through the trees.

  Ah, yes, indeed. Marcus Cassius was ready for sport. His men had the rebels well in hand. Time for a little recreation, a bonus war spoil for the Primus Pilus.

  With a battle cry he urged his startled horse after the woman.

  She had speared him. Now it was his turn. />
  * * * *

  Her breath choked and burned in her throat as she stumbled over the rough ground. What the hell had happened to her?

  One moment she was in the bathroom of a noisy university dorm. Now she was in a forest and running for her life. From a Roman on horseback.

  A real Roman. Not in a toga, but dressed in full battle gear.

  Amanda ran on, desperation lending wings to her feet. Was she dreaming? Having a nightmare? Had she fallen and banged her head? Had someone slipped drugs into that cider she had earlier?

  She could be in a coma right now. Or dead.

  Perhaps this was some sort of trick. A practical joke? Students were fond of their practical jokes.

  But no, it wasn't "Rag Week" and this was not a second-floor bathroom magically transformed into the facsimile of a forest with tissue paper and cornflake boxes.

  What if he was a kiss-o-gram, sent with a message from someone? She'd heard of hiring men in gorilla suits lifting girls over their shoulder, and Chrissy was once greeted at their front door by a slender, bespectacled guy in a medieval herald's suit ready to sing her a madrigal. Some men thought that sort of thing funny.

  Amanda yelled over her shoulder, breathless, "I think this is a case of mistaken identity. You're going to be very sorry for this."

  The horse thundered after her. She felt the earth shaking. She could smell the bark of the trees, the moss, the wet mud. Rain fell on her lips and she tasted it. Her heart was beating so hard she felt it in the soles of her bare feet. She couldn't run in flip-flops and so had left them behind, but now her feet hurt and she had no idea what she was stepping on. Her pedicure was going to be ruined.