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I stood by Cato while he talked business with Septimus now that the fight was over. The other Dominus did so while balls-deep in his own slave, this one being used for her asshole rather than her throat. She was a classic Roman-born, probably a debtor who had borrowed money and had been unable to pay it back.
I felt sorry for her as she stood hunched over, her ass in the Roman man’s lap, her hands clutching a small table placed in front of her for leverage. I would have enjoyed the treatment, but I was not like most women. Septimus was quite large and he did not spare her hole, using only a wad of spit as lubricant as he bounced her lower half atop himself. Her face looked in intense discomfort (not as much pain; she had probably become used to such treatment) and she stared off into the distance as she was used for her tightest orifice.
This girl was an all-too-familiar story that I had come to know quite well over the years; I did not know her by name or by sight, but I knew everything I needed to. Perhaps she had a gambling problem, or her husband had one, or perhaps her family had taken out loans from the devious moneylenders to pay for their home or their farm. The circumstances were irrelevant; what was relevant was that she was unable to pay it back. Rather than go to a debtor’s prison, where she and her family would most likely die behind bars, she had sold herself to a Dominus to pay the debt. She would be his for a few years, or until he got bored of her, and legally she would have to do anything that he commanded; she was, in essence, as much a slave as I was.
Cato laughed and joked with Septimus as the slave got her asshole pounded mercilessly, and it was a good half hour before Septimus let himself finish. He grew close several times but refused to let the slave draw his seed out. I knew this method well—the man felt his slave’s discomfort, but did not want it to end so soon. He worked his frustrations out well on the girl.
When at last he finished his face took on a peculiar expression as though he were in deep concentration. He closed his eyes and the girl bounced dutifully; his knuckles grew white and he sighed, emptying his balls inside the girl. She slowed to a stop and he slapped her ass hard enough to let the sound ring throughout their viewing box.
“Get up, girl!” he commanded. The slave quickly obeyed, getting to her feet and bringing a hand around to massage her reddening cheek.
I saw the white goo that Septimus had left behind drip down her thighs and begin to pool on the ground. Septimus saw it too, and a wicked smile crossed his face. “Get on your knees and lick it up, whore,” he said.
The slave paused for a moment, but Septimus raised a hand and she obeyed, likely afraid of getting struck.
Cato laughed and drank yet more wine. “Take pity on the poor girl!”
“She is a stupid slave, Cato,” Septimus replied, resting his feet on the kneeling girl’s back while she lapped the liquid off the floor. “Why should I take pity on her? Last week she left a seed in a grape she fed me and I almost choked!”
I watched the girl, treated like a dog, and felt the area between my legs grow moist. A part of me wished that I were the one on my hands and knees.
“I would wager you punished her well for that,” Cato replied.
“I gave her to my guards. It took all night, but by morning she was quite apologetic, mark my words. By the way, how is Aelia?”
Livia perked up at this and began to tune into the conversation. She had been bored throughout most of the exchange, but it was not a secret that she and Aelia, Cato’s wife, had a rivalry that went as deep as that of their husbands.
“She dislikes the money we spend on Gladiators,” Cato said heavily. “She would prefer we enter a more stable business such as her father. He bought and sold silk from the East and raised a pretty penny doing so.”
“What’s the matter? Money troubles?” Septimus asked. Livia smiled wickedly behind the men’s backs and I groaned inwardly. If Cato hadn’t been so drunk he would have been more careful with his words. Their household was struggling, and it was a grave insult to let the fact become common insult. It was perceived weakness, and that was not something that any of the powerful houses in Rome could afford; beyond insult, it could in fact be quite dangerous.
“No, no!” Cato said hurriedly, moving to reassure the man. “We have been doing quite well of late…”
He spoke quickly and listed every possible investment that he could think of, placing a positive spin on them all, but I could see from Septimus’ face that it was not convincing him. We left the box soon afterward as the business was concluded, and Cato took me aside before we entered our carriage.
“Do not breathe a word of this conversation to my wife,” he said sharply, holding me tight. I nodded quickly and he released me. He almost fell on the way to the cart, but I had his arm, and together we returned to the compound, the guards taking Marcus in a separate prison cart.