The Time Riders: Part 8

A Date With Death.

Based on a post by BiscuitHammer, in 16 parts. Listen to the Podcast at Explicit Novels.

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Into the pit.

Domitia was brought through the streets, which were lined
with huge crowds watching her somberly. She was attended by at least twenty soldiers,
who walked in silence around her. Accompanying them were her former sister
Vestals and the Pontifex Maximus, one of the greatest priests in Rome and head
of the state religion. It was he who ultimately was in charge of the Virgins,
both choosing them and stripping them of their office if the need arose. He
walked ahead of her, his face grave.

Domitia wore a simple white tunic now, but all other signs
of her former life were gone. Her magnificent braids were undone, and her brown
hair hung down her back shamefully. The colors she'd been allowed to wear were
missing. In times past, disgraced Virgins had been excoriated, possibly just
beaten with a rod, but now, in the height of mighty Rome's power, the
punishment was death, for endangering the city.

But no one was insane enough to spill the blood of a Vestal
Virgin, disgraced or not, so her execution was not so direct. She would be sent
underground into a small chamber, with a stock of food and supplies, and locked
in there until she starved to death, or succumbed to sickness. They weren't
killing her, per se; she was merely shunned until she died. Such was the way of
Imperial Rome.

Her condemnation and pronouncement of her fate had already
been declared, at the beginning of this long walk, meant to be a show of
penitence before the face of all Rome. And as humiliated and crushed as she
was, her foremost thought was about Bonosus, and his magnificent cock. Even
now, being led through the streets, her cunt was wet and ached to feel him
buried inside her.

Before she knew it, they had arrived at their destination, a
small area in the north of the city, with a plot dug into the ground. Stopping
at its edge, she looked down inside; the walls were lined with wood, probably
to prevent a collapse, and there seemed to be a small stool and a cot within.

She heard hysterical sobbing from nearby, and turned her
head to see her mother, her birth mother, Pompeneia, weeping from behind the
barricade of guards and calling out to her. Domitia's heart ached for a moment,
but then she turned her gaze back to the den prepared for her. Her fate was
sealed.

She glanced over to look at her sister Vestals, but they
refused to look at her, staring ahead resolutely. She could see tears in dear
Silla's eyes, though; she had hurt the Sisterhood badly, and this was how she
was to pay for it. So be it.

With all the dignity she could muster, Domitia swallowed her
fear and stepped forward, turning and climbing down the ladder, descending
roughly ten feet until she reached the earthen floor. There were small candles
burning on some stone surfaces, allowing for dim light. She looked upward, and
the last thing she saw was the face of the Pontifex Maximus looking down
at her, his expression unreadable, before a heavy door was slammed down and
locked, cutting off all light and all sound from above. She shuddered at the
sound, her stomach twisting in knots.

She knew that there was no way out. The door would be
weighted, and guards set outside for weeks, to prevent anyone from trying to rescue
her. Despite her fear, she looked around, noting the small amount of food
supplies left for her, and a small, narrow hole dug in one corner where she was
to relieve herself. It wouldn't do to have a Vestal Virgin stinking of shit,
even a disgraced one, and even in death.

The silence was almost terrifying.

She slumped into the small chair left for her, shivering and
biting her lip as she felt that her cunt was still wet, the sticky lips parting
slightly as she spread her legs. Thoughts of Bonosus returned to her, and she
couldn't help but reach down beneath her tunic and begin rubbing her fingers
over herself. The fear she felt melted away as she tickled her throbbing clit
and teased her warm nether lips. Domitia closed her eyes and sighed in pleasure.
If she was to die in this hateful place, it would be while cumming, thinking of
that magnificent cock, spurting inside her one last time;

The wall opposite her creaked and opened, the stout wooden
boards pulling away. Domitia almost yelped in shock, but she didn't stop
playing with herself. She stared in astonishment as a tall blonde woman came
inside, carrying a torch. Following her was Nanu, a slave-girl that Domitia
would have sworn belonged to her parents.

"Well, hello, Domitia," the blonde woman
said, smiling at her. "I'm Lady Aurora Horatia, Bonosus' mistress. Are
you ready to get out of here?"

Domitia nodded, but then paused, reconsidering as her
fingers plunged in and out of her molten cunt.

"Can you; give me just a moment here?" the
former Virgin asked sheepishly.

Into the Arena.

Mark winced and squinted as the great gate opened, allowing
light to flood into the dark tunnel. The grinding and heaving of the gears that
moved the iron-reinforced barriers echoed loudly, and his heart pounded in anxiety.
He was almost hyperventilating, and he could feel the blood racing through his
veins.

Maybe taking the adrenalin tab he'd finally found stashed
behind a loose brick wasn't such a good idea. And no instructions, either. He
reminded himself to punch himself in the face when he saw himself again.

Hey, at least he knew he survived. He felt himself shoved
roughly out into the arena, looking around in bewilderment as tens of thousands
of people all shouted and jeered at him. Part of the huge stadium was cast into
shadow because of the giant canvas awning that covered a full third of its
seating and the arena in the center. He thought it was called the Velarium,
but he wasn't sure. The roaring noise of the crowds hurt his ears, and he felt
dizzy. The tab's effects apparently hadn't evened out in him yet. Maybe he
should have taken it earlier?

Wearing his itchy burlap loincloth, a rope belt, sandals and
nothing else, Mark wandered slowly toward the center of the sandy field, his
cudgel in hand. The echoing sounds of the crowd were maddening, and he felt
almost dizzy. What was the purpose of this damn tab, anyway?

Guards approached him. His urge was to run, but where would
he go? Trembling, he stood his ground and waited for them. One of them grabbed
him roughly and spun him about to face something, shoving him to one knee. Mark
gasped, but then looked up and paused. On the other side of the giant stadium,
sitting in a shaded box, was a man wearing purple, surrounded by guards and
other dignitaries.

It had to be the Emperor. The most powerful man in the
world. If only he knew which one it was. Maybe he could've gotten an autograph.

He chuckled bitterly at his joke, but the guard holding him told
him to shut up and slapped him across the back of the head. Mark's eyes snapped
open and fury flared through him. He surged to his feet and his shoulder-block
knocked the guard backwards, to the astonishment of the audience. The guard and
another one nearby drew their weapons and were about to kill him, when trumpets
blared from all around the perimeter of the Colosseum.

Mark looked around warily, seeing the reaction of the crowds
as the two guards withdrew. Drums sounded out now, and more trumpets. He looked
over at the emperor, his eyes going wide as he noticed a familiar, stunning
blonde woman in a seat next to him and watching Mark with a smirk. Kneeling
beside her was Nanu.

"Jesus, Becky, there's a million people in Rome; how
many did you fuck?" he muttered, scowling.

He heard the gates clanking open again and spun to face
them, his heart racing again. From the dark tunnel strode a stout, bald man
wearing leather armour on his shoulder and a metal-studded skirt, carrying a
shield and wielding a small axe.

"What is this, fetish night at the Colosseum?"
Mark complained loudly as the man began to run toward him. Mark braced himself,
watching warily. His earlier anxiety was being replaced by anger, and a desire
to either flee or fight. He'd just trust to his adrenalin and hope that his
future self knew what the Hell he was doing.

The gladiator ran up and swung at Mark, who ducked and came
up behind his foe. Before the man could turn, Mark struck him across the back
of the head with his cudgel. The man crashed to the ground face-first. The
crowd was yelling in outrage and astonishment. Apparently, that wasn't
supposed to happen. The man showed no signs of rising, merely stirring feebly
and groaning, a huge goose egg rising on the back of his head.

Hastily, Mark leaned down and pulled the round wooden shield
off the man's arm and pried the axe from his grip. He stood up, trying to
control his breathing. His heart felt like it would burst out of his chest. He
looked around, making sure no one was approaching him from any other direction,
but nobody seemed to be forthcoming. Where was his next foe?

It dawned on him that he hadn't been expected to last beyond
this first fight. They were probably scrambling to figure out what to do next.
Doub