Vergilius sized up the civilian captures next. They looked terrified. With a bit of training, they would make good slaves. Then he made his final inspection of the NCR troopers. One of them looked like she was still in shock; he would have to take another look at her. Another looked scared. She would be easy to break. Finally, he moved on to the last NCR trooper, the marksman who had put a few holes in his soldiers.
His leather-wrapped hand lifted up her chin so he could get a better look at her face. She was beautiful, with somewhat sharp features and cold blue eyes. Her auburn hair had been cut short as part of her military service. “You, my little friend, have some reparations to make.” The woman spat on his boots.
“Go to hell,” she told him in a venomous tone.
The slaver chuckled. “Oh, how much fun I will have breaking you.” He gestured to the captors. “Come. Take them inside. I wish to examine them.”
The captures were hauled up onto their feet and brought into the Vikki and Vance casino. “Remove their bonds,” Vergilius instructed. “All except for the fiery one.”
The Legion troops removed the ropes binding the women’s hands. “Now, strip,” he told them. “All the way down.” Then he turned to the marksman. “As for you, we will be cutting the armor off of you. Can’t take any chances after all.”
Quivering with fear and trepidation, the captures quickly removed their clothes. Vergilius singled out the most fearful-looking of the townsfolk and pointed to the nearest blackjack table. “Get up on the table, and spread your legs,” he instructed. She quaveringly clambered up onto the felt table and spread her legs. Vergilius bent to examine her sex. He was surprised to discover her hymen intact beneath the patch of light brown curls.
“Bring me the collars,” he told one of his soldiers. The Recruit scurried off to retrieve the explosive necklaces. “Tell me, can you cook?” Vergilius asked the young woman.
She nodded fearfully.
“How do you cook?” he asked.
She opened her mouth and barely spoke one word. “Well.”
“Aren’t you the prize,” he muttered quietly. The soldier came back, carrying eight collars. Vergilius reached up and clamped the collar just as his former leader had instructed him: collar them just tight enough to remind them who they belonged to.
He gestured for her to get off the table. She did so, and a soldier passed her the rough sackcloth rags that Legion slaves wore.
“Next prisoner.”
* * * * *
After seeing to the remaining docile captures (none were worth anywhere near as much to an officer as the virgin woman), Vergilius turned his attention to the odd one out.
A few Recruits lifted the woman up onto the table. “Lend me your machete,” Vergilius ordered one of his soldiers. Wordlessly, the blade was passed into his hands. It was a careful and painstaking process. He didn’t want to mar her flesh with a scar.
First he cut the straps securing the emblazoned breastplate she wore. He slid it off of her. Next, he made a careful cut along the outside of her sleeves, down her sides, and down her neck, and rent the uniform shirt in two. With deft and practiced hands, he removed her boots and trousers, leaving her in her underwear. Vergilius made a few more careful cuts and removed her bra. He paused to admire her soft flesh. The decanus squeezed her breast firmly in his hand, before tweaking the nipple. Hard.
The woman suppressed a groan of pain, and writhed slightly.
He chuckled. “How fun you will be…” Vergilius reached into her waistband and with a great tug, ripped her panties from her body. Her mound was shaved smooth, and practice the Decanus had observed among some of the Profligates.
“Spread your legs,” he ordered. She spit again, this time landing a hit on the bridge of his nose. Vergilius fumed dangerously. “Very well. Men, spread her legs and secure them that way.” With the help of their commander, the soldiers tied lengths of rope around her ankles and to the legs of the table. The Decanus decided he would want more freedom of access to the upper portion of her body. “Do the same with her wrists.”
Yes, Master (2/4)
His leather-wrapped hand lifted up her chin so he could get a better look at her face. She was beautiful, with somewhat sharp features and cold blue eyes. Her auburn hair had been cut short as part of her military service. “You, my little friend, have some reparations to make.” The woman spat on his boots.
“Go to hell,” she told him in a venomous tone.
The slaver chuckled. “Oh, how much fun I will have breaking you.” He gestured to the captors. “Come. Take them inside. I wish to examine them.”
The captures were hauled up onto their feet and brought into the Vikki and Vance casino. “Remove their bonds,” Vergilius instructed. “All except for the fiery one.”
The Legion troops removed the ropes binding the women’s hands. “Now, strip,” he told them. “All the way down.” Then he turned to the marksman. “As for you, we will be cutting the armor off of you. Can’t take any chances after all.”
Quivering with fear and trepidation, the captures quickly removed their clothes. Vergilius singled out the most fearful-looking of the townsfolk and pointed to the nearest blackjack table. “Get up on the table, and spread your legs,” he instructed. She quaveringly clambered up onto the felt table and spread her legs. Vergilius bent to examine her sex. He was surprised to discover her hymen intact beneath the patch of light brown curls.
“Bring me the collars,” he told one of his soldiers. The Recruit scurried off to retrieve the explosive necklaces. “Tell me, can you cook?” Vergilius asked the young woman.
She nodded fearfully.
“How do you cook?” he asked.
She opened her mouth and barely spoke one word. “Well.”
“Aren’t you the prize,” he muttered quietly. The soldier came back, carrying eight collars. Vergilius reached up and clamped the collar just as his former leader had instructed him: collar them just tight enough to remind them who they belonged to.
He gestured for her to get off the table. She did so, and a soldier passed her the rough sackcloth rags that Legion slaves wore.
“Next prisoner.”
* * * * *
After seeing to the remaining docile captures (none were worth anywhere near as much to an officer as the virgin woman), Vergilius turned his attention to the odd one out.
A few Recruits lifted the woman up onto the table. “Lend me your machete,” Vergilius ordered one of his soldiers. Wordlessly, the blade was passed into his hands. It was a careful and painstaking process. He didn’t want to mar her flesh with a scar.
First he cut the straps securing the emblazoned breastplate she wore. He slid it off of her. Next, he made a careful cut along the outside of her sleeves, down her sides, and down her neck, and rent the uniform shirt in two. With deft and practiced hands, he removed her boots and trousers, leaving her in her underwear. Vergilius made a few more careful cuts and removed her bra. He paused to admire her soft flesh. The decanus squeezed her breast firmly in his hand, before tweaking the nipple. Hard.
The woman suppressed a groan of pain, and writhed slightly.
He chuckled. “How fun you will be…” Vergilius reached into her waistband and with a great tug, ripped her panties from her body. Her mound was shaved smooth, and practice the Decanus had observed among some of the Profligates.
“Spread your legs,” he ordered. She spit again, this time landing a hit on the bridge of his nose. Vergilius fumed dangerously. “Very well. Men, spread her legs and secure them that way.” With the help of their commander, the soldiers tied lengths of rope around her ankles and to the legs of the table. The Decanus decided he would want more freedom of access to the upper portion of her body. “Do the same with her wrists.”