UNCTUOUS PERMITS AND UTMOST PENCHANTS: THE CASTIGATION AND THE EXONERATION
By Quillon42
Strewn with flayed, frayed segments of corpses was the wasteland near to which huddling ranks of brazen rangers and their refugees had camped. As was the case with so many other narratives both televised and celluloid, including all acclaimed anecdotes from Braveheart to Battlefield Earth, the liberty of this cruder pastiche of a civilized populace had arrived at a great and gory price. Now the so contumacious council of gritty gladiators had the existences of so many outliers in their calloused hands; it was up to these slaves turned soldiers to lead these people to a place somewhere far off and also very impossibly beyond the reach of the Romans now, for all of their influence and ability to recapture them.
Gliding about the brazen wilderness instantly had been the most treasured of attendants to the cruelest cad Crassus, her mind listing and her body feeling ready to rend in twain from all the tension. Verily, Kore currently had been considering ways in which she could end her existence that would happen upon her with the most abruptness and the least agony. Perhaps just allowing herself to venture back to and throw herself over the cliffsides near to where those Cilician scumbags had seafared so far, where the especially ugly one had almost his way entirely with Laeta then.
Awfully the ancillary siren thought of the way in which she had been invaded most personally by that tyke Tiberius, such a feces of a fetus derived from her dire master. Granted, the coarse child had been badly bereaved when his loyal lad Sabinus had been struck down during the decimation; ill fortune had it been indeed when said adored acquaintance had drawn the white stone in the same hapless manner that a Price Is Right Three Strikes contestant would pull the red X chip out of the bag. For certain, the fates of both kinds of star-crossed individuals were so similar in their tragedy; it did not justify the capture of the lady's maidenhead, at any rate, and at present the peasant of that Roman majesty wished she could stick a prehistoric plinko up the statesman's son.
Thence upon thoughts of such small, anally-insertable items did Kore come upon something of similar shape and size which might deliver the damsel from any untoward future fate.
Well within the precarious perimeter of the gladiator getaway now, a truculent Thracian who adopted the name of Spartacus patrolled his people. Yes, worriedly the title star of the Starz series walked through his camp now, he checking to make sure that all was in order even though he knew that a certain gender-grinding controversy would likely cause fragmentation very soon. Then burlily and very predictably a man with the body of a demigod and the face of a former-New-England-footballer-and-indefinite-douchebag eased his transition from evening fornication to morning fighting with a thorough libation seemingly comprised only of liquid water poured into a timberwolf-tinted jug of frozen water.
Noticing his brother-in-brawls rolling on up now, the cantankerous Crixus faced the Thracian.
"Speak with purpose," prompted the virtual TomBradicus as he helped himself to another jugful of iced ice.
"I am concerned that the current possession of Pudendum Placard on the part of your betrothed has made much in the way of discord, Crixus."
Angrily the ancient Patriot let his features show their disdain once again for the slave leader. "Naevia is entitled to the same! She has faced countless horrors while in the house of Batiatus…not the least of which was beholding our Master's minuscule nether head on a regular basis, while also having to constantly espy her mistress's constantly-changing cranium with all its false follicles thereon!"
Indeed, there was naught and no one that could come between Naevia and her unquestionably righteous revenge against every male organism in the universe. Despite the fact that the lady had ever so vindicated herself against Ashur at the close of the previous season (and this author does not contend in any manner that intimate violations are not actionable or traumatic), now it appeared that the angry maiden could bully and beat any XY individual whom she did not appreciate for the least of offenses by serving said men with a heaping helping of hate all the way to the hilt. Of course the best part about this for her was that there had been no repercussions for her actions whatsoever, unlike those which had become visited upon Titus, Glaber, and so many other male players in this narrative (although this author will readily acknowledge that, at least in the series, Crassus and Caesar emerged relatively unscathed…again for the moment really).
Owing all to this on the part of the dually-acted diva was her tenure of that irrevocable privilege enjoyed by so many princesses of society throughout time, despite any diversity of century or culture. This contemptible concept, known for the last several decades as that Pass located closest to the Perineum of any lovely lady, enables any impulsive mademoiselle to make off with murder almost (and in Naevia's case the matter was certainly valid) by simple virtue of her feminine gender identity. Whosoever holds this Pass in question (or Placard as it has been chronicled by various historians) maintains carte blanche over all behavior conceivable.
At any rate, again the archaic counterpart to the formerly-most-treasured-footballer-of-Belichick (a name which this abdomen-adoring author really appreciates, despite the fact that the Coach's nomenclatural pronunciation differs from that which this author would prefer):
"Any woman should boast proudly of Pudendum Placard after such ordeals, Spartacus. You would do well to bear the same in mind regarding any conversations to come."
And with that, the intrepid semi-sympathetic swordsperson stormed sulkily off as always.
Unbeknownst to the battened brawlers then, there was a very pretty pugilist who was wending her way to the camp, as she had recently earned liberation from her own shackling situation within an Arena™ devised by Roger Cormanicus and designed for the delight of many an uncouth inhabitant of the Roman realm. Balefully now the toffee toughy Jessamina had alighted into the halting hinterland in which the great Collapser of Capua, the Bringer of the Rain himself had hoarded many like himself who eagerly craved anticipation from the cruelty of his awful oppressors. Cheerily the coffee-maned maiden asked her fellow demigoddess-in-utter-death-dealings Bodicia if the latter wished to ride along the former to this encampment, but the chiffon-coiffed chick elected to find her own path.
Beyond the ken of the fudge-follicled femme now was that an enormous mass of man would soon come upon her and that she would accept the same most consensually and to her complete release in so many more ways than the lady could ever comprehend.
Certainly there was nary a lady who could withstand the mighty mojo of the lusty and lascivious Lugo, the Germanic grunter whom Agron and others had liberated upon that specific ship at Neapolis. For sure the so superannuated slugger enjoyed nights with varied anonymous nymphs, yet this was something he secured only with consent, which was aught more than what could be measured from the acts of the seditious Sedullus. Yea, that fucker forsooth lost face upon attempting to finagle Naevia for his own fun, from whence Spartacus himself whirled upward with his own gladius…and soon the brains of the offending bastard had shunted outward and downward once the bordering flesh in front of the same had been so vehemently vacated.
Now that same galoot beheld the abovementioned gorgeous Jess while the latter hauled off her horse. Recent memories of sending all those Romans in her land running far away, in this version unencumbered by the more vicious elements (because this author abhors fire more than Freddy Effing Kruger), those figments had cluttered and candied her brain now, making her feel satisfied and even a mite starved for a heavier sort of affection which may have been forced upon her in the past…but now which she would herself foist upon the first mass of man she would rest eyes upon.
Luckiest in this lottery now was Lugo as he happened upon the hoyden with his hammer in hand; the ocular contact between the two made the antediluvian stallion drop his weapon faster than a cooperating Robocop-prompted perpetrator. Jessamina jettisoned her own blade in turn upon realizing the manner in which this obelisk of utter brawn could so consquer her.
Licentious would become the ludi in which these two trysters would partake now. Hungrily did Lugo lather each of the ecru ocrea of this amphitheater enchantress's thighs. Admiringly did he stare into the sapphire sesterces of Jessamina's eyes, the two sharing here a tender and pure love (certainly purer than any dalliance that this dame's portraying actress definitely pursued with friggin Bruce Willis and supposedly carried out with Donald Trump). Famished was this fierce fighter as he gripped the prodigious pair of parma that were his paramour's pallid ass cheeks, their pearl complexion unassailed by the unforgiving sun. Salivatingly did the bruiser settle upon each of the two tremendous of tuscan-tinged scutum of brash breasts that had sallied into his conflict-frayed features. Graciously did the goon glide his lips upon the hairless harena that substantiated her sand-hued belly, his weathered tongue plundering the delicious depth of her navel for a seeming epoch. Immolated with emotion was the brutish buck here in turn, he encountering a conflagration greater than any catapulted projectile could crash upon him, he wishing now to Bring a Rain the quantum of which even his brave leader could not begin to conjure.
"Treacherous termagant!"
Instinctively the pair hauled off from one another upon hearing the intervening interjection. Jessamina feared for her life a second, but then the reassuring hand of her loving lug Lugo had been placed upon her fabulous forearm, then motioned out to the clearing nearby.
Ever so constricting crowds had massed now around Kore, the lady holding herein a sleek stiletto over the corpse of Crassus's most wearisome whelp Tiberius. Gratifying was it ever for the serving siren to have inserted her own member, albeit one of metal here, into the body of the boy who would have her so untowardly in his father's house.
"Execute the maiden!" cried effing Julius Caesar himself now…
…But even he was without authority to argue once he had espied the small plate that Kore's hand had brandished; the object in question was that which would ultimately occasion not only the woman's own freedom, but that of Jessamina, Lugo, Gannicus, Spartacus, Crick-A-Dick, and everyone else under her aegis. (Naevia would still be done in offscreen by Caesar, though, as the unavoidable karmic return due her upon her losing what Kore just found the day before; honestly, Naevy would become very blue in the afterlife as well, given that she would have to personally (though not pruriently) serve, for a finite and predetermined period of time therein, Attius the Blacksmith and that one Roman townsperson whose finger(s) she cut off while he was going for bread like an overly jaunty Javert would effect upon a providence-voodooed Valjean in a more graphic rendition of that yarn).
Above the surface of the Earth and with the living again now here for all, though, the canny Kore grinned for the first time in a luscious lustrum once the Romans realized what was inscribed upon the panel indeed…
"PVDENDVM PLACARD" were the two words thereon that had sealed the fate of those who wished to quell all the dissension.