The Adventures of Freya

[MikeHales67]

I've found a new use for AI - generate some really hot images so you have to write a story for it!

All  the AI pctiures on on my DA page :
https://www.deviantart.com/mikehales67/art/The-Adventures-of-Freya-Part-1-1338617494

This is a four part story arc which takes us from Rome to Persia, to Pompeii to well...then you find out the historical significance of Freya Jansen.

It was the Year of the Consulship of Dolabella and Silanus,

or

763 Ab Urbe Condita, 763 years since the founding of Rome

Or

10 A.D. To the rest of us.

I had to look up when this bloody was, they didn't use A.D. in Roman times! Amelia, this find is amazing. You've asked me to catalogue what's here at Oakhaven House, and it's amazing. We found it in one of the crates in the basement; it looks like nobody's looked at them in ages. It's historian heaven. So many documents! I started with the oldest; it's a series of documents in a bound volume of vellum, fucking vellum! It was written in Latin; what it's doing in England, I have no idea. It's about this woman called Freya Jansen, who she was, or why she's important enough to have a book written about her, I guess I'll find out. I'm working through it as fast as I can. This is the first instalment. Did I mention there are paintings! Anyway, enough of my ravings, on with the story.

- Penelope

It was a small sailing ship on the Mare Nostrum, "Our Sea" (the Mediterranean to us -Penny). The good ship Pietas was sailing back to port from Hellada, Greece, returning some textiles, luxury goods, pottery, and a couple of passengers: two women, a redhead with her blonde servant. All was quiet on the cruise until...

"Lupa!" (Whore! -Penny) A woman's voice screamed out.

 "Futue te ipsam!" (Go fuck yourself! -Penny) Came the screamed reply.

Then they heard a slap.

The captain raced down to the hold where the sounds were coming from.

His bosun was already there. There were two women. A beautiful red-headed woman in light blue robes, a short skirt, showing off impressive legs, and equally impressive breasts, was slapping the shit out of the face of a beautiful blonde-haired woman dressed in white robes, and the captain had to admit, even more impressive breasts.

"Backpfeifengesicht!" (Slap Face -Penny) The blonde screamed as she punched back. Hitting the redhead's nose full on, she staggered back, grasping her bloodied nose. The blonde was obviously from Germania. You could tell there was tension between them when they boarded.

 "Shall we stop them?" The bosun asked.

 "No, let them finish. Five dinars on red", the captain replied.

The two women were circling each other now, hissing and muttering curses at each other.

The blonde Olivia, in the white robes, had fought before. In her village, her home, she used to take part in the festival they would hold, Kampf tag (fight day - Penny), where the girls of the village would compete in fights, for men, for honour, or to settle a grudge. Sometimes they would fight girls from rival villages. The fights were hard, tough and competitive, bruises and cuts were common, but Olivia had won more than she lost, except for Ursula. Ursula. She shuddered at the memory. She had fought hard, competitive bitches before, but never someone so...savage. That bitch from a rival village had a move she called 'Iron Claw' where she would carve out her victim's womanhood. And she had used it on Olivia mercilessly. After she had screamed her surrender, she had sobbed hysterically. She had never cried so hard in her life, apart from the time when she foolishly demanded a rematch. She had been winning, too, choking the bitch in a leglock. Until the claw was applied. She felt like her womb had been ripped from her body. She cried herself to sleep and had vowed never to tangle with that bitch ever again.

So, this was not her first fight. She felt certain she would beat the shit out of her uppity mistress and teach her a lesson she would never forget. She knew the bitch knew what was going on; you could see the way she bristled every time Olivia had smiled at that crinkled, old, rich, powerful senator. She was jealous of her beauty, her breasts, which stood firm and proud, while hers were flabby and saggy. The bitch always gave her the dirtiest, smelliest, foulest of jobs to do. The thing is that her jealousy was justified. Olivia was trying to seduce that senator. She fully intended to take everything she could from her redheaded mistress and leave her a penniless whore. A man like the senator could set her free, shower her with money, so if she had to open her legs to that shrivelled-up old prick to win her freedom, so be it. If she had to fight for her freedom, so be it.

She had been delighted to accept the wife's suggestion that they 'discuss' matters in the cargo hold of the ship in private.

However,

Octavia, the fiery redhead, was not born a Roman lady; as a child, she had been taken from northern Britannia and had grown up as a servant; she had her fair share of scraps. She won most. She had won her position as mistress of the house in a fight with the senator's former wife. The wife had always been jealous of her fiery red hair and the way the senator looked at her magnificent rack. Things came to a head one day while the senator was out. They had fought on the grounds of the villa in its fountain. Oh, the wife had put up a good fight, but in the end, she ended up naked, crying while Octavia brandished her clothes and her own superior breasts.

Unexpectedly, the senator had come home to this sight and, within a week, had divorced his wife and married her. Oh, she would show this little piece of trash who the boss was. She liked the life of luxury she had fought for; she had invited her servant down to the cargo hold of the ship to 'discuss' matters privately, and she would discuss it until that bitch was a crying bloody pulp. She liked her position in life; she had fought for it, and if she had to fight again to keep it, so be it.

 "Bitch, I'm gonna slaughter you. You don't know how long I've waited for this". Octavia was looking forward to this.

 "Fuck you, you washed-up old whore. I'm gonna take everything you have!" Olivia welcomed the opportunity.

With a scream, the wife kicks up hard into the stomach of the blonde. She groans, bending at the waist. Savagely, the wife brings her elbow down into the servant's back. And again. You could see the agony etched on her face.

The wife picks up her knee, ready for the strike. The blonde grabs it. With a smirk, she swings the red head by the leg into a post. The thud resounds throughout the galley, and the captain groans for his fighter. Gloating, the blonde now has the redhead's leg in both hands. The redhead furiously hops, to keep her balance, her hands out, scrambling at the post as the blonde servant pulls her away and swings her back in again. Thud. The wife is dazed for a moment, ignoring the bruises slowly forming on her face, she resets and turns her attention back to the blonde. 'This little blonde piece of shit is tougher than I thought', thinks Octavia, 'good, that'll make her pleas for mercy all the sweeter'.

The redheaded wife manically windmills her arms and fists; the blonde can't stop her, her own hands are tied up with the legs, and the blows and slaps hit home, hard, making the servant see stars, and the slaps leave red, angry scratch marks. She gasps from the onslaught, staggering back, she drops the redhead's leg.
 
Glad to have both her legs back, the angry wife jumps to her feet, ready to go again.

Time froze. Briefly, they stare daggers at each other. With a mutual cry of 'Lupa!', they charge. The redhead swings a punch. The blonde ducks. Coming back up, the blonde jabs with her right hand at the redhead's face, drawing blood. Then a left hook smashes into her face.

The redhead yanks the blonde's head by the hair, twisting it, pulling out hair by the roots. The blonde responds by grabbing the redhead's hair in one hand and slapping her face with the other, forehand, backhand.

They stagger around the hold. Cursing and punching and hairpulling, trying to yank each other off balance. Hands tearing at hair, fingers gouging unprotected flesh. The captain, the bosun and the rest of the crew watched open-mouthed at the first-class knock 'em down catfight unfolding in front of them.

Getting behind the blonde, the redhead gets her in a bear hug, the blonde starts panicking as the crushing pressure begins to build on her ribs, she pushes at the crushing arms. She can't move them. The redhead bites the blonde's shoulder, she screams. The wife is overjoyed as she sees the red liquid running down the blonde's back. Flailing, the blonde blindly kicks behind her against a nearby crate, the force propelling them both back. The redhead trips, sending them both to the floor in a heap.

They roll on the floor. gouging and punching at each other. First, the blonde on top, then the redhead, until the blonde reverses it. They continue like this until they hit the walls of the cargo hold. The blonde on top. She twists the redhead's face by the chin, while Octavia twists the blonde's ear painfully. Their legs are twisting around each other like snakes.

The blonde screams as the redhead rakes her fingernails across her breasts, the flimsy robes providing no protection. The nails are not long enough to scar, so she cannot shred the tits as she hoped, but they are long enough to leave stinging red lines on the once pristine breasts. The blonde jabs a punch to the mouth of the redhead, staining her smile red. The blonde grunts and starts twisting the breasts in front of her. The pliant flesh mushrooming out from between her fingers.

Then suddenly, instead of squeezing, she presses, flattening the orbs against the redhead's ribcage. The redhead moans.

 "Villis!" (worthless piece of shit -Penny), hisses the blonde.

 "Pedicabo Te!" (I'll fuck you -Penny), hisses back the redhead as her hand grips the face of the blonde and slams it into the wall of the cargo hold.

The blonde twists the tit harder and pulls, stretching it taut, the flesh turning white, the stropium covering the redhead's breasts tears. The redhead stifles a scream as she realises her breasts are bare. Then she growls. With renewed determination, she slams the blonde's head again. The thud echoes throughout the cargo hold. Blood forming on Olivia's forehead. The redhead starts twisting the blonde's lips, but the blonde keeps up the tit torture.

The redhead twists her body, getting her leg in front of the Blonde. She pushes with her legs the blonde flies through the air until she hits a wooden box. Unfortunately, she keeps her grip on the redhead's breasts and robes, the breasts she has to release, the robe she keeps. Leaving the redhead's assets for all to see. The audience gasps at the glorious sight. Meanwhile, the blonde's backward travel is stopped by a wooden crate. Her head bangs the hardwood. Momentarily dazed, her eyes glassy, she slumps to sit on the floor.
The redhead pauses to wipe the blood from her mouth, then rushes in to capitalise. She doesn't. The blonde lifts her foot, kicking Octavia on the chin, stopping her dead in her tracks. Her head snaps back, spewing spit and blood as she stumbles back. The blonde quickly rises to her feet. She gives the redhead a hard body shot; Octavia staggers, she resets, then fires back with a blow to Olivia's head.

Olivia moves forward and throws a wild left hook. Octavia ducks but fails to see the right knee until it drives into her side. The redhead folds in pain, and Olivia sends another knee in the same direction. It connects, causing Octavia to grunt, but she grabs Olivia's thigh before she has a chance to get her knee b back. Olivia's off balance and desperately grabs the redhead's shoulders to remain standing. Octavia's right fist drives into her belly, and Olivia's breath explodes out of her body. Octavia sends in another punch that feels like it's trying to bury itself into Olivia's backbone through her belly button.

Olivia attacks with an eye jab, Octavia drops the leg as her hands go to her eye. With her leg free, Olivia pushes Octavia backwards. The blonde charges the redhead, not giving her time to recover, but she had. Her uppercut rocks the blonde's head. Hissing with satisfaction, the redhead pulls the blonde in by the hair. Her knee crashing into the blonde's forehead, she sees stars. Her next knee mashes the blonde's face.

The redhead pushes the blonde back. The blonde gasps as her back hits the crate again. Snarling, the redhead closes in, pulling the blonde's head back, trapping her against the crate. Her other hand clamps on the blonde's throat. The muscles on her arms stand out as she strains to choke the life out of her hated enemy.

 "Told ya red'll win."

 "The fight's not over yet", said the bosun, hopefully. He really didn't want to lose those Denari; it was a week's pay.

 "Always bet on red. Heh! I was thinking she could help us out with our trade negotiations".

 "She's got to win first", the bosun snaps back, silently willing his champion to carry on.

The blonde's hands manically search for a weapon, something, anything. She finds a bowl, and she swings to brain the redhead. Her eyes go glassy, her grip on Olivia's throat loosens. Scrambling her legs, the blonde kicks, her feet forcibly compressing the redhead's boobs, forcing her back. The redhead grasps at Olivia's torn robe, taking most of it with her.

Both women were just wearing the small loincloth they use as underwear. Their magnificent, sweat-soaked bodies are visible in all their glory for all to see. Most of the crew involuntarily stiffen; they are aroused but wonder how much longer they can continue this hellish battle. But they will; the wife wants to destroy this homewrecking whore, the blonde wants payback for five years of mistreatment and her husband.

The blonde leaps to her feet. Octavia lashes out with a backhand. The blonde's head moves back, and the redhead's hand cuts through empty air. Realising she still has the bowl in her hand, the blonde swings the bowl at the redhead's head. Thinking fast, the redhead quickly grabs the hand mid-travel, she pulls the hand into her mouth and bites down. The blonde screams. The bowl clatters to the floor. The redhead kicks it away. The blonde is frantically hammering at the redhead's head to get her hand released. The redhead just keeps biting. Blood running down the blonde's hand. The blonde's knee kicks up, hitting the underside of the redhead's tit, sending it up in the air. The redhead shrieks. In revenge, her nails scrape along Olivia's breast and sensitive nipple. Olivia screams. Octavia's hands reach out, grabbing Olivia again by the hair, spinning her around, putting Olivia in a chokehold as she leaps onto the blonde's back.  The weight of her body adds to the pressure of the choke.

Grinning, Octavia squeezes hard; she grins harder when she hears the blonde tramp start to wheeze. Black dots appear in Olivia's vision now. Desperate not to suffocate, she bends and staggers headfirst into the post, cracking Octavia's skull. Stunned, Octavia's arms fall away from the throat, and she slides off Olivia's back to the floor into a crouch. She moans.  Olivia staggers back, then collapses to the floor, coughing.

They seem to stay like that for an eternity. All that can be heard is sobbing, coughing and pitiful moans. The witnesses to the battle wonder if either woman could continue. It looked like it was over.

 "This isn't over!"

Octavia moves towards Olivia, legs apart to steady herself. Determined to do whatever it takes to finally end that blonde bitch.

 "Yes, it is!"

Olivia's foot shoots straight out, hitting like a thunderbolt straight between Octavia's spread apart legs into her crotch. Octavia's eyes roll into her head, her mouth forms a perfect circle, then a dull squeak as the white-hot molten pain overwhelms her body. The audience can hear insane babbling as her hands sink to her poor, devastated pussy.

 Olivia slowly rose to her feet. Determined to continue her destruction of her enemy's womanhood.

She grabbed the head of the redhead, pulling it down.

 "Cunnus!" (you don't need me to tell you -Penny), Olivia gasped as her knee crushed into the pelvic bone.

 "Cunnus!" she gasps as the knee strikes again. Olivia was finding it hard to get air into her lungs, but she had to destroy this bitch.

 "Cunnus!" another knee, another dull thud. Octavia just blubbers. Olivia throws Octavia back; she hits the post, sliding down to the floor.

Exhausted, Olivia stands on legs that are close to buckling, her magnificent breasts heaving as she struggles to fill her lungs. Slowly, she realises her task is not yet finished. The bitchwhore was still conscious!

The redhead is on her back now, blubbering incoherently. The blonde sinks onto her stomach, using her knees to trap her arms. She grips the right breast, provoking an instinctive writhing beneath her. Using her grip on the tit, the blonde uses it to pull her into range.

A hammerlike jab to the face, the face deforms as if it were putty.

And another blow, blood sprays on the floor.

A third blow was unnecessary, but it takes time for the blonde to recognise the lack of resistance coming from the redhead. When she finally does, she releases the breast grip, letting the unconscious head fall to the floor with a thud.

Olivia stands triumphant above her fallen foe. The crew cheers her, and she smiles before losing consciousness and falling to the deck.

After the fight, the two women were taken back to their newly assigned cabins, where they were checked over by the ship's doctor. They had been given separate cabins. It did not seem like a good idea to bunk them together. When the ship had docked. The captain communicated with the senator about what he should do with the passengers. Octavia ended up being taken home on the back of a cart. Too beat up to walk or ride, she had to be dosed with considerable amounts of Opium to help her deal with the pain and to quiet her moaning. Olivia was left in her bunk on the ship. Although she limped, she was not as vocal as her erstwhile opponent.

After giving her a day to recover, the captain went over to congratulate the blonde.

He handed her some coins.

 "Even though you cost me five denarii, you deserve this..."

 "Thanks, I think I've lost my job, and I'll probably be put to death for beating his wife up".

"Er, no. I negotiated with your previous owner, and now you belong to us..."

 "...you'll never see your redheaded friend again?"

 "She was a bitch!"

 "Yes, but you outbitched her", the captain said admiringly.

"What's your name?"

 "Freya, Freya Jansen", she would use the name she had been born with. She would not use the slave's name, Olivia, that bitchwhore gave her.

 "Well, Freya Jansen..." he smiled at her. Straightening her hair. She let him; she was used to it.

 "...you look like a dignified woman of Rome..."

 "...but you fight like a demon-possessed low-life street-whore", he grinned.

 "Is that supposed to be a compliment?" she asked.

 " Yes... " he replied, beaming.

"...I think you are just the person to help with some trade negotiations".

[Rocko23]

Wonderful brutal fight. Quite liked the wife lol. Can't wait to see those trade negotiations!

[MikeHales67]

The negotiations will get intense.

[MikeHales67]

The adventures of Freya 2 - Trade Negotiations.

Dear Amelia,

Finally did it! Part two has now been translated.
Had to order a Latin dictionary, turns out Google Translate is not so good on First century Latin. I've taken a few liberties with the translation. As you might remember from school, Latin doesn't do contractions in the written form but was common in the spoken version.
When we last saw Freya, she beat the shit out of her former mistress, earning her a chance to help out with some trade negotiations. Still no idea who she is, though.

I'll present the translations at the next event.

- Penelope

My name is Freya Jansen. Not Olivia; that was my slave's name. This is the story of my trip to Persia.

The feast was sumptuous. We arrived yesterday for the 'Trade Negotiations'. I insisted on visiting the markets, for the first time in my life, I had money to spend. I went round with the ship's cook, who was looking at food for the ship. I was looking at things for myself, and I had a marvellous time. I was shopping for me, not for some Master or Mistress, for me. Between the Persian the Cook knew and the Latin the merchants knew, I completed my first purchase!

Then in the evening, we were invited to a feast that the local satrap, who acted as the viceroy of the Persian king, had thrown for us. We sat on luxurious carpets, sitting in silence during the Baj (it's a religious blessing to ura, the supreme God of Zoroastrianism. Unlike the Romans, the Persians were monotheistic - Penny). We were just starting the dessert, puddings flavoured with rosewater, pistachios, dates, and honey. I had to ask what most of the things were. I'd never seen or eaten food like it. It made a change from the puls and the glis glis. (Puls: a thick, hearty porridge made by boiling grains in water or milk with a pinch of salt, pretty standard. Glis glis: Roast Dormouse, now this was a prestigious food, but they would have a lot of them if they were shipping grain, so they lived the high-life - Penny).

The captain pointed out the woman I would be fighting. She was the eldest of the satrap's five daughters; he only had daughters. She must have been in her early twenties, maybe two years younger than me, very pretty and moved with an assured grace that the captain found captivating. Of course, those proud, perky breasts and the sculptured buttocks helped as well. Men.

She had obviously been trained. She wasn't heavily muscled, or anything, and she was definitely very feminine, but her body was taut, not a unciae of fat ( unciae is a measurement of weight, around 27 grams - Penny). I could tell from the glimpses I caught of them through her skirt that her long, sun-darkened legs were solid, as if sculptured from marble.

The captain had explained to me that the heat of the sun evaporated her bodily fluids, making her so slender. I did not believe him. According to that theory, I was supposed to be heavily built and massive, but it was hard to deny the evidence of my own eyes.

Maybe she saw us pointing, maybe she was being friendly, maybe she wanted to talk to her opponent. She came over. I saw her navigate the assembled partygoers with a feminine, considered grace.

As she approached me, I could smell her sweetly perfumed body and noticed the decadent makeup she wore lining her eyes.

 "Drōd, (greetings - Penny) my name is Azar."

She gave me an open right hand raised to her face. (a highly polite and respectful gesture often depicted on historical reliefs. -Penny)

 "Are you looking forward to our contest tomorrow?"

 I nodded politely.

 "Since I was a child, I have always dreamed of this, of fighting for the honour of my father. But alas, I am a woman, and no man was willing to fight me. To them, there is no glory in beating a mere woman..."

 "And what if they lose to a mere woman?" I added.

She smiled in agreement.

 "Men", she tutted.

 "Men", I agreed.

"This trade dispute is my chance...", she explained.

 "...your crew claims the docking fees my father charges are too high. My father says they are not. To Rome, it is a trifling dispute; they will not get involved, and the King does not care either; he told my father to settle it any way he sees fit. As the eldest of his daughters, I sit on his counsel, and I decided to settle it with Champion Warfare, and I would be that champion. I vetoed all other solutions. So, you and I will settle it tomorrow..."

She smiled.

  "...Hand-to-hand".

 "Unfortunately, no weapons and no fingernails...", she pulled a sad face, "...my father insisted. He worries about me too much, I fear".

Then she brightened up.

 "But he then said that any other rules would be up to us to decide between ourselves..."

 " ... tomorrow? " She looked at me. I nodded.

 "Tomorrow then, I will show my father how long and hard I have prepared for this. I will make him proud..."

 "...Aren't you excited?"

I nodded. Again. She reminded me of a little girl expecting a pony. It would be a shame what I would do to that pretty face. I changed the subject.

 "Do you like this? I bought it from one of your markets".

I held up my pretty new bag. Once I'd explained what it was for, none of the men on the crew would go anywhere near it, let alone talk about it. This was my only chance to talk about it with someone who would appreciate it.

 "It's my Purgationibus bag (Purgationibus Mulierum, "the purgations of women", periods to you and me -Penny).

I know it sounds trivial; a paltry bag. But I was proud of my bag. As a slave, I was not allowed to own personal property. This is the first thing I bought with my own money. I use it to carry my supplies for my monthly purgation. On a ship of men, it seemed wise to have my own supplies to cleanse myself, because no one else would have any! I also use it for any personal objects I might own. Like the denarii I won defeating that red-headed bitchwhore. None of the crew was going to search it. I even kept a few soiled rags at the top. Just in case anybody got curious.

She smiled.

 "I have to wear the designated clothes and even isolate myself".

 "Men", I muttered.

 "Men", she agreed.

I liked her. It was a shame what I was going to do to her. I appreciate the talk of pride, of glory. But I'm owned by the crew. I have no rights. So far, they have treated me well, better than I have been treated in my life. But if I lose, I'm a woman alone on a ship full of men who haven't been with a woman in a long time, and it's a long journey back to Rome. She was trained with servants who feared her father's wrath if they hurt her. She has never been in a vicious bitchfight with someone who dearly wants to fuck you up. I have. I will beat the shit out of her and send her crying back to her daddy.

Speaking of which...our conversation's interrupted as her father is gesturing her over.

 "My father wants me". She said apologetically.

 "Go to him, we'll have our time together tomorrow".

She smiles. I can see the anticipation in her face.

 "Until tomorrow then, I hope you will give me a worthy contest".

Oh, I will, princess.

We meet at dawn on the beach overlooked by the palace. There are a crowd of crewmen and her subjects waiting impatiently. We remove our outer clothes, leaving me in a sleeveless white robe with a short white skirt. I hand them to the captain, and Azra hands her outer garments to a servant. Underneath, she wears a white sleeveless robe with a short skirt like mine, which shows off her hard, steely legs. She walks a few yards away from the beach to the battlefield she has selected. An area of sand a few yards away from the beach. Apart from the odd outcrops of rock, it's perfectly flat. She gestures to me to come over.

I walk over to join her and stop; we're now standing six feet apart. She raises her arms facing the audience.

 "The winner of this contest will decide the docking fees for the port...agreed?" She turns back to face me.

 "Agreed", I assent.

 "The contest will continue until one of us is unable to continue or until the winner decides it is over..."

Staring pointedly at me,

 "...but only the winner will decide when it's finished".

Sneaky bitch. She did this so I couldn't refuse and lose face in front of all these people. She means the winner can keep pounding on the loser until the winner's had enough. She stares me straight in the eyes as she says this. We all know whom she thinks the better woman is, but I know that she's wrong.

 "Agreed..." I concur,

" ...and no hold will be off-limits... ", my condition.

 "...anything goes...", I add, just to make myself absolutely clear.

 "...Agreed?" My turn to stare her straight in the eye.

 "Agreed!" She quickly chimes back

Sweet child, she's never been in a true brawl; she doesn't know what she's agreed to, but she accepts the challenge. I see her bite her bottom lip; she is nervous, but I can also see from the finger-sized nipples that are clearly visible underneath her robe that she's excited. As my own not inconsiderable nipples poke straight back at her.

 "Is that all the rules?" I ask.

 "We don't need any more", she exclaims. Full of confidence. I will slap it out of her shortly.

 "Okay", I say. "Let's begin", I flex my hands.

 "Begin", she shouts.

We both start circling, arms out like wrestlers. Waiting for the perfect moment to attack.

CRACK!

I strike first. My slap jolts her head to the side, leaving an angry red tattoo. I expect her to start crying. Instead, she touches the glowing red skin and smiles.

 "Indeed, you are a worthy foe". She's not crying; she looks...delighted.

I don't see it, but I feel it. Her uppercut rocks my head back. I fire back, her head gracefully moves away from the fist, and I hit nothing but the air.

Her fist smacks into my ribs. I swing a roundhouse, and she pirouettes out of reach. I hear the whistling air mocking my efforts.

She dances again.

SMACK!

Her blow crashes into my mouth, and my lip is bleeding now.

And she's gone. I let the blow go unanswered. Why bother?

She's sxxxxxxxing at me now, and all the Persians are laughing at me, chanting her name. I feel the anger boiling up within me, and I try to stop it. That's what she wants, me to lose my temper, then she'll pick me apart in her own time, piece by piece.

This time, she goes for a right hook to my face. It snaps to the side, and saliva shoots from my mouth. I bend my knees, crouching, holding my head. She confidently waltzes in, her fist raised for another blow. My crewmates are groaning, the Persians are in hysterics, chanting her name.

 "Azra! Azra!"

SMASH!

I push with my legs. The top of my head crushes her face, her nose explodes in blood, and she screams. She holds her hands to her bloody nose.

 "Gotcha!" I cry.

Silence.

And then a cheer from my side.

My right hook smashes into her beautiful face, her blood sprays onto the sand, and she stumbles.

My left hook spins her the other way. I charge, my arms around her waist, I drive her back. She hits one of those outcrops. I grab her head with both hands and slam her head into the rock. She tries to move away, but I still have her by the hair. I pull her back, then I bounce her face into the hard rock.

 "Submit!"

I command as I bounce her head again. I lift her head for another blow. Her head drips blood.

 "I will never submit to a Roman whore like you!" she cries.

Her fist shoots out before I can react, hitting me square on the temple. My vision goes white, and I fall to my knees, stunned.

She pushes me onto my back and starts rubbing sand into my face.

 "I will never submit, never!" she screams.

She grabs my head, pulling it into her raised knee. I fall backwards, I'm lying on my back in the sand, so I scoop it up, hurling it into her face. She's blinded. Good. I need that submission.

I charge her again. We both fall to the sand, but I'm on top. We roll. I start gouging her face. No nails, her dad insisted again. I mangle her face really good, then I shift my gaze lower. I rip open her robe to reveal her chest in all its glory. She squeals, trying to cover her royal pair from her subjects. Most look away, then start looking again. The perky nipples. I grip, and I twist. She screams, then snarls, ripping apart my robe and grabbing a good handful of tit before trying to pull them off my body. She's never been in a titfight before in her life, but she's learning fast.

I slap her face. She uppercuts my chin. My head snaps up, so I'm looking at the sunrise. She pulls me off her by the hair. We're both lying on our sides, now, face to face. Her legs start kicking at mine, while I'm going for a knee to the crotch. She moves her leg, and I hit her thigh. I push her tits up to her face; she corkscrews mine. We're both grunting, cursing, and moaning. I pull her tits down and punch them. She cries out, then responds with a punch of her own.

I get my legs around her head and squeeze. I bang my legs on the sand, jolting her head with each impact. She chokes. Her hands pull at my legs, trying to get them apart. She'll never- she is; she's pulling my feet apart, breaking my hold. Sweat is running from my brow as I'm straining to maintain my hold and failing. There's a look of triumph on her face. I claw at it; she dodges. Then she's free. With a jerk, she pushes my legs apart as far as they will go. My twat feels like it's being torn apart. I scream.

Still gripping me by the legs, she rolls me over on my stomach. Scrambling on top, she has her knees on my back. She grabs my right arm, twisting, pulling it up to my shoulder blades. I try to cry out, but she has her other arm around my neck.

I buck, I writhe, like a madwoman; she can't possibly keep her seated position. She does. I grab hold of her little finger and yank. I hear a satisfying snap and a scream. I roll, she tumbles to her side, my fist rolls with me, and it hits her in the mouth. Her hands reach out for my face, and I grab them. We wrestle for supremacy.

I forgot her legs; she gets one under my chin and pushes with a grunt. I fly back. We both scramble to rise. She does it first. She sends a spin kick straight into my head. I fall. I'm lying on my back, bare to the waist, feeling the waves lapping at my head. I'm watching her from between my mountainous breasts.
She looks down at me and grunts.

"Let us finish it like the men, bare-chested".

With a theatrical flourish, she throws off what is left of her robe, leaving her bare to the waist. The morning sun glistens off her sweat-covered body, her taut stomach, those ripe, perky breasts. The Persians have stopped looking away, drinking in the magnificent sight of the princess fighting for them, and they let out a cheer.

She's gone totally feral now. That veneer of civilisation that she carried with her like a piece of fragile pottery has gone, replaced by a savage, primaeval being. I think she's loving this.

I kick her legs. She falls, and I pounce. But she's ready for me. She kicks her feet into my stomach, pushing me up and throws me over her body. I land hard on my back, pissed. I start to rise, but she is already on her feet and charges into my body, her arms around my waist, head in my stomach, driving me back. I feel the wet ocean on my feet, then I start pulling her in. She tries to resist, but I keep pulling her back.

We're up to our waists now, and the seawater washes away the sweat that covers our bodies, but the seawater stings our cuts and bruises. She pushes me back; her knee goes for my crotch, but she's moving too slowly through the water. I turn, and she hits my leg.

I swing, my right hook getting her jaw. She spins, almost staggering in the water. She tries to move away through the water. Too slow. I pull her back by the bare shoulder into my left hook. Staggering again, she disappears for a moment under the waves. Then, with a splash, her head appears above the waves, spluttering water, straight into my jab. That pretty nose of hers is not looking so pretty.

This is why I dragged her here. That fancy footwork she used to take me apart before now is impossible.

She swings. I duck. My punch hammers into her stomach. She gags in pain. I grab her head by the hair, forcing her to look up into my face.

 "Submit now, you're fighting with the big girls now!"

Her reply is a blow to my stomach.

Bitch. I push her back. Her body splashes on the water; she's floating on her back in the sea. I move in. Her kick hits my chin, and my head snaps back. I stumble, but the water keeps me afloat. I move towards her again, and she kicks slower this time. She's exhausted, but then so am I.

I grab the foot and leverage her under the water. She wrenches her foot free and disappears below the waves. I look around the ocean for her. I can't see her. Then, she's right in front of me, her sloppy right hook swings. Knocking my head to the side. I stumble and then reply with an uppercut to the head. She stands there for a second, then fires a right hook, which has me staggering. I right myself in the water. The punch to her head sends her staggering back.

She moves in to clinch with me. She wants time to regroup. I don't want to give her any; she's on her last dregs of energy. So am I. The time for clever moves is over. I start hitting her back, trying to pound her into submission. Then I feel her cup my right breast in her hand. And then.

I feel the bite.

I scream.

I try to pull her off my tit by the hair. I pull it harder. She won't let go. The tit stretches out horribly as I pull her head back, and she still won't let go. My slap to her head jars her head to the side, and she finally lets me go. The flesh slowly forms back into shape, but I see the blood mixing with the sea.

As I rub my bloodied breast trying to soothe away the pain, she smiles mockingly at me.

 "Big girls fighting, no?" she smirks.

Inflamed, I grab her by the hair, my fingers twist around the strands, and I jerk her head down. Her eyes widen like plates. She knows what I'm going to do. The muscles in her neck tighten. She stops her downward movement just inches from the surface of the water. She hisses, mutters "Madarjendeh Jeh" (Motherfucking whore - Penny), and grabs my hair, using it to pull my head towards the water. I resist. We both grunt, staring down at the waiting water. The bitch will not drown me. Grunting, I try to push her down. She stands firm, increasing the pressure on my head.

We stand in the water. Grunting, cursing, locked in our deadly duel. Each trying to drown the other. I feel strands of her hair snapping under the strain and red-hot needles being driven into my skull. She surges, my head goes down, the waves lap at my nose, and I feel her hands trembling with the strain. No! I push up with my feet. I'm above her now, and I push her head down towards the beckoning ocean. She resists; her veins stand out on her neck.

One of my hands releases her head. She hisses. The water gets closer. My fingers jab into her eyes. She screams horribly. The pressure on my head weakens. That's all I need as I slam her head into the ocean with a splash. I hear a gurgled scream. Bubbles furiously boil the surface of the water as her arms thrash manically. Under the water, I kick her legs from under her, nothing to push up against, bitch.

Patiently, calmly, I keep holding her head under the water. The crowd is silent now. All I have to do is wait until the air leaves her body and she's done. Her hands claw at my body as she tries to squeeze my bloodied tit. No. The pain will not stop me. Her squeezes are getting weaker now. Her clawing now feels like caresses. Then they stop. She is still now. It's over.

The Persians are silent. My crewmates cheer as I lift her head out of the water. It drips from her hair and her face. I want to look at her unconscious eyes.

They're open!

She's smiling!

Her fucking fingers are clawing at my crotch!

She rips a clump of hair from my snatch. It stings in the salty water. That was the appetiser. She straightens her forefinger and middle finger and shoves them as far up my twat as she can.

I scream.

 "Gotcha, Jeh", she snarls, "I learnt good from you"

She does not look like a pampered princess anymore. Her hair is stuck to her face, which is covered in bruises, and her forehead is weeping blood where I scraped it on a rock, but I see the expression of animal joy on her face. She's loving this!

The Persians start cheering again. They cannot see what she is doing, but they know their girl is winning.

Gloating, she jabs her fingers deeper inside me. I'm moaning; she advances, driving me back. On the verge of hysteria, my mind flashes back to what Ursula did to me.

Thepain!

No! I fight down the panic. I try to think. My hands flail, for her face, for her body, anything to make the torture stop. One of my flailing hands grabs the drawstring on her skirt, and I yank, breaking the string. I don't think she realises. Then, as she moves forward, the skirt starts to slide down her
legs. She doesn't care; she has victory literally within her grasp, and no one can see her royal bush under the water.

I keep retreating; she keeps advancing, maintaining her savage violation of my womanhood. I just need to hold on. Her mind is picturing the torture she will inflict. Just then, the skirt reaches her ankles. She trips. Her head falls into the ocean.

No time for mercy now, I hold it there.

She tries for one last assault on my womanhood, jabbing her fingers in deeper. I grimace. I raise a fist and bring it down over the back of her head. There is another gurgled scream as the air from her lungs churns the surface of the water.

The crowd is silent. They want to see how I will end this. The Persians know they cannot get out to her fast enough to save her. She is at my mercy now.

I hit her head again. The movements are getting weaker; her hands stop clawing me, her fingers trace the outlines of my face before they sink below the surface. A big bubble of air rises from her mouth. I'm almost there. Her waving hands just reduced to twitches. Then, no movement. My knee slams into her bust, pancaking those perky tits. No reaction. Satisfied she really is out and not faking again, I release the dead weight, her head, into the water and let it float. To her credit, she had never submitted.

I walk towards the shore, towards my cheering crewmates. My right hand raised in victory while my left-hand lifts Azra's unconscious head out of the water by the hair as I tow her towards the waiting arms of the servants charged with recovering her. I do not wish her dead, only defeated.

 "It's over!" I cry.

I reach the shore with my naked load and drop it onto the sand. It lands with a wet smack. At the same time, my crewmates all gather round to congratulate me. The ship's cook promises me the fattest, juiciest milk-fed snails tonight; it will be a rare treat.

I glance over at Azra as her servants bring her back to consciousness and wrap blankets around her naked body. She sobs, telling her father that she wants to fight again to prove herself to her father.

She did. I heard the story from our captain. A few weeks later, she fought again against a girl from another sailing boat, the Minerva. Again, it was about docking fees. Sensing an advantage, the captain had only lowered the fees on his own vessel and left the other boats that docked there to negotiate their own fees.

Her opponent was a blonde girl like me from Germania. Azra fought hard; she had learnt a lot from me, but her opponent was a savage bitch. After a furious back-and-forth battle, Azra ended up on her back, being strangled, but she would not submit. Enraged by her refusal to give up, her opponent squeezed so hard that she crushed her windpipe.

I...

She was a worthy adversary, not the pampered princess I imagined, but a true warrior. She deserved better.

 "She killed her?" I ask the captain.

 "Yes" was all he said.

 "She sounds like a savage bitch".

  "You'll find out..." he looks me in the eye.

  "...she's your next opponent".

[MikeHales67]