The Electrical Man - A Ghostly Short Story

“Life is often just an interim between nightmares.” 

         

        The comment from the young woman named Martha, no older than 20, took Joyce Butler, 32-year old retail office worker, by surprise as only routine small talk about life, in general, had preceded it.  Yes, it being after midnight made it Oct. 31, Halloween, with the office decorated accordingly, but that didn’t mean glumness need be the prevailing mood.  It made work more difficult and that’s why they were in the office at 1:45 AM on Halloween.  They were there for work because it wasn’t 1950 anymore.  It was 1984 and computers were the wave of the future and she, Joyce, being the youngest office worker with any real tenure, was the senior most employee stuck with learning about the damn things.  She normally worked first shift but was appointed the sacrificial lamb stuck in a week-long third shift course learning about the computers so she could teach the other office workers what she’d learned when she resumed her place on first shift.  Martha was a newly hired employee who would be trained more thoroughly.  Computers and young women were apparently both waves of the future.  Joyce had been making small talk with Martha but the perplexing comment threw her enough that she struck an incorrect key on her keyboard. 

          “No, that’s not right,” the young man, also no older than 20, mumbled impatiently.  Her company had hired him to teach the two women the “ins and outs” of creating things like spreadsheets on the computer for better office efficiency.  He appealed to Joyce as a cold, logical type, the kind of technology person she had little use for, the kind of man that ignored the sunshine of the outside world and all its sensory wonders to spend all his time cooped up with computers and television sets.  She didn’t resent or feel superior to such people; they just weren’t her cup of tea. 

                “You have to press this key here, see?” he said, blandly, leaning over her shoulder and pointing.  He felt icy, like the smell of the wintergreen gum he was chewing.  Joyce repressed a sarcastic reply and pressed the key as the man went to help the young woman a few seats over.  Joyce looked around the office.  Fake spider webs hung from the ceiling with fake spiders intermixed.  Paper Jack O’Lantern, ghost and witch cut outs adorned the walls.  It reeked to her of corporate commonality. 

          “I can’t wait to go home,” she thought. 

          Suddenly, the lights flickered, came back on fully then dimmed nearly to darkness.  The young man, afraid of losing the progress of the software download, scrambled to Joyce’s computer.  Before he could press a key, the lights went out.  Though they were in an enclosed, familiar space, the darkness combined with the surroundings made Joyce shudder.  The decorations now moved in her mind.  The spiders crept along the cobwebs and the witches and ghosts took flight.  The young man swore and the young girl held her breath.  The only exit was via elevator.  If the power stayed off, what would they do? 

          A minute passed.  Lost in darkness, none of them spoke.  The sound of machinery coming to life was then heard and the lights came back on.  Joyce breathed a sigh of relief.  Martha seemed very afraid, the young man very irritated.  Moving to the young woman’s computer, he grunted in frustration as it rebooted. 

          “What kind of place is this?” he growled.  “What kind of business is this?” 

          “I’ve never seen the power go out here,” Joyce said. 

          “He hates the electricity,” a man’s voice said behind them.  Startled, Joyce swung her head to see a janitor who had come in from the warehouse the office was connected to.  He wore a typical janitor’s uniform and was holding a mop resting in a wheeled bucket full of dirty water.  The young man moved towards him and put his hand out to shake. 

          “Hi,” he said.  “I’m George.” 

          The janitor, a man with a wizened face and awkwardly groomed white hair held up his hands and said, “Oh, no.  Look.  You wouldn’t want to get your hands dirty, would you?” 

          The man felt very odd.  Though she’d never seen him before, Joyce, lost in the moment, laughed to herself. 

          “A man comes out of the dark,” she thought.  “Has a ghost visited us on Halloween?” 

          “I’m sorry if I scared you,” the man said with a chuckle.  “My name is Alfred.  I’ve been here for a time but my shift is almost over.  Well, I guess everything is okay now.” 

          As he turned to reenter the warehouse, the young man called him back.

          “Whoa, whoa there.  What did you mean by ‘He likes to play with the electricity?’  Who does?” 

          “The Electrical Man,” the janitor replied matter-of-factly, as if it were common knowledge.  “Surely you know of him?”

          The three employees all said they hadn’t.  Joyce felt goosebumps.  The young lady, clearly very sensitive, shivered. 

          “His name is William Place.  His physical body left this world decades ago when the building down the street was a prison.  He was the first man electrocuted.  Three tries but he wouldn’t die.  Each time the generator had to recharge.  His skin had melted by the fourth attempt.  The generator exploded and all the lights on the block went out.  Some reports said William Place had disappeared when they came back on.  So, he hates the electricity, you see? When he comes back, he makes all the lights go out.” 

          “When he comes back?” the young man asked rhetorically.  “Are you saying the ghost of William Place haunts this building?” 

          Alfred smiled.  “When the lights flicker, I always think, ‘He's come back to visit.'" 

          The air in the room felt leaden.  A small clock on one of the work stations pinged twice. 

          “Ooh, that’s for me,” Alfred said.  “My time is over now.  Goodbye.”  With a smile, he steered the wheeled bucket by the mop handle back into the warehouse.  The office stayed silent for several seconds before the young man spoke. 

          “Like I was saying, ‘What kind of business is this?’  How many weirdos do you have around here?” 

          The question snapped Joyce out of a kind of trance. 

“I’ve never seen that man before,” she replied, her voice trailing.  Her sense of her frightened mood made her angry.  She continued: 

“We don’t have ‘weirdos’ around here, George.  I’ve never seen the man before but I normally don’t work third shift.  He’s just a man that cleans up around here, obviously.” 

“I don’t like people with those kinds of stories,” George said with irritation.  “I don’t like creeps or creep stories.  Life is logical and real.  There aren’t any ghosts in it.” 

          Joyce looked to Martha and saw her trembling. 

          “Did the man scare you, dear?” Joyce asked. 

          “I don’t think I’m supposed to be here,” Martha whispered. 

          “I still wonder what kind of place this is,” George said with contempt. 

          Joyce angrily brushed off his comment, dug some change out of her purse, rose and approached the young woman, who looked up at her with dancing eyes.  

          “Here, sweetheart,” Joyce said.  “Why don’t you go to the cafeteria and get us some sodas.  George, what would you like?”

          “Nothing.  I don’t drink soda,” he said dryly, staring at her computer screen as he pressed buttons on her keyboard. 

          “I’ll take a Coca-Cola,” Joyce said tenderly to the young woman.  “You get whatever you want.” 

          With a disconcerted nod, the girl rose and left the room for the cafeteria. 

          “You could be nice, you know,” Joyce said to George rhetorically.  "The man clearly unnerved her,”

          “I have no time for nonsense,” he said, still looking at her computer screen and pressing keys.  “If she has no nerve, that’s her problem.”

          Joyce had had enough of George the computer expert but she resolved to get along until the shift was over.  The clock read 2:15 AM.  Three hours and forty-five minutes and she would meet the 6 AM morning crew before going home.  It couldn’t come fast enough.  She looked at the fake spiders.  Did one of them just move?  No.  Of course not.  The lights began to flicker again.  

          An ear shattering scream from the cafeteria made her jump.  She looked at George, who had also jumped and seemed very irritated he had.  Joyce ran towards the cafeteria and froze when she saw Martha sprinting towards her, bathed in a sea of lights flickering like a lightning storm.  She barely dodged in time as the girl ran past her towards the office and into the warehouse.  Joyce quickly followed. 

          “Martha!  Stop!” she shouted uselessly.  The warehouse was between the office and the small room with the elevator which is where the girl, who proved too fast for Joyce, was running towards in abject terror.  She had nearly reached her destination when the lights went out.  Joyce froze again.  Largely unfamiliar with the warehouse’s layout, she quickly convinced herself it was folly to run around with the lights off.  Deep down, she was terrified.  What was happening?  Why had the girl screamed? 

          The lights came back on and Joyce saw she was alone.  She whipped her head around looking for the girl then crept lightly towards the  elevator.  Nothing.  The elevator made a ping sound when opening.  Joyce had heard no sound.  The warehouse was cavernous.  Had Martha gotten confused in the dark?  Was she still in the warehouse?  Joyce walked back to the office and found George still working at her computer. 

          “Did Martha come back in here?” she asked.  He didn’t answer.  

          “Hey, George!” she said, snapping her fingers impatiently.  “Did Martha come back through here?”

          He turned his attention towards her and said, eyes rolling towards the ceiling, “I think I do know what kind of place this is now.”  
          He nodded to himself and went back to work.  For the first time, Joyce felt the surreal nature of the situation.  She opened her mouth to speak again but no words formed in her mind.  She felt the need to walk up and touch George but didn’t.  Where was that janitor?  He must have left.  He did say his time was over.  Surely...surely, she would have heard the elevator ping for him, too...  

          Rousing her courage, she resolved to search the warehouse.  So many dark corners in that enormous space.  So many things that could hide.  She took care of the easy things first; a quick look behind the cardboard box crusher and a scan of the assembly lines calling "Martha" at various intervals.  An unidentified sound at the other end of the warehouse made her jump and nearly scream.  The resulting silence felt like a panic, the annoying buzz of the electric power the only noise audible.  After half a minute, she began breathing deeply again.  
        "Just something slipping off a shelf," she convinced herself.  "Probably happens all the time."  
        Regathering her nerve, she continued with the search.  Next was the large area with the metal merchandise trees, a dead forest of steel barely visible in the darkness.  In the distance, a small light crackled next to an old, dusty unused storage room.  She couldn't stop her mind from spinning.  How many monsters have come out of those kinds of places in movies?  How many people that meet them are never seen again?  The size of the place pressed down upon her, the large swaths of darkness weighing heavily.  She stepped towards the storeroom.  The light barely shone, almost imperceptible. A kind of disembodied shadow from something unseen seemed to drift across it as the light dimmed even more.  Too frightened to speak, she quickly backpedaled, nudged a merchandise tree then, in trying to right it, bumped into another and knocked it over.  Shrieking hoarsely at the concussion of metal slamming into the floor, she ran back to the middle of the warehouse where the large, industrial lights on the ceiling still shone.  No, the girl wasn't there.  She clearly wasn't there.  Instead of cursing herself for cowardice, which she would have usually done, Joyce laughed with relief, just happy to be away from there.  The dimming light, the shadow...her eyes were playing tricks on her.  That must be what it was.  Certainly nothing strange was really happening around there...
         She crossed to the design staff’s office.  Pausing at the entrance way, she saw the white outline of store mannequins.  Unlike dead trees, these were dead people, arms and legs and heads, all there, lifeless, like a cemetery of frozen bodies.  Taking a step in, she flicked the light switch but no light came on.  She tried to call Martha’s name but her throat could only reflexively spasm with no words.  A rustle?  One mannequin head moved.  She was sure it did!  
          Stumbling back, she did curse herself this time.  Stop imagining things!  She called out Martha's name softly then waited.  No, she wasn't there either. Joyce stood upright and flexed her back.  A woman of resolve, she committed to searching the last hidden place.  Maybe Martha was hurt and couldn’t speak.  Maybe Joyce just wanted to prove to herself nothing supernatural was happening.  Maybe she should call for Alfred, too...

        Two rows of storage materials, tucked away and dark even when the lights in the rest of the warehouse were on, was last.  Used to the happy office activity of the day shift, the silence and the darkness seemed a tomb, like the end of life.  She took small steps down the first row.  Different sizes of merchandise bags stuffed the shelves.  A moldy smell caused her to recoil slightly.  Yet another rustle in the next row made her freeze.  Her heart thudded and her eyes bulged.  Her body leaned slightly forward.  The industrial lights seemed to groan then one exploded! Joyce screamed loudly.  Shaking uncontrollably, she ran out of the warehouse to the light of the office. 

          In a near whisper, she called for George but got no reply.  The room was empty.  With desperate energy, she did a running search of the the cafeteria and bathroom. Nothing.  George had vanished.  They'd all vanished.  The horror that she was all alone seized her like a shower of freezing water.  Her stomach plunged as she barely resisted the strong urge to fall to the floor.  The lights flickered on and off in the same lightning storm that had consumed Martha.  It was him!  The Electrical Man!  He was there!  He was there for her!  
     With the energy of pure terror, she ran as fast as she could through the office, knocking over two chairs in her path, into the warehouse and then to the lit elevator room.  In the distance, she saw the flickering office lights go out.  The  warehouse lights began flickering like mad then went out one by one.  Now crying uncontrollably, she slammed her hand against the elevator button then pounded on the closed doors. 

          “Help!  Help!” she shrieked.  The last light in the warehouse went out.  The light in the elevator room began to flicker, all around nearly pitch black.  The light dimmed to its lowest level…

          Joyce heard the ping sound and the elevator doors opened.  She tumbled in and frantically pushed the button to close the doors.  The light in the room went out, only the light in the elevator staying on. The darkness reached for her...  

          As if by a miracle, the doors shut and the elevator began it’s descent.  She grabbed her head with both hands as hard as she could and slumped to the ground, rocking back and forth.  The elevator reached the first floor but the doors didn’t open.  The ping didn't sound.  The light in the elevator flickered…then went out. 

          At 6 AM, two of Joyce’s first shift co-workers, surprised she hadn’t met them at the door as planned, turned off the outside alarm and entered the building.  They turned on the hallway lights, which shone without a glitch. Walking to the elevator, one of the women pressed the button.  The doors opened with a ping.  Into the empty elevator they stepped. 

The Roman and the Celtic Woman - An Erotic Historical Fiction Short Story

       In the early days of the Roman Empire, men didn't love women.  They didn't love women during the Republic, either, but, in the chaos that ended that Republic, the Res Publica, and began the Empire, love was as unimportant to Roman men as sex was merely tolerable.  Powerful Romans could play as they wished but the common Roman soldier, the driving force behind the conquests of "barbarian" Celts across Europe, could not.  The grandeur of Rome was established on their military might, their duty, responsibility, fighting spirit, self-discipline and self-denial.  "Roman stoicism" was aptly coined for emotions and lusts, the "passions," were greatly frowned upon by a people that conquered and ruled Europe to the Holy Land by ruthless efficiency.  Roman men were military killers, detesting softness, rejecting affection, and avoiding satisfying their appetites.  They did not love.

        Roman women did not love Romen men.  If they loved at all, they loved their men's commitments to duty, responsibility, self-discipline and self-denial.  Romen women were rigorously taught to subordinate feelings for the cold logic of procreation and domestic cultivation.  They ruled over the home like their men ruled over Europe, producing as many children as possible; hopefully, as many male children as possible to add to future military rolls.  Humility, chastity apart from procreation and disciplined dignity were their stations in life.  Feeling and expressing love weakened Rome's male dominated culture.  Women kept their men strong.  They did not provide pleasure. They did not provide love.  

        In the year 17 BC, the territory of Hispania, modern Spain, had largely been subjugated after bitter fighting by the Romans and native Celts over a 200 year period.  The Celts of Hispania, a collection of different tribal groups, fought long and hard for their freedom against the imperialist aspirations of mighty Rome.  Of all the peoples of Europe, they had the greatest reputation as the fiercest, most vicious fighters with the Cantabrian tribe being considered the best of the best.  A savage, untamable mountain people, they were noted for their guerilla attacks and, more notably, their practice of allowing their women to fight.  The very definition of a swarthy, native people, Cantabrian men made sure their women, like many European Celts, were both admired and feared by the Romans for their tall frames and ability to fight as fiercely as they did.  The Romans considered women fighting men to be a perversion but the strong Celtic women could not, and would not, shirk from defending themselves and their families.  They fought with their emotions and their passions.  A starker contradiction between the sides couldn't be.  The Cantabrians fought so fiercely a rare edict was decreed:  No prisoners were to be taken.  All Cantabrians were to be killed.  

        Aurelius Decimus Crispus, Praefectus Castrorum (Camp Prefect) of Emperor Augustus Caesar's 4th Legion of Macedonica, perfectly fit the Roman definition of a noble, disciplined, self-sacrificing soldier.  A man of ignoble birth but possessing great courage and nerves of steel, he quickly rose through the military ranks from infantryman to Centurion to Praefectus Castrorum by age 35, a tremendous achievement in the Roman military.  A strikingly handsome, "pure blooded" Roman from Alba Longa, the town of Caesar's birth, Aurelius Crispus lived up to the meaning of his surname "Crispus" by having thick, curly, brown hair with an occasional wisp of gray, a lean, rock hard body forged through combat, exercise and dietary restrictions and a potent masculinity that drew the attention and respect of his fellow soldiers and made him a natural leader.  His chiseled face featured a hard though not prominent nose, sharp cheekbones and a strong jawline.  

        A man of great Roman character, Aurelius Crispus eschewed lustful sexuality and displays of passionate emotion.  A Roman commander's job was to be like a respected father to his men, a leader by example, and not one given to the selfish pursuits and satisfactions of one's own appetites.  He had a beautiful wife at home with the perfect Roman female characteristics of humility and dignity and had sired two daughters and a son, all three ideal examples of Roman children.  All were respected.  All was perfect.  

        The set pieces were perfect.  The front was perfect.  The image was perfect.  He had truly attained all a noble Roman could attain, all that he desired except...desire.  Violence had always displaced sexual passion and now violence had been displaced by boredom.  The frontier in Hispana had largely been won and Aurelius's days consisted mostly of reports of routine inspections by his men.  He desperately needed something, anything, to happen.
       A recent spate of attacks on his camp's northern border sparked Aurelius's instincts for the possibility of fresh excitement.  Though completely unnecessary, he'd taken to inspecting the perimeter personally in the hopes of  witnessing another pitiful, easily repulsed assault by the decimated Celts and, even more hopefully, taking part in their further decimation.  Reports from his soldiers of more and more Celtic women fighting in place of their dead male partners made it even more irresistible.  Roman accounts of wild, strong, aggressive barbarian women on the frontiers were infamous throughout the Roman world but Aurelius had never personally witnessed them in battle.  What were they really like?  Did they fight naked like their men often did?  Did the women in Hispania have the long red hair of other northern Celts?  Did they have large breasts unlike most Roman women?  Did they fight with that animal passion that often borders on sexual ecstasy? The possibilities sent pleasurable sensations cascading through his mind and body and he could barely control the enthusiasm his inspections produced.
        His wish was finally granted one day near dusk.  As he routinely walked the long length of the stone wall that fortified the northern portion of the camp, arrows and dozens of rocks from slings came flying over the walls at a section perfectly in between two guard towers.  Aurelius rushed to the point of activity, his short sword called a gladius in hand, as Roman soldiers gathered, their shields mostly blocking the enemy fire with the occasional legionnaire wounded  Crude ladders slammed up against the stonewall in numerous places and several Celtic warriors, through attrition, came over the walls into the Roman camp.  Most were killed almost instantly by Roman spears but some penetrated deeper into the compound.  Aurelius killed two male Celts then noticed with amazement and excitement a small group of Celtic women, indeed fighting naked, attempting to come over the wall at different ladder points, shrieking and screaming like Banshees as they came.  Knowing no chivalry, Roman spears mowed down most of them but one, in particular, caught Aurelius's eye as she scaled down the wall into the camp. A Venus smeared with mud, long, jet black hair evident, large breasts with nipples hard in the excitement, she represented everything he had dreamed of in a barbarian woman: Animal poetry in motion, elegant, strongly definable feminine curves shifting to maintain the balance of the wide hips and supple legs on her powerful body as she moved.  Frozen to the spot, he watched as she approached a fallen Roman soldier stunned by a slinged rock and slashed at him with a dagger she carried, inflicting cuts on the man's arms. legs, head and groin.  Mesmerized, Aurelius couldn't help as the man, probably dead, stopped moving.  Seeing Aurelius and marshalling her courage, the female warrior wailed like a vengeful spirit and charged toward the Roman Prefect who, finally snapping out of his hypnosis, raised his sword to meet her.  A proud, desperate woman with only her life to lose, not caring about her safety, every bit of energy throbbing for survival, she flew upon him, the only acceptable result of their combat being the death of one of them.  Attacking with all her fury, she slashed at him wildly from head to toe.  Blocking her attempts, he let her get as close as was safe, smelling her scent, unable to see his sword as anything other than his penis under the intoxicating assault of this amazing, ravishing creature, her grunts and exertions triggering his hard muscles in a brand new experience: Erotic combat.  As her energy failed, her grunts came closer to whimpers and his heart went out to her, his arms wanting to embrace her, to hold her and comfort her, to ravish her and allow her to ravish him.  Exhausted, she dropped the dagger and went to her knees, gasping heavily.  Unable and unwilling to land a killing blow, Aurelius turned his attention to the rest of the battle.   The sun had fallen swiftly and his men had lit torches to illuminate the night.  Aurelius saw with satisfaction that his soldiers stood in a commanding position, dead male and female Celts littering the compound joined only by the occasional Roman.  A Centurion approached and asked Aurelius if they should pursue the Celts beyond their fortifications, to which Aurelius replied in the negative.  Noticing the Celtic woman now slowly getting to her feet, the soldier raised his sword to strike her down but was met with the sword of Aurelius which stopped him.
        "No! Haec femina captivus est. Igitur placet mihi ut interrogaret de hoc habiturum. Semitam meam veniant." he said in Latin, the translation being: "No! This woman is my prisoner.  I intend to question her about this raid.  Bring her to my quarters."  The Centurion, knowing his Camp Prefect to be fluent in the dialects of the local Celts, thought nothing of it as he took hold of the woman, who began kicking and screaming with renewed energy.  Aurelius smacked her hard in the face, stunning her enough to make the trip to his double sized tent.
        After placing her, still woozy, on a stool next to a rudimentary vanity with mirror used for basic grooming, the Centurion, ordered by Aurelius, left the tent then returned a few minutes later with two large buckets of scalding hot water, which he put near Aurelius's bath, before exiting again and returning with a bucket of dirt and earth which he placed just inside the tent entrance.   Aurelius told the man: "Resumere post te.  Ut non moveretur (Resume your post.  I am not to be disturbed.)"  The Centurion left the tent with a nod, closing the opening on his way out.
        Aurelius Decimus Crispus wanted sex; strong, perhaps even violent sex.  The woman covered her crotch, eyes wide, as he slowly removed his clothes until both were naked.  She stood and began to backpedal as he smoothly approached like a great panther, she a mouse in a trap, her left hand over her crotch, her right hand over her breasts.  He breathed in her animal scent deeply, disregarding the impact of her fear though ever more excited by how it agitated her, her energy drawing his like a magnet.  His penis began to swell as he grabbed her strongly by the shoulders, trying to provoke an aggressive reaction, which succeeded.  Her savage, warrior blood taking over, her fear displaced, she wriggled free of his grip and returned the slap he had given her earlier followed by several more.  Aurelius, near ecstatic with excitement, deflected her blows, backing up to his large bunk bed as she continued her attack, pulling her to him as he flopped back onto the soft cushion, locking her arms to her side with his powerful biceps as she struggled like a wildcat.  She scratched at his sides with her fingernails as he forcefully kissed her on the lips.  She responded by chomping at him with her teeth as he pulled his face back just in time.  He clamped his mouth onto her neck and sucked as hard as he could, his tongue licking her neck in little, quick circles.  Her vagina spasmed reflexively; as she dropped her guard for a moment, he unlocked his grip, still maintaining control, and squeezed her butt with his right hand while moving his left hand to her upper back. rubbing it smoothly and strongly.  Her arms flexed and her hands went stiff as pleasure rocketed up her spine, unable to prevent this powerful man from taking advantage of her.  Realizing this to be what the man wanted and that he would perhaps release her when he got it, she stopped resisting, locking her mouth onto his and finding his tongue with hers as he let her arms free and hugged her back with all his might, her left leg moving up and straddling his upper body as her right leg fully extended.  She inserted his penis into her vagina with her left hand and squeezed down onto it with her inner thighs.  He let her control their movements, relishing the submissiveness he had never known before as she grabbed and fondled his hard chest with both hands while moving her hips in a variety of motions, moving his penis around at her will.  He held himself off as long as he could, completely at the mercy of this physical goddess, his mind engrossed in the idea of the female savage, an animal attacking the gates of the Empire, a defeat he joyfully accepted.  She locked her hips as she stared into his eyes and he ejaculated, sending fluid jetting into her body.  She sucked at his chin and nibbled it, breathing in his intense masculinity while pulling his hair as his rapid breathing began to ebb, smiling as he came down.  Looking deeply into her wide blue eyes, he knew what love was.  How could one not love this ravishing creature, dirt still clinging to parts of her body, every pore oozing female strength, vitality and life?  Now he knew why Roman soldiers were made to eschew sexual pleasure for, in that moment, he would have done anything for her.  Who cared about maintaining an Empire when there were females like this to make love to?
        He'd wanted sex.  Now he needed love, needed it to flesh out his experience fully, to know what romance beyond the sex act truly was.  He motioned to his partner to get off him; she did, standing in suspense, still a filthy mess, both with dirt and now sweat and small amounts of semen from Aurelius's penis.  Rising, he went to the two buckets of still very warm water, picked them up and poured the contents of both into his large bath.  He grabbed a large bottle of olive oil from a table as she again covered up instinctively.  He brushed her hands away with a smile, poured a generous amount of olive oil in both hands and proceeded to rub the oil all over her body, a precursor to cleaning in the Roman world.  He rubbed the oil over her beautiful breasts, quickly bringing her back to an aroused state.  He oiled her vagina, moving across it in gentle, smooth strokes that elicited barely audible moans from her mouth, her lower lip curled deeply under her teeth as pleasurable sensations swirled through her in waves.  He had had his orgasm.  Now he greatly wanted to bring her hers.
        Once finished, he picked up a cleaning tool called a strigil, a kind of scraper that removed the olive oil and any grime or mud on the body with it.  Taking her by his free hand, he moved her to the bath, laid in it first and gently pulled her on top of him, her back on his stomach, the back of her head on his chest.  Both revelled in the relaxing warm water, their bodies still fully aware of the physical exertion of the day, both in war and sex.  He gripped her left breast with his left hand as he used the strigil to gently scrape off the olive oil on her right side, stopping to wash the strigil in the water after each turn, kissing her on the side of her head and neck as he worked, taking extreme care to remove the olive oil from the right side of her face with the coarse tips of his lingering fingers, allowing her to occasionally suck on them.  She took his left hand in her right, interlocking their fingers, lost in the moment, her fear unimportant as he pleasured her.  After repeating the process on the other side, he dropped the strigil to the ground, reached both hands over her hips and massaged her vagina with both sets of fingers, inserting a finger of his right hand and massaging her inner walls while rubbing her labia and clitoris with the fingertips of his left.  She moaned in increasing intensities, reaching back with her right hand to grab his hair while pressing her left hand over his to increase the motion.  He clenched her vagina with his left hand and put his right hand over her mouth as she orgasmed, taking care that none of the soldiers on duty heard it.  Her body bucked then slowly relaxed as she turned over on top of him.  They kissed passionately, two people, not savage nor civilized, only a man and woman, two human beings in time, one, in desperation, serving the needs of the other who couldn't help feeling intense admiration and affection for her, the physical satisfaction of the moment compensating for a lifetime of staid, emotionless moments in service to his country.
        After several minutes of embrace passed, he motioned for her to leave the bath and followed after she rose.  As she stretched with proud, feminine elation, he looked to his clothes on a nearby stool and at his pugio, a holstered dagger, dangling from his belt.  All Cantabrians were to be killed and Aurelius Decimus Crispus, distinguished officer of Augustus Caesar's peerless 4th Legion of Macedonica, father and husband, noble Roman in every respect, had never had any intention of letting the Celtic woman he'd taken to his bed and bath leave his tent alive.  After he'd had his pleasure, which included the bath, he'd planned on using the bucket of earth to cake on the woman after he'd killed her under the pretense that the filthy barbarian had attacked him under questioning.  All neat and clean and no one would ever know.  He stepped to his clothes, the Celtic woman unaware of his eyes on the thick, sharp pugio.  Inches from taking the weapon in hand, he stopped.  He looked to her, this amazing woman whose people had been all but exterminated by Roman might, his might, yet faced death and fought like a tigress as well as any man, faced him as well as any man on the field of battle, and loved him as well as he imagined any woman could.  She smiled nervously, hoping for a positive next step from Aurelius.  He breathed deeply and frowned, unable to follow through on his plan but uncertain how to smuggle her out of camp.
        "Nescio quo modo me liberare de castris in zelo meo et immolabo et si necesse fuerit ut (I do not know how to free you from this camp but I, on my honor, will sacrifice myself if need be to make it so)," he said to her.  Near tears, she embraced him and he returned it.  He loved her.  Stupidly, he loved her, a development he could not have envisioned.  Duty fails with love.  Empires fall from love.  Would Aurelius Decimus Crispus fall the same way?  He looked to the bucket of earth.  He would cake the mud on as when she entered, hiding their lovemaking as best he could, then try to find some way to honor her his promise of freedom.
     

Thank you for reading.  All comments are welcome.