Khandahar

 

by

 

Tacitus

 

I am tall, nearly as tall as my equally nude opponent standing across the arena from me.  To some I appear whip-thin and too light to be a woman contestant in gladiatorial combat, but the tireless strength resident in the sinewy muscles of my arms and legs have defeated more than one victim…many for the last time.  My close cropped black hair, flecked with gray, sits atop a thickset face with an angry scar running from my right cheek to a mangled earlobe once savaged by some Circassian cunt who used her teeth, once too often, in a desperate attempt to snatch victory from my stranglehold of defeat.  First I tore her mouth…then I broke her neck.

 

My opponent, while tall, and despite a stately expanse of shoulders and pronounced biceps and thigh muscles evident above her knees, appears surprisingly agile and quick for her size, with smooth planes of muscle and tapered torso dissolving into a slim waistline. There is sheer physical presence evident in her carriage and the way she paces back and forth, rolling forward on the pads of her feet like a hungry lioness.  And for all her size and weight, not much fat on her.  The only softness I see is in the full swells of her breasts, ripe targets for my sharpened nails if it comes to that style of fighting.

 

They say these Greek bitches, for that is what my owner has told me she is, prefer the more classic style of fighting, mimicking their famous Olympic games played far to the west by their male counterparts.  But this is not Athens or Corinth, but Khandahar, another shit-hole of a town on the Silk Road linking the Roman and Han Empires.  The rules are different here in Central Asia, rather than under the gaze of the Caesars.

 

Still, this Greek whore has been a prisoner and slave for a long time.  She has been routinely beaten and savaged by her initial captors, and then a series of new owners, each growing rich by selling her pleasures…and strengths…in bed and out…from the marketplace of Nisa to the horse pens of Bactra…and now, here in the crumbling arena of Khandahar.

 

The manner in which she paces to-and-fro, nose clearly broken several times, and possessing like me, scars and scarcely healed wounds almost too many to count all over her body, bespeak hours spent in wrestling rings, shallow pits and around dusky campfires, fighting and wrestling for life…and living as a captive slave and concubine for what ever male has enough money for her services.

 

But this one may be different.  Like me, she may have an education, be schooled by male tutors in more than just sex and rough play, may be more intelligent…and deadly…than the normal shit from Central Asia and the Han Empire that I have destroyed on many occasions in the past.

 

Some camp followers have told me that she is close…very close…to another whore, this one a lustful Roman blonde who has sated the sexual thirst and sucked the cock of more than one man journeying on the Silk Road.  All they need is sufficient coin of the realm to pay the price demanded for servicing by a Roman woman.  Blonde ones, in particular natural ones, not dyed, are the pick of the litter here in Asia.  And they say this one has a temper about her…and a real knowledge of what satisfies a man…or woman…if the price is right.

 

Rumor has it that these two bitches, the blonde and this dusky one striding across from me, sleep together and enjoy one another’s company when the day’s journey is done.  Sometimes they perform before a paying audience that enjoys their manner of entertainment…wrestling playfully together…mimicking topless gladiators with wooden swords…or fucking for entertainment…and money.  Nothing hurtful, mind you.  Their owners are always careful with the merchandise…but they do certainly seem to have a way with one another.  At least, that’s what I am told.

 

I don’t know.  This longhaired Greek, born in Thrace her owner says, looks enough like a slut to like both men and women.  Just what I need, an opponent who enjoys it either way. Who knows, maybe I could have bed her, but now I want her body for fighting, not loving.  Does she know the difference between role playing with her blonde concubine, and fighting to the death with one schooled in the savageries of the arena from masters well beyond the Great Wall?  We shall see.

 

I remember their teachings well.  For victory is often as much a mental as a physical triumph.  Thus, I am always careful in what I believe from conventional campsite wisdom.  All this bullshit may be a trick intended by her owner to lure me into a false sense of confidence in easy victory over this woman so brazenly parading her sexual charms before the arena spectators…and me.  Still, I must agree she has the way about her.

 

From where I stand, impatiently flexing legs and arms, and waiting for the signal to begin this contest, I consider my opponent, whether she likes cock…or cunt…or both… to be dangerous.  I intend to eliminate her as soon as possible with the most dangerous holds I have learned over years fighting for my life in the bowels of the Han Empire.  I am considered a champion from Begram along the trade routes east to the Great Wall, and I do not intend to relinquish my title and reputation to this raven-haired nymphomaniac from beyond the Western Sea.

 

In fact, once I put her down, I’ll go after that lighter, less powerful bitch she fucks for fun.  They say this blonde knows her way about in bed with a mouth and hands well suited to give pleasure to male or female.  Well, we’ll see what good those lips, tongue and fingers will do for me.  And then when I’m done receiving her pleasures, my own arms will wind about her throat, choking the life from her corrupt, decadent body.  To kill a Roman…an opportunity every wrestler on the Silk Road longs for…it doesn’t get much better than this.

 

The arena Master of Ceremonies is done with his introductions…I wasn’t listening…and drops the silk banner signaling the beginning of the fight.  I approach my opponent quickly, not wanting to let her seize the initiative.  She seems momentarily lost in thought, perhaps longing for the caress of her blonde bitch seated prominently in the arena seats with a male consort.  So I take advantage of her inattentiveness, feint to the right, then quickly spin to the left, snapping a high kick into her jaw.  The dark-haired warrior remains upright, but staggers, heavy arching breasts presenting a tempting target.  I follow up with two more spinning kicks, driving the hapless Greek woman back into the wall.  As she seeks to protect her face and breasts I shift the object of my attack to the darkened thatch peering from between the thick, muscular thighs already moist with sweat.  I drive home shot after shot with feet and fists.

 

With my opponent stunned and reeling about the perimeter wall, I close in for heavy bodywork.  I muscle this Greek woman backwards, slamming her into the wall in a tangle of straining leg and thigh muscles.  Locking her up in a traditional wrestling embrace, our heads pressed tightly together, I snake my arms about her thick neck and broad upper back.  The Gods, this woman is big.  Strong…but either dumb or unfocused.  She should be providing more resistance to my onslaught.  You would think she learned how to fight in the whorehouses of Babylon with all the other losers of that once great empire.

 

As I clamp down hard, thumbs pressing in towards her windpipe, she at last seems to realize she is in a fight, not some pantomime put on for her owners.  Straining biceps bulge and thighs quiver and shake with stress and tension, as we twist and turn in each other’s sweat-sheathed grasp.  Although I have wrestled for years, my opponent, now that she has entered the contest mentally as well as physically, seems every bit as skilled as I.  She always seems able to throw my timing off, or knock me off balance, just before I sink in a hold or lock up in a limb shattering or paralyzing embrace that has lead me to victory in past arenas.

 

Our hard breathing blowing spittle and sweat over one another in the hot afternoon sun, the fighting in now in close, very close.  I suddenly drive her arms to her waist, twist outward and up, and break her hold.  A slashing blow to her groin, a cheap shot but I will seek every advantage.  As she clutches herself, I strike hard into her upper chest and breasts, drawing a pained grunt from the Thracian as she leans backward against the arena wall.  Pushing in closer with my shoulder to her breasts, my arms now pinning her’s against the wall, I press against her with all my weight. Her warm, bronze-colored nipples grow tight and hard before me, sweat dripping off their delicate pointed tips.

 

Our moist bodies slapping together in rhythmic cadence, are suddenly broken apart by a withering knee to my crotch that forces me to break the hold to avoid a repetition of her defensive action.

 

So…this Greek cunt knows ways other than those of the Olympiad to fight!

 

I am hurting and narrowly avoid a follow-on fist aimed at my head.  But the Greek woman rears her head back, then slams forward, driving her forehead into my eyes and nose.  A searing pain rocks my body…it is momentarily dark…then bright lights…then I feel the strong arms of my opponent seizing my head in a locking hold, biceps straining as she twists first to the right and then the left, ramming the side of my head into her rock hard hips, attempting to break my neck.  As I expected, this Greek she-bitch is dangerous.

 

I am desperate, and in my tunnel vision with head twisted well to one side, see a large pendulous breast of my opponent before me.  I first tear at it with hands and nails, to seemingly no effect. So I grab the large orb with my left hand, and jam as much of it as possible into my mouth…and bite down hard.  I taste blood and skin.

 

The resulting shriek and near instantaneous release of the mind-numbing hold tell me of the success of my desperate tactics, and I shake my head and clear the blood from my eyes and nose as I back away from my opponent feverishly cradling her torn and bleeding breast, tears streaming from pain-wracked eyes, upper body a near continuous spasm of pain and agony.  Her breasts jiggle provocatively, but in fear of what comes next.  And she knows it will not be the climatic sexual ecstasy of a bedroom encounter with her blonde companion.

 

Taking a sudden gamble in a moment of creative delight, one of my hallmarks as a champion, I dive for the Greek woman’s legs, hitting them hard just above the knees, driving her over on to her taut ass.  I then quickly follow-up by further rolling her back on her shoulders.  I am now in charge.  Vengeance is mine. I scramble to lie belly-to-knee, breast-to-breast, with this Greek woman.

 

As I wrap my legs tightly around her tapered waist, mouth adjacent to the lush, dripping lips of her cunt, would not every man, and not a few women watching this contest, pay dearly to be in the position I am in now!  Hah!  Fuck me to tears!

 

The Greek struggles, though somewhat lamely.  I think she is hurting, though maybe shaming.  Ever careful, I slowly work to pull her forward toward me, finally crushing my cheek to her breast.  I now hold this Thracian hellcat fast with a tight, two-handed grip about her head.  My arms tremble with the strength of my crushing hold.  The Greek’s lips are twisted in pain and anguish, eyes nearly shut in agony, bloody spittle drooling out of a mouth framed by swollen lips.

 

I bend my body further forward, intent on squeezing both breath and the will to fight out of this raven-haired warrior.  Curling both my arms, head secured firmly and tightly against my chest in a smothering hold, I place pointed, excruciating pressure on her neck.  The Greek Amazon lets out a further strangled gasp of pain, her powerful legs and full quaking thighs now churning weakly in the arena dirt.  This is one of my favorite holds, learned many years ago when I was new to the trade.  More than one opponent has succumbed to its deadly intent.

 

Sensing her near unconscious state, I turn to the side, bending her torso over, ramming her head into the ground.  Pivoting to one knee, I press the other hard to her throat and reaching back, grab her left thigh and pull forward.  She thrashes in desperation, pushing against my knee crushing her windpipe, trying to twist out from underneath my body weight.  Squirming beneath me, she finally does manage to turn over and dislodge my knee from her throat.  But her efforts to get out from under me are fruitless.  Her face, wreathed in choking and gagging dirt, desperately sucking in air, is now showing the strain of the punishment I have been meting out. Her eyes bespeak an expression of continual pain, her tousled hair splashed in mud and blood from a jagged gash on her forehead.  One more scar to add to her collection. But then it may not matter much longer.

 

I want the kill, but am not content to rest on my achievements to date in cutting this Thracian woman warrior down to size.  I want to humiliate my opponent, make her beg for mercy before these spectators, make her blond whore plead in vain for her lover’s life, before I end her fruitless struggle.  I quickly renew my attack on her left leg, seizing it, pulling up and forward and bending it savagely at the knee.  Pivoting off the small of her back, I quickly roll up the right leg also, chopping savagely at the back of the joint to bend this knee, and then cross over its twin, creating an awkward lash-up.  I pull back with all my weight and power towards the neck.  The pressure on her joints combined with the bowing weight placed on the base of the spine result in the Greek woman raising herself on both elbows, beating fists into the dirt and howling in anguished pain at this wrestling hold I also learned from a master in the land of Chin.

 

I continue rearing back, but two desperate grabs by my opponent at my hair suggest a reversal of my position astride her back.  Quickly releasing her legs, a pulverizing forearm blow to the back of the head dazes the prostrate Greek woman while I adjust position.  Now straddling her lower back with my own torso, I again lean forward, pinning her shoulders to the arena floor.  Then leveraging myself up on one knee, I drive a foot deep into the area between her thighs.  The Thracian whore yells in pain, hands desperately jammed between the front of her body and the ground, trying to protect her vulnerable crotch.  I take advantage of this placement by jumping with full force on her upper back, grabbing her hair at the roots with both hand, and ramming her head repeatedly into the ground.  She is defenseless, arms pinned under her torso, itself entrapped between my lithe, clinched thighs.  Lifting my head in exultation to the sky I cry out, “Bitch, it is a good day to die!”

 

Suddenly, as if in response to my shout of triumph, I feel her ass and lower back rising behind me, as she squirms to get to her knees.  Now her hands are again free, and scrambling and tearing at my lower legs.  Now she is on both hands and knees.  A quick pitch down, lowering her head, and I am thrown face first in to the arena dirt, where only moments before my opponent’s head had been beaten, her body seemingly defenseless to my maneuvers.

 

Now it is my turn to sense brutality, to taste arena dirt in my mouth, feel it fill my eyes and mouth, as the Greek wrestler goes, with flashing fists and sharpened nails, first for my cunt, and then as I roll over, continue the assault on my breasts, mouth and eyes.  As I suspected, she is a fighter schooled in the dregs of society.  None of Aristotle, Alexander or any of this classic Greek bullshit about her.  She is but a wild animal…as intent on killing me…as I am her.

 

Now squealing as sharp pain wracks my facial area, I attempt to spin away, but at first to no avail.  My head rocks repeatedly from sharp blows. My upper chest spasms in pain as fiercely hard punches drive between and on my breasts and deep into my belly.  If I do not develop a counter quickly, I will not win.

 

Then…inspiration born of desperation! Digging both hands into the arena dirt, I fling forward, unexpected, full into the face of my tormentress.  I quickly follow up, grinding what’s left on my moist palms into her eyes.  She is taken aback, blind, and her hesitation, flailing and groping to clear her eyes gives me the time I need to slash her low in the cunt, and as she rocks back in pain, spin out from under her straddling thighs.  I scramble to my feet, lucky this time.  I must finish her quickly though.  She is as strong as she looks…and vicious to boot.  The Gods, it is hot!

 

I back away momentarily…thinking… as she regains her feet, still clearing her eyes and tying to restore her sight.  I must fight smarter, sensing what my opponent plans on doing and how to counter it before I fall prey to this Amazon’s superior size and weight.  I consider my own condition.  The blows to my nose and eyes did not result in as much damage as I initially feared.  Think…think!

 

Then suddenly, only half seeing, arms wide open to ensure snaring her prey, she is upon me.  Pulling me in close and holding tightly with one muscular arm, she digs into my side and belly with the other.  Now she pushes me away, steadying herself against the arena wall, and lifts a knee, ramming it hard between my legs, into my soft luxurious fur.  Again she does it, a smile breaking out as she obviously relishes the feel of skin-on-skin, her rough-skinned kneecap rubbing against the soft moist lips of my cunt.  Again, she drives between my hot, sweaty thighs.  She is enjoying life now.

 

I move closer to clinch up this whore, locking my hands behind her neck, driving my forehead, teeth barred, into the soft area between her neck and shoulder blade.  Our breasts entwine together, swaying to-and-fro in the dance of mortal combat as we swirl around each other.

 

Now I seize the initiative, driving a thigh between the outstretched legs of this Amazon before me. The resulting cry of pain tinged with excitement telling me I have scored on more than one level.  But rather than break from the clinch, she now employs sharpened nails, tearing deep furrows down my back and across my exposed buttocks.  Excited by the smell and feel of another body entrapped in her embrace, the Greek woman sinks her face into my shoulder area, her razor sharp teeth soon tearing into my flesh.  In desperation I drive a solid fist into her stomach, and in the ensuing exhaust of breath and recoil, I spin left and throw my opponent against the arena wall.

 

I grab a handful of the Thracian woman’s dark tresses with my right hand, pinning her with my right knee.  Cocking my left arm back, I drive a solid fist hard into her stretched, heavy belly.  Another left fist, this time a little lower…and I feel my hand penetrate deeply into the rigid abdominal muscles that are clearly a source of pride, strength and adulation to this Greek warrior woman.  Another blow, and this time my knuckles seem to separate the yielding muscles of my opponent.  Again…and again…I am now penetrating deep into her internals.  She cries out in anguished pain, bending over nearly to her knees, engulfing my arm up to the elbow in the contortions of her ravaged frame.

 

I pull her heavily to an upright position, her once firm footing now uncertain and swaying as she leans on me for support.  I pull and push and bully her at will.  Is this the best the Greek’s have to offer?  I sense victory is near, but want to prolong the contest for as long as possible so that my earnings will be enough to allow me some time off.  I reach between the Greek’s sweaty thighs, hoist her half way up, then unceremoniously dump her down in a heap of tangled limbs and heavy, labored breathing on the arena floor.

 

I haul her to both knees and begin working on the big woman’s shoulders and neck with tearing hands and nails.  As I draw blood, seeking to separate muscle and tendon from bone, to increase my leverage I lean further down on her with all my weight.  I want to destroy the haughty composure of this Amazon, all the power and pride expressed in this magnificent body within my victorious grasp.  I want to embarrass this whore before her admirers and lover, eliminate the confidence she exuded pacing in the arena before the contest.  I want to render impotent all that is Greek arrogance in my victim…and want her to know what I have done to her…in front of her audience…before she dies.

 

She is not moving much now…seems resigned to just absorbing the punishment I have been dishing out.  Growing tired of working my fingers into the large shoulder muscles of my increasingly listless opponent, I momentarily break, grab a handful of dark hair, and haul my hapless victim to her feet.  I quickly spin around and clamp a tight hold around her breasts and rib cage from behind, flexing my knees and rearing back briefly to re-set my hold.  The Greek woman’s arms dangle uselessly at her side, breath coming in tortured, labored gasps tinged with a suggestion of defeat and resignation.

 

Seizing the moment, I quickly spin around to the front again, throw a low, strong shoulder block into the belly, and drive this seemingly despondent Amazon into the arena wall.  I hear the air whoosh from her lungs and watch her distracted and distant eyes carefully.  I am now grinning from ear-to-ear and the crowd adds its vocal support to my efforts.  I throw two downward clubbing punches at breasts and ribs, then ducking under feeble counters, grab the Greek wrestler around the waist, flex, and throw her over my shoulder.

 

She lands with a dull thud, arms and legs splayed out, a seemingly helpless quarry ripe for the kill.  I kneel alongside her, ramming her face into the arena dirt again and again.  Holding her sweat soaked hair at its roots, I half twist her head to the right.  As her body rolls with this movement to minimize the neck strain, I drive a right knee into her battered upper chest, crushing first one breast than the other.  Now releasing my grip, I raise my arms high in the air, hands clasped together, and club them into the base of the Greek’s skull.  A full body shudder racks the meat positioned below me.  The end is near.

 

Crying out again in triumph, I reach for the tangled mass of hair. But as I bend down the Greek whore half spins to her knees, drives sharpened nails tearing and scratching into my crotch, and as I momentarily freeze, slams the heel of her hand flat into my nose, following up with a nail rake to both my eyes.  I fall back on my ass, and quickly she is around to my back, taloned hands sinking into my shoulder muscles at the base of my neck.  This is my hold that I used on her…and the pain is excruciating. Now she clubs me on the side of the neck.  My head snaps…I see bright flashes…darkness…then a hazy view of the arena crowd before me, hushed in rapt attention at the struggle being played out before them.

 

I can barely breath, blood trickles from my nose.  The Greek half rises, leans against me, and shouts something into my ear in a language I do not understand.

 

I am strangling…dry heaves rack my upper body.

 

With a stunning blow to my neck, the paralyzing hold is suddenly released, but as feeling slowly returns to my upper body, her hands, from behind, rake my eyes again.  As I react in shock and alarm, blood rapidly filling my sockets, she pivots on her right knee, and sweeping a muscular left leg out beyond her in a wide arc, smashes into my upper chest and throat area, knocking me backwards.  I hit the dirt hard, but the shock to my spine is quickly replaced by a searing pain in my belly as the Amazon, sensing a deciding moment, sinks her hands into the firm meat of my abdomen in a twisting, agonizing claw hold.  The Gods, where does she get such strength?

 

My legs shudder in pain, my hands desperately scrambling to rid myself of this ten-fingered growth gnawing into my vitals.  I vainly lash the ground with my legs, trying to rid myself of this searing grip to the point of exhaustion with my fists.  Impervious to it all, the suddenly invigorated whore regains both knees and pours the hold on, leaning with her full weight on to my agonized stomach.

 

I am bleeding, inside and out…I can feel it…my muscles abdominals being torn apart inside of me. Both belly and shoulder spasm under the impact of continued assault.

 

I look up through a dark red haze.  The Greek woman, through a mask of blood, sweat and dirt, is smiling…drooling… teeth barred like some half-crazed animal, muttering to herself as she goes about her work methodically.  Just another day in the arena!

 

I try to scissor upwards to wrench this presence away from me, but my efforts fail, and instead the Amazon pulls me in closer and reaches down over my back to grab my buttocks, engulfing me in the concave expanse of her deep rib cage and the striated muscles of her abdomen.  I can barely breathe, my hands searching in vain for some counter as they flail against my opponent’s hips and thighs.  The muscles of my arms swell in a desperate attempt to gain breathing space between the thick thighs of my tormentress, but my clawing and punching lacks the power needed to break this suffocating hold.  I am losing.

 

I can feel the Greek’s thrusting breasts, nipples hard as nails from the stimulation and ecstasy of combat, sliding down my back.  Hands press firmly against my waist.  Fingers and sharpened nails now move lower, finding purchase in the muscles of my upper thighs.  She pulls hard on my hamstrings.

 

I continue to twist vainly from side-to-side, somehow seeking to escape this hold and the moist passion of throbbing muscle, sweat-drenched skin and fetid breath that has engulfed my face and nose.  I convulse…vainly searching for air.

 

With my chin pressed nearly into my chest under the full weight of my opponent’s body, my breath begins to come in short spasms and increasingly harsh rattles.  Darkness periodically engulfs my vision, only to be starkly relieved by bolds streaks of lightning that snap me from my nauseous reverie.  First darkness…then blinding light…and all the while the lusty grunts of my opponent and the sounds of our labored breathing are accompanied by the cheers and urgings of a crowd enthralled by the spectacle of naked combat before them, but growing increasingly distant in their remonstrance.  I realize for the Greek bitch may win this struggle.  I am resigned to my fate.  There will be another day.

 

Suddenly there is a dull snap, like that of a stick under the weight of a jungle predator.  Not particularly painful…an almost quiet tremor.  Distantly in a whirling image, I see the Greek woman’s face, smiling…no leering…above me…sweat dripping from forehead, cruel lips and thrusting breasts, on to my own body.  Surprisingly, it feels cool to the touch.  The thick muscular thighs are now in focus before my eyes, dancing and undulating before my moist, still lips, their pronounced sculpture rising from knee to groin enhanced by the strength of their crushing exertions.

 

I remain slumped over, head between my knees, strangely content to remain motionless.  I want to move, but first, I wish the crowd would go away.

 

The Greek wrestler further disentangles herself from my body, languidly uncoiling as a large snake might after crushing life from its prey.  Standing above me now, teeth barred in barely concealed delight at the fruits of her victory, the Amazon bounces on the balls of her feet, shaking out the last spasms of fearless combat.  With both arms raised high above her head, she turns slowly, basking in the adulation of the crowd, always seeking out the eyes and admiration of her lover.

 

But strangely, the crowd seem to be cheering less with each turn of her splendid, naked body, pendulous breasts erect and thighs quivering with the passion of victorious combat.

 

As if to heighten interest, she bends down, raises my sodden limp head by its nearly shorn hair, gazes deeply into my unblinking eyes, and with a shout of adulation, releases me to fall back into the arena dirt.  Now though, it is even quieter than before. The crowd must be going home, content to have gotten their money’s worth from this afternoon’s combat.  It is also getting cooler as the sun relents, rapidly sinking into the western mountains.

 

All I want to do is to stretch out, recoup my strength, regain my breath and attend to my wounds.  There are surely more battles to come…more contests in which to challenge my Greek nemesis.  I hope she does not go away with tonight’s caravan heading towards the West.  I want to exact my revenge…lift her still head, as she has mine, before the cheering masses.

 

Meanwhile, for today, she has earned her victory…and tonight, the lustful wanton pleasures of her blonde whore.  She was there today, watching with barely concealed interest and concern the entire conduct of our contest.  I know…I could sense her pining away in the bleachers, hand between her thighs or caressing her barely concealed breasts, concerned when her lover was being beaten, ecstatic and beside herself with climatic pleasure when the Greek wrestler achieved final victory.

 

But why is the object of her loving self-caresses still here, walking around, shouting to the heavens, basking in the aftermath of her hard-fought victory?  Why don’t you go home to your blonde Roman bitch and leave me alone?   I silently ask again but no one can hear me.  In fact, every one is now ignoring me, as if I were no longer here.

 

Never mind, I am so tired.  I want to lie out, stretching my legs before me.  I want to feel the warming hands of the masseuse kneading oil into my strained muscles, slashed forehead and savaged groin.  Please go I wordlessly plead with my Greek tormentress.  Go to your Roman she-bitch and leave me alone.

 

Now it’s getting much colder, and I long to feel the warm caress of my trainer.  Where is he?  Please go…please…