In honor of Valentine’s Day 2026, here is another story of female dominance in ancient times, free and complete right here, hot on the “heels” (pun intended) of my previous yarn, the bawdy Helen of Troy Gets a Foot Massage. This is a bit more serious. I wrote the first drafts in another unsettling period of history, the year 2001, when I was closer in age to my patrician protagonist, Marcus Livius Proverbius. The female character was originally called Britanna and was inspired by the beautiful Britney Spears who was most beguiling to me back then when I saw her wearing a pink 1960s-style twin-set sweater and pencil skirt on a giant poster in Times Square. Tempis fugit or, as I like to say, tempis fudge it! In any language, time flies. This has never been published before. I think my holding onto it and tinkering with it has benefited the telling. In some ways, I am a different and better writer than I was in 2001. Enjoy it perhaps as femdom roleplay in Roman garb…but a sincere tale, nonetheless, of erotic and emotional love, as well as deep distress, during the tyranny of one of the maddest of the Caesars. Travel back in time with me to witness…
Femdom fiction by Irv O. Neil
IN WHAT WE NOW CALL THE YEAR 65 A.D., the Roman emperor Nero was conducting a reign of terror against all those close to him. There had been an assassination conspiracy, and in lunatic retaliation Nero indiscriminately ordered the suicides and executions of even those innocent of any involvement. Marcus Livius Proverbius, a patrician and poet, fell into the deepest despair of all when he learned that his dear friend Seneca, the Stoic philosopher, had been forced to take his own life.
The sun shone over a blue sky in Rome. But the generous afternoon light that filled the atrium of Marcus’s house seemed like a jest of the gods. More appropriate to the Eternal City would be a cloud, such as had covered Rome only a year earlier during the Great Fire, for which Nero provided mad accompaniment on the lyre. And at any moment now, Marcus felt that he too could be ordered to open his veins at Caesar’s cackling whim. Marcus was forty-nine years old, and although he supposed he had lived a long enough life, he could not accept the idea of death in the calm manner of Seneca.
Looking up from the wax tablet on which he was writing a new epigram, Marcus saw his slavegirl Bridgina enter the room. He wondered if the girl suspected that she had long been his supreme private goddess, his last talisman against the insanity that had enveloped the world.
She was a slave in his house and yet in his mind had long been his own private deity! (Click on the picture to see it full size.)
“Master, the cook wishes to know if you want the pheasant this evening.” Her voice had a youthful tone that was charmingly balanced by her serious demeanor.
“Ah yes, the pheasant. Certainly, the pheasant.” Marcus could have done with a simple bowl of broth, but if there was pheasant, he was glad of it. It was remarkable how, when he looked upon the honey-colored tresses of this Hibernian girl of twenty-four summers, upon the openness of her face and the gentleness of her smile, that he could fool himself that all was right with the Universe. True, within a moment his whole world could collapse, with the knock of a centurion on his door, bringing orders of doom from Nero; but that moment was not yet here; instead, the warmth of this girl’s presence filled Marcus’s eyes, and was reality enough.
Ah, Marcus wanted to forget it all and fall to the floor and kiss Bridgina’s warm small sandaled feet, quiet in their soft tread. He wanted to worship her for the comfort she gave him in his secret mind. He wondered if she could read this in his eyes.
That night he dined alone. Reclining on a couch, he ate and drank sparingly. He ordered the remains of his meal be given to those begging for alms down the road. “In the face of a beggar, we see reflected the vanity of our wealth,” he had once written, “wealth which is but a mask over our misfortune.”
Bridgina came into the room to serve him more wine. As usual, she seemed filled with contentment. She smiled at him as she poured. She wore a light blue tunic which came to her knees. Her arms and legs were the most exquisite ivory. She was his property. Although such was not his custom like that of so many masters, he could have summarily taken her if it were his will. But he wanted something else…he did not want to “take” her or anybody…he wanted…he wanted…!
“Let me ask you a question, Bridgina. Why is it when the world is going mad, you are still able to smile?”
“Why shouldn’t I smile, master? I refuse to give away my happiness to Nero.” Her young bosom rose with passion as she spoke.
“And what makes you happy? Living in this house with a gloomy bad poet for a master? Or perhaps you have a fine lover who warms your bed?”
All the slaves in his house were used to Marcus’s amusingly frank talk, so Bridgina merely answered casually: “Master, I await the lover who awaits me.” Her bosom rose again as she held the amphora of wine.
“You may go back to the kitchen now,” he said, suddenly filled with yearning and sadness. Carrying his goblet of honey-sweetened wine, he walked from the dining room to the atrium. Now reflected in the pool was the crescent moon. He sat down on the edge and looked into the clear water. What lover “awaited” Bridgina? It could not be his aged self. Rather some fierce, handsome gladiator who filled the hearts of slaves and fine ladies alike with dreams? A Thracian or a Gaul, who would scoop her up in sinewed arms for a performance worthy of Priapus? For in what manner did he, Marcus Proverbius, wish to love Bridgina? Over the course of the last two years since he had bought her in the slave market, he had built an altar to her in his mind, and he wished not to express his awe through animalistic thrusts but through kisses of adoration for her beauty, beginning at those feet, those delicate feet.
His house had been spared by Fortune during the Great Fire. He wondered if this too were a jest of the gods, to torment him with the thought that another kind of misfortune awaited him–the cruel caprices of Nero. But misfortune awaited all men, did it not? The misfortune which was the inevitability of death, an end to the taste of wine, the warmth of sunlight, the sound of Bridgina’s voice, and the sight of her bare legs under the blue tunics she favored.
He was a poor student of the Stoics. Perhaps it was not in his nature to move with imperturbable grace through this world. With all he had inherited from his family, for all the ease and luxury of his life, he was alone. Sometimes he wondered if he would be better as a slave…as a slave to the slavegirl Bridgina. Hadn’t he once written–
“The aristocrat who envies the servant is a curious creature,
Yet wealth has many forms that even the slave may possess.”
Suddenly there was a commotion in the front of the house. Moments later, Bridgina hurried into the atrium.
“Master, word has come that Gaius Claudius Publicus has committed suicide at the Emperor’s command!”
Alas! Another friend lost to the blood cravings of a fiend! Bridgina was not smiling now. She had always enjoyed the droll Publicus, who brought a sly wit into Marcus’s house that entertained patrician and slave alike.
“Farewell, Gaius…” whispered Marcus. In the reflected moonlight that filled the atrium with shimmering curtains of shadow, suddenly Bridgina seemed to Marcus like the last hope in all the fearful world. He had to reach out for this hope! He gathered his toga as if to fortify his person for whatever foolishness might come of his next words.
“Bridgina, the lover who awaits you is–myself.”
“Master, did you not hear what I just said?”
“Yes, Gaius is dead! Once here, now departed. Oh Bridgina, ‘We are but dreams made flesh, returned to dreams forever through the poison of a purple serpent!’ The serpent is the debauched monster Nero, clothed in the raiments of a Caesar! If only I could express myself as I had hoped to in my youth, Bridgina, in my youth! That has not come to pass…but unlike Seneca or Gaius, I am at least still alive! And I live for you!” He fell onto the tiles before her, and looked up at her eyes. “And perhaps the only great poem of my life will be the lines I breathe in devotion to you, oh my goddess Bridgina!”
“Master…” Her blue eyes were wide under her dark, long lashes.
They were before him now, her feet, in the thin straps of the leather sandals, and he moved his face downwards to kiss. There was wailing in other rooms from the slaves, as Gaius Publicus had been well-loved by all and the news struck deep. But as the other servants came into the atrium, they found their master prostrate on the floor, his face pressed against Bridgina’s arches.
She stood motionless, looking down at him, then turned her face to the other slaves. With a quick movement of her head, she indicated they should leave the room. Then she looked down at Marcus.
“Master…”
He held her ankles in his fingers and kissed her insteps and toes. “Goddess Bridgina, do not forsake me!”
“Master, I am not a goddess.”
“But you are,” he said, whispering against her heels. “You have been sent here to protect me. You are greater than Diana herself! You need no arrows or hound to stride the world of men, but only your sweetness, your quiet beauty!” And he kissed her feet with abandon now, his lips moving from toe to toe.
He would make her his queen. Enough of his poetic career! He would become solely her acolyte!
Suddenly he got up on his knees. “May I, Bridgina,” he said, looking into her face, “may I see you in your elegant nakedness?” Then he watched her contemplate him and wondered what thoughts spun through her head.
“Here, master? Now?”
“Yes! You are beyond modesty, oh great nymph!”
She bit her lower lip, then began to nod as her eyes filled with what he knew was understanding. Indeed, he had purchased her as much for her quick wit and native intelligence as for her beauty! “Yes,” she finally said. “You may see me naked.”
Marcus noted that for the first time, ever, she had just left off the salutation “master” in addressing him.
She undid the belt around the waist of her tunic and then gracefully shrugged her shoulders out. As the garment slid towards the floor, Marcus caught it in his hands and gently helped her step out. Then he pressed the blue fabric to his face to inhale the aroma of her body, before he raised his eyes to behold her nudity. His gaze moved with awe over the suppleness of her form, from her high ivory breasts with the coin-like nipples to the sleek tautness of her belly to the small patch of abundant blonde curls that concealed the divine treasure at the juncture of her thighs.
“You are the Sweet Young Mother of the Universe,” he whispered. “Greater than Juno, Venus, Astarte, Hecate, or all the rest! And do not think me mad!” He took her right hand and kissed it, then began to suck on her thumb. She stared at him in disbelief, then began to softly laugh. He didn’t stop sucking, however. If she laughed, so be it! She was a goddess and could do as she willed. She’d know if he deserved laughter! But as the seriousness of his passion became clear to her, she turned quiet again. He reached beneath his toga to grasp his member.
He did not speak more, because he was still on his knees sucking her thumb. At the same time, he silently stroked his shaft. He felt content for the first time in many months…nay, years! She watched him, running her free hand through her hair and down across her breasts, and her nipples were stiffening into dart-like points.
He stared at her breasts as he sucked her thumb, and as if she could see into his thoughts she led him over to the edge of the pool, where she sat down so that her bosom was level with his face. Taking her hand from his mouth, she said, “Remove your garment, Marcus Livius…Lost Son of the Universe!” Still on his knees, he undid the toga until it massed on the floor in a heap. His body was pudgy, but looked like that of a forest satyr’s bathed in the moonlight that descended upon them. His erect phallus leaked its fulsome elixir.
“Come to me,” Bridgina said, and edged him closer so that he could take her right nipple in his mouth.
Marcus latched onto her hungrily, feeling the texture and strength of the motherly nub, one hand stroking her breasts while his other grasped his shaft. He sucked hard and long, moaning and sighing in the deep of his throat.
Bridgina caressed his gray, thinning hair, letting her fingers move down to his chin to feel the rough stubble that sprang to his face in the night hours. He knew he was acting like a mere babe with her, throwing his patrician dignity at her feet, but it didn’t matter, did it, when they were living in the last days of the world? Or of his world, his life? For when indeed would Nero send the order of suicide to Marcus Livius Proverbius, devoted friend of the recently purged “traitors” Seneca and Gaius Publicus?
Greedy, desperate, without asking, Marcus moved his lips to her other breast. But startlingly, Bridgina pushed him back.
“If I am the Sweet Young Mother of the Universe, Marcus Livius, you must take only when I give to you.” All spoken in her girlish voice with serious eyes.
“Yes, Bridgina.”
“Yes, Sweet Young Mother Bridgina,” she corrected.
“Yes, Sweet Young Mother Bridgina.”
“Then if you understand, you may suck. But gently.” And she gave him her other nipple.
Marcus fell upon the exquisite nugget, all the while stroking himself. It was as if Time ceased to exist and the whole Universe had collapsed into their two bodies under the moon. There was an aroma of the kitchen about her body and on her hands, of spices and honey and wine, and it mingled with her girlish sweat and produced what he knew was the unique perfume of a singular deity. He looked down for a moment, her left nipple still in his mouth, and then saw her feet cross in a most lovely feminine ease at the ankles. The goddess at her leisure, nursing her charge, crossing her slender smooth ankles and wiggling her plump, delicate toes! An image worthy of a new poem! But would he ever write again? Enraptured by her warmth, almost crying in his happiness, he began to spurt instead. White and thick, the potion sprayed from the head of his shaft.
“Gentle Lost Son of the Universe,” she whispered, holding his face to her breasts as he moaned and twitched uncontrollably, “you are eager like a lad, not a man.”
His hand was drenched in his spendings. She reached down and brought his sticky palm to his face and said, “You must eat it, Marcus Livius. Put it back inside so that you will have the strength to please your Sweet Young Mother Bridgina further.”
He had never before heard words like this from a woman. He began to lap at his palm while she stared and smiled at him. The courtesans of his youth and manhood were unimaginative compared to her! He suddenly felt proud and hoped that it was he who had set off this spark of Dionysian genius within Bridgina, this slavegirl whom he had revealed to herself as a goddess! But then he realized too that he knew so little about her. Had never asked enough questions. What had her life been like before she came to his house? What travails, or ecstasies, had she experienced? What gambols or graspings? Was she as innocent as he liked to think? As pure, as divine? No, no, it was too much to contemplate…maybe, simply, she’d had inklings herself, before knowing Marcus, that she was a goddess…
“How shall I please you then, Sweet Young Mother?”
Bridgina looked down at him for a moment with an expression he had never seen from her before: pity, as if she were surprised that he did not already know what would please her most. And her pity excited him. She spread open her thighs to reveal the core of her beauteous body, petals moistened by the dampness of excitement. She took him by the head. “To your task now, my eager lost lad.”
There was no sound but the intense licking and sucking of his mouth as he absorbed the vibrant heat of her sacred opening, which gushed with delectable wetness. As he lapped, he looked at her face, calm in the moonlight, bemused at his readiness, and then finally aroused at his skill. Indeed, more than one courtesan had complimented him on his tongue. But it had never found such a worthy destination as Bridgina!
He found the shiny pink pearl of her womanhood, and polished it to a heated alertness that made her finally clutch his head between her thighs. “Marcus…MARCUS LIVIUS!!” She groaned out her passion. Consorting thus with a celestial nymph, Marcus had become fully hard again too. It did not escape her attention. When she calmed down from her quaking, she smiled and then stood up. Her inner thighs dripping with moisture, she turned and pressed her bare buttocks to his face for the first time. “These too are worthy of your adoration, Lost Son of the Universe. Kiss them!”
His whole spirit rushed to her backside, not just his face. Soon he was savoring the firm smooth surface, feeling the celestial curves leading to the drenched crevice. Reaching behind, she pulled her cheeks apart to reveal the last unseen place.
“Lick it!” she cried.
And to her nether hole he plunged with his tongue, his nose catching the pungent fragrances which would have put all the perfumes of Messalina and Cleopatra to shame. This was the door to the darkest chamber of her body, and it was overwhelming to be so close to it! Here he was now, a slave to a slavegirl, a patrician undone! The world itself was undone! Such was the madness in the days of Nero! Yet he would be rescued–by his love for Bridgina!
“Sweet Young Mother Bridgina,” he gasped, “I love you beyond all love!” His face slid from her buttocks to her thighs to her calves to her feet, leaving a trail of saliva all the way down. And with his mouth pressed again to her toes, he spurted once more, this time over the tiles of the moonlit atrium.
“What darkness finally departs for he who voices
His urgent yearning for a safe place to sleep!”
This epigram, a recent one, went through his mind as he came back to his senses, or what he deemed was left of them. He was on the floor at Bridgina’s feet. Yes, at last he had found a safe place to sleep…at her feet, even on these tiles. She sat herself down once again on the edge of the pool, then said, “And what shall we do now, Marcus Livius Proverbius?”
“You are the Sweet Young Mother of the Universe,” he whispered against her toes. “You must decide.”
And so it came to pass that Marcus Livius, in the year now known as 65 A.D., became a servant to a slavegirl in his own household, a most unsettling spectacle to the court of Nero. She was still formally his slave–to free her legally would have brought too much controversy and dangerous scrutiny–but in all other respects she was now his master, and master of the household too. The situation was viewed both with tolerant amusement and conservative alarm by the other patricians as an eccentric expression of the mind and sensibility of Marcus Livius Proverbius, whose writings had never been held in too much esteem with all their imitative aspirations to high literary quality.
Marcus encouraged the slaves to serve Bridgina as he now would. Bridgina became supreme mistress of his estate and finances, and of his very mind and body, and when she wasn’t working hard supervising things, or reading and writing poetry of her own–she had never before revealed to him such interests!–she was most enchantingly seen sitting contemplatively in the atrium, playing with a favorite kitten.
Nero branded all this, of course, in his typically dramatic manner, as a tragedy worthy of Homer, and decided that the gods themselves had punished Marcus with this bizarre obsessive folly more thoroughly than Nero himself ever could, in the event of whatever treason might be uncovered by his functionaries…
And thus did the patrician and poet Marcus Livius Proverbius survive the reign of Rome’s maddest emperor, living as a happy and obedient acolyte to the Goddess Bridgina, the Sweet Young Mother of His Universe, until his natural death twenty years later at the age of sixty-nine.
THE END
————————–
ADORATION OF THE SLAVEGIRL ©2026 Irv O. Neil
The illustration was created using the A.I. program on my stock photography account at depositphotos.com.
If you enjoyed this tale, visit my Amazon page for more of my femdom fiction in my Erotic Library, and “slice of life” psychological stories in my Specialty Library. Especially if you like historical erotica, check out the exciting novella Spoilt Princess Grace Meets Blackbeard the Pirate, inspired by a real life modern Irish dominatrix! All are available as Kindle ebooks which can be read on phones, tablets, computers, and of course e-readers. Just click here. And do peruse this blog for lots more information about all these stories.
Thanks as always for browsing and reading Erotica Is My Trade!
And P.S.! Please feel free to leave comments after you read this or any of my posts. You can easily leave them anonymously if you wish. Thanks in advance!~~Irv
Irv O. Neil's EROTICA IS MY TRADE 
