Saga of Sonja
Registered User
- Joined
- Nov 25, 2023
- Messages
- 28
- Points
- 28
Second historical fiction, the first of two parts, hope you enjoy!
Queen Amanirenas is someone I came across recently, and because of where her kingdom (Kush) is, I can tenuously claim her as a relative of mine (obviously unlikely, but I'm going to any way). This is the fan art I was using as a loose reference point for her: https://teamqueens.org/wp-content/uploads/2022/12/amanirenas.png
I make no promises of tight historical accuracy- as a woman I'm unable to think obsessively about the Roman Empire, according to that recent meme.
***************************************
21 BC, Kingdom of Kush, modern day Egypt/Sudan
My name is Amanirenas, queen of the Kushite Empire, the greatest civilisation the world has ever known. My mighty kingdom straddles the great Nile, mightiest of all rivers, and with endless fertile ground given as a blessing from the gods. It is by their divine might that I rule, now entering my twenty-third year. But all is not well. From the North, the empire of Rome thrusts its incursions into my lands. Led by the fearsome General Petronius, known as the Butcher of Memphis, it now falls upon me, the champion of the gods, to rise out to meet him in the field. Across the nile, I sail downstream atop my royal barge, whilst thousands of my soldiers traverse the banks, keeping pace with my passage.
“Want another massage, Ama?” asks my handmaiden, Nysa.
“Queen Amanirenas,” I remind her with a dismissive scowl that does little to diminish the sparkle in her green eyes. She’s an exotic thing, with golden hair like sunlight, and hails from a distant northern land called Greece. She was sold into my service a year ago, around the age of nineteen.
“Oh, sorry! Well, my queen, another massage?”
“I’ll pass.” Her last massage was hardly relaxing. As I lay face down on the stone table, her probing fingers had a habit of trying to massage my rib and sides, or even around the outskirts of my armpits, constantly making me flinch. Were she not so innocent I’d have said she was doing it deliberately.
I instead order her to reapply my heavy, swishing eyeliner, redrawing the dark wings that curve out to the edge of my cheekbones like the wings of a scarab beetle. She then adjusts my gold gilded, beaded collar, that spreads out from around my neck to beyond the base of my shoulders, as befitting divine royalty. The egg-sized lapis lazuli stones must be aligned perfectly. Next I bid she straighten my crown, a golden laurel made of individual feathers woven together, which holds back my long dark-hair. I rest my eyes, and despite heading to war, feel a momentary peace as we sail on through the warm waters and bright sunlight of my Egyptian territories.
*
It all happened rather quickly. A sudden current sent the royal barge ahead, and barely awake, I had little time to react as the Roman ambush ensnared us. My guards were overwhelmed. Rope was cast across my wrists, and I was led out from the river, onto the back of a chariot, and taken to the war encampment of General Petronius. I was taken into the largest tent, guarded outside by the general’s elite legionaries, and thrown onto a makeshift bed, where my arms were tugged above my head to a headboard made of wooden bars, whilst my ankles were then roughly grabbed, and I was then stretched out, my ankles too quickly lashed down to the footboard. I’m hardly tall, so the robe strained, but I avoided showing any discomfort. I am Queen Amanirenas, afterall, Empress of Kush, and in favor of the gods. These Roman barbarians would not dare to harm me, and would soon learn to fear me. I am a divine force when roused.
After a short time, two people entered the room. The first was Nysa, a chain around her neck, and metal cuffs around her wrists. The neckchain was linked to a leash, which was held in the firm grasp of the second figure. He’s a huge, towering figure, with biceps not far off the size of my waist. Late thirties, early forties, perhaps. Roman nose, cold disdainful eyes. He wears a chiselled Roman cuirass, but his head is bare, revealing cropped hair, and a scar running the length of his left cheek.
“Queen Amarirenas,” he says softly, his eyes scanning my form. I shiver, feeling a wave of vulnerability, being in little more than sandals and a thin dress (jewellery aside). “You have been causing a headache for us. Yet here you are, my prisoner.”
“General Petronius,” I say coldly, making the assumption. “The Butcher of Memphis.”
“Indeed,” he nods, no insult taken. “Now, to business. By Jupiter’s will we caught you, but your armies will not be long in coming. I need to know their movements, their intentions, and their plans. Alternatively, you can formally surrender Kush to Caesar's authority. You may even be allowed to remain as client ruler, under imperial guidance.”
“A thousand curses on you and your gods,” I spit. I would rather die than bend my knee to these barbarian upstarts.
“Then alas I must be forced to use more uncouth methods. Please note pain is not my preferred option, but you can of course concede at any point.”
“Ooh, are you going to torture here?” interjects Nysa excitedly. “I know how you can really torture her.”
Petronius turns to her, a steely eyebrow raised. “Explain, slave.”
“Ama is ticklish!” she giggles, eyes sparkling. “Like, really ticklish.”
Petronius snorts in amusement, and I glare at my servant. Ticklish. No I’m not. How would she even know that, if were that the case? Bu… then I think to the massages, her nails making me jolt around certain, sensitive areas. Is it possible she may actually be right… Curse her, I should never have bought her from those traders.
“The idea is ridiculous,” muses Petronius, stroking his chin with a large, battle-hardened hand. “But to humiliate a haughty queen in such a way… A test perhaps, is in order.”
As I glare at both of them, Petronius moves to take a large, peacock feather writing quill from a nearby table. He then kneels at my feet, although still looms above me. Despite trying to remain stoic, my toes scrunch slightly within my jeweled sandals.
He plucks my footwear off easily, throwing them aside. “Yes,” he says, “a test on these pampered feet.”
The whisper feather end is flicked down my right sole. My glare fades, my foot squirms. It definitely tickles. He repeats the action. Up and down, the feather strokes. I wince, letting slip a giggle. Then another, as the feather caresses the ball of my foot, the tip lightly scratching my toes. I squeal girlishly as it slips between my big and second toe, and flush with embarrassment.
“Surely the fearsome warrior-queen Amanirenas can resist a mere feather,” Petronius says derisively.
“It’s nothing,” I scowl. He then flips the feather in his grasp, and I then feel the sharp end scratch against my left foot. I’m caught off guard, and reluctant laughter spills out of me. He’s unrelenting with the tip, drawing figures of eight on my sole, whilst I desperately try to pull my leg away in vain, my poor foot racked with ticklishness.
“Hardly nothing, my ticklish queen,” he says. The quill end is now at the ball of my foot, going left to right as though he were writing a letter. My toes try to bat him away, only leading to the quill scratching there, making me cackle.
“Stop it, I hate that!” I cry out through laughter. I immediately regret showing weakness, redness spreading on my face. This is utterly humiliating.
“It can end anytime,” he says.
“Go to Hades,” I spit at him.
He tosses the feather aside, stands, and moves to half sit beside me on the bed to which I’m chained. The frame creaks under him, and I feel very small.
“Where else is the mighty queen ticklish, I wonder?” One of his hands caresses my armpit, making me squeal and try to pull my arms down as my chains rattle. “Or here?” His other hands pinches my belly, forcing more giggles out of me. As he stops I try to avoid eye contact.
“Perhaps here,” he continues,” pinching at my sides, and down to my hips. I start cackling as he strikes the latter, his fingers probing into that pocket of flesh that makes me want to flail and lash out, but with the chains holding me down I’m simply forced to laugh.
“Stop, stop,” I plead, “Not there?”
“Why not, my queen?” he mocks, hands at each of my hips, making me buck like a mule in heat. “Just a ticklish little girl, deep down, hmm?”
“I’m a queen,” I protest through my laughter. “You will pay!”
“Still feisty. No matter.” He pauses, and then in one swift motion rips my dress from me as though it were nothing. My cheeks redden further as he takes in my nude form, breasts on display. My jewellery, most notably my gilded collar, makes me feel more naked if anything.
“Ready to talk yet?” Petronius asks, poking my stomach and making me suck in air.
“You cannot break a god,” I retort.
He nods, and starts tickling my belly with both hands, making me guffaw. Out the corner of my now teary eyes I can see Nysa watching me with a grin. Petronius then moves up, and his firm fingers began teasing my breasts with light, strangely soft touches. A new wave of ticklishness is unleashed. Why must the gods have cursed me with ticklish nipples of all things? I laugh and laugh, moaning a little as a reluctant arousal starts to overtake me, it subsides as one of his hands abandons my now firm nipples, and returns to my hips, forcing more and more cackles. I’m caught up in a haze of soft nipple tickling, and firm hip digging, which combined to place me in a miasma of mostly laughter and pleading, with mild arousal that comes and goes depending on the intensity of the wider tickling.
“So my queen,” ready to talk.
“Okay okay,” I say, breaking against the overwhelming wave of sensations. “Just get off of my hip bones!”
He doesn’t relent. “And so with your royal finery stripped away, are you not just a ticklish little girl hmm? Go on, say it.”
“I’m just a ticklish little girl,” I laugh, tears running down my face. Perhaps in that moment it’s no lie.
I’m so busy laughing I barely notice the sound of horns in the near distance, followed by trumpets and hooves. My royal cavalry. They must have followed me, and have caught the Romans off guard.
“Curses,” says Petronius, leaping up and leaving me panting. He strides from the room, ready to join the battle.
“Right Nysa, let me out of here,” I hiss at my servant, now alone with me. “Let me out and maybe you can have a quick death.”
She steps forwards, looking at my bare feet. “Yes Ama. But death is harsh. I only suggested tickling so you wouldn’t get hurt.”
“That is no excuse for betraying your queen.”
She shrugs, and kneels at my feet. “Perhaps you can forgive me Ama?”
“Queen Amanirenas,” I remind her. “And don’t you dare.”
Nysa just grins, briefly flashes her nails at me, and I’m thrown back into a gail of laughter as they find my feet.
“Ama you’re so tickly,” she laughs, my own laughter drowning out the sound of the battle outside. “Come on, say you forgive me and I’ll stop. Pleasssse.”
I keep laughing, determined not to give into a slave of all people, but as her fingernails find my toes and I briefly fall into silent laughter, I can’t hold out.
“Okay okay, find, you’re forgiven.”
She stops, and gives me a loving smile, before managing to unshackle me. As I step from the bedframe, three men enter the room. Two are my own elite guards. Between them, now in shackles of his own, is General Petronius.
“We have secured the camp, my queen,” one of my guards says. “What shall we do with this one?”
I lock my eyes onto his, then smile. “Back to the capital. The royal cells,” I think. “Revenge is in order.”
*********
There will be a P2 to this, which is mostly F/M. I've written it already, and will post this week. It's, er, quite long at well over twice this length of this one.
Queen Amanirenas is someone I came across recently, and because of where her kingdom (Kush) is, I can tenuously claim her as a relative of mine (obviously unlikely, but I'm going to any way). This is the fan art I was using as a loose reference point for her: https://teamqueens.org/wp-content/uploads/2022/12/amanirenas.png
I make no promises of tight historical accuracy- as a woman I'm unable to think obsessively about the Roman Empire, according to that recent meme.
***************************************
21 BC, Kingdom of Kush, modern day Egypt/Sudan
My name is Amanirenas, queen of the Kushite Empire, the greatest civilisation the world has ever known. My mighty kingdom straddles the great Nile, mightiest of all rivers, and with endless fertile ground given as a blessing from the gods. It is by their divine might that I rule, now entering my twenty-third year. But all is not well. From the North, the empire of Rome thrusts its incursions into my lands. Led by the fearsome General Petronius, known as the Butcher of Memphis, it now falls upon me, the champion of the gods, to rise out to meet him in the field. Across the nile, I sail downstream atop my royal barge, whilst thousands of my soldiers traverse the banks, keeping pace with my passage.
“Want another massage, Ama?” asks my handmaiden, Nysa.
“Queen Amanirenas,” I remind her with a dismissive scowl that does little to diminish the sparkle in her green eyes. She’s an exotic thing, with golden hair like sunlight, and hails from a distant northern land called Greece. She was sold into my service a year ago, around the age of nineteen.
“Oh, sorry! Well, my queen, another massage?”
“I’ll pass.” Her last massage was hardly relaxing. As I lay face down on the stone table, her probing fingers had a habit of trying to massage my rib and sides, or even around the outskirts of my armpits, constantly making me flinch. Were she not so innocent I’d have said she was doing it deliberately.
I instead order her to reapply my heavy, swishing eyeliner, redrawing the dark wings that curve out to the edge of my cheekbones like the wings of a scarab beetle. She then adjusts my gold gilded, beaded collar, that spreads out from around my neck to beyond the base of my shoulders, as befitting divine royalty. The egg-sized lapis lazuli stones must be aligned perfectly. Next I bid she straighten my crown, a golden laurel made of individual feathers woven together, which holds back my long dark-hair. I rest my eyes, and despite heading to war, feel a momentary peace as we sail on through the warm waters and bright sunlight of my Egyptian territories.
*
It all happened rather quickly. A sudden current sent the royal barge ahead, and barely awake, I had little time to react as the Roman ambush ensnared us. My guards were overwhelmed. Rope was cast across my wrists, and I was led out from the river, onto the back of a chariot, and taken to the war encampment of General Petronius. I was taken into the largest tent, guarded outside by the general’s elite legionaries, and thrown onto a makeshift bed, where my arms were tugged above my head to a headboard made of wooden bars, whilst my ankles were then roughly grabbed, and I was then stretched out, my ankles too quickly lashed down to the footboard. I’m hardly tall, so the robe strained, but I avoided showing any discomfort. I am Queen Amanirenas, afterall, Empress of Kush, and in favor of the gods. These Roman barbarians would not dare to harm me, and would soon learn to fear me. I am a divine force when roused.
After a short time, two people entered the room. The first was Nysa, a chain around her neck, and metal cuffs around her wrists. The neckchain was linked to a leash, which was held in the firm grasp of the second figure. He’s a huge, towering figure, with biceps not far off the size of my waist. Late thirties, early forties, perhaps. Roman nose, cold disdainful eyes. He wears a chiselled Roman cuirass, but his head is bare, revealing cropped hair, and a scar running the length of his left cheek.
“Queen Amarirenas,” he says softly, his eyes scanning my form. I shiver, feeling a wave of vulnerability, being in little more than sandals and a thin dress (jewellery aside). “You have been causing a headache for us. Yet here you are, my prisoner.”
“General Petronius,” I say coldly, making the assumption. “The Butcher of Memphis.”
“Indeed,” he nods, no insult taken. “Now, to business. By Jupiter’s will we caught you, but your armies will not be long in coming. I need to know their movements, their intentions, and their plans. Alternatively, you can formally surrender Kush to Caesar's authority. You may even be allowed to remain as client ruler, under imperial guidance.”
“A thousand curses on you and your gods,” I spit. I would rather die than bend my knee to these barbarian upstarts.
“Then alas I must be forced to use more uncouth methods. Please note pain is not my preferred option, but you can of course concede at any point.”
“Ooh, are you going to torture here?” interjects Nysa excitedly. “I know how you can really torture her.”
Petronius turns to her, a steely eyebrow raised. “Explain, slave.”
“Ama is ticklish!” she giggles, eyes sparkling. “Like, really ticklish.”
Petronius snorts in amusement, and I glare at my servant. Ticklish. No I’m not. How would she even know that, if were that the case? Bu… then I think to the massages, her nails making me jolt around certain, sensitive areas. Is it possible she may actually be right… Curse her, I should never have bought her from those traders.
“The idea is ridiculous,” muses Petronius, stroking his chin with a large, battle-hardened hand. “But to humiliate a haughty queen in such a way… A test perhaps, is in order.”
As I glare at both of them, Petronius moves to take a large, peacock feather writing quill from a nearby table. He then kneels at my feet, although still looms above me. Despite trying to remain stoic, my toes scrunch slightly within my jeweled sandals.
He plucks my footwear off easily, throwing them aside. “Yes,” he says, “a test on these pampered feet.”
The whisper feather end is flicked down my right sole. My glare fades, my foot squirms. It definitely tickles. He repeats the action. Up and down, the feather strokes. I wince, letting slip a giggle. Then another, as the feather caresses the ball of my foot, the tip lightly scratching my toes. I squeal girlishly as it slips between my big and second toe, and flush with embarrassment.
“Surely the fearsome warrior-queen Amanirenas can resist a mere feather,” Petronius says derisively.
“It’s nothing,” I scowl. He then flips the feather in his grasp, and I then feel the sharp end scratch against my left foot. I’m caught off guard, and reluctant laughter spills out of me. He’s unrelenting with the tip, drawing figures of eight on my sole, whilst I desperately try to pull my leg away in vain, my poor foot racked with ticklishness.
“Hardly nothing, my ticklish queen,” he says. The quill end is now at the ball of my foot, going left to right as though he were writing a letter. My toes try to bat him away, only leading to the quill scratching there, making me cackle.
“Stop it, I hate that!” I cry out through laughter. I immediately regret showing weakness, redness spreading on my face. This is utterly humiliating.
“It can end anytime,” he says.
“Go to Hades,” I spit at him.
He tosses the feather aside, stands, and moves to half sit beside me on the bed to which I’m chained. The frame creaks under him, and I feel very small.
“Where else is the mighty queen ticklish, I wonder?” One of his hands caresses my armpit, making me squeal and try to pull my arms down as my chains rattle. “Or here?” His other hands pinches my belly, forcing more giggles out of me. As he stops I try to avoid eye contact.
“Perhaps here,” he continues,” pinching at my sides, and down to my hips. I start cackling as he strikes the latter, his fingers probing into that pocket of flesh that makes me want to flail and lash out, but with the chains holding me down I’m simply forced to laugh.
“Stop, stop,” I plead, “Not there?”
“Why not, my queen?” he mocks, hands at each of my hips, making me buck like a mule in heat. “Just a ticklish little girl, deep down, hmm?”
“I’m a queen,” I protest through my laughter. “You will pay!”
“Still feisty. No matter.” He pauses, and then in one swift motion rips my dress from me as though it were nothing. My cheeks redden further as he takes in my nude form, breasts on display. My jewellery, most notably my gilded collar, makes me feel more naked if anything.
“Ready to talk yet?” Petronius asks, poking my stomach and making me suck in air.
“You cannot break a god,” I retort.
He nods, and starts tickling my belly with both hands, making me guffaw. Out the corner of my now teary eyes I can see Nysa watching me with a grin. Petronius then moves up, and his firm fingers began teasing my breasts with light, strangely soft touches. A new wave of ticklishness is unleashed. Why must the gods have cursed me with ticklish nipples of all things? I laugh and laugh, moaning a little as a reluctant arousal starts to overtake me, it subsides as one of his hands abandons my now firm nipples, and returns to my hips, forcing more and more cackles. I’m caught up in a haze of soft nipple tickling, and firm hip digging, which combined to place me in a miasma of mostly laughter and pleading, with mild arousal that comes and goes depending on the intensity of the wider tickling.
“So my queen,” ready to talk.
“Okay okay,” I say, breaking against the overwhelming wave of sensations. “Just get off of my hip bones!”
He doesn’t relent. “And so with your royal finery stripped away, are you not just a ticklish little girl hmm? Go on, say it.”
“I’m just a ticklish little girl,” I laugh, tears running down my face. Perhaps in that moment it’s no lie.
I’m so busy laughing I barely notice the sound of horns in the near distance, followed by trumpets and hooves. My royal cavalry. They must have followed me, and have caught the Romans off guard.
“Curses,” says Petronius, leaping up and leaving me panting. He strides from the room, ready to join the battle.
“Right Nysa, let me out of here,” I hiss at my servant, now alone with me. “Let me out and maybe you can have a quick death.”
She steps forwards, looking at my bare feet. “Yes Ama. But death is harsh. I only suggested tickling so you wouldn’t get hurt.”
“That is no excuse for betraying your queen.”
She shrugs, and kneels at my feet. “Perhaps you can forgive me Ama?”
“Queen Amanirenas,” I remind her. “And don’t you dare.”
Nysa just grins, briefly flashes her nails at me, and I’m thrown back into a gail of laughter as they find my feet.
“Ama you’re so tickly,” she laughs, my own laughter drowning out the sound of the battle outside. “Come on, say you forgive me and I’ll stop. Pleasssse.”
I keep laughing, determined not to give into a slave of all people, but as her fingernails find my toes and I briefly fall into silent laughter, I can’t hold out.
“Okay okay, find, you’re forgiven.”
She stops, and gives me a loving smile, before managing to unshackle me. As I step from the bedframe, three men enter the room. Two are my own elite guards. Between them, now in shackles of his own, is General Petronius.
“We have secured the camp, my queen,” one of my guards says. “What shall we do with this one?”
I lock my eyes onto his, then smile. “Back to the capital. The royal cells,” I think. “Revenge is in order.”
*********
There will be a P2 to this, which is mostly F/M. I've written it already, and will post this week. It's, er, quite long at well over twice this length of this one.
