Amazing how my little Roman slave fantasies of the other day keep cropping up again.

Last night’s dream, for example. A writer sitting by a window, high up, looking out as a young woman is led into the courtyard of a neighbour’s house.

She catches his eye, as she struggles: a defiant look.

Her tunic reveals her to be a slave. Her master removes it, roughly, and ties her hands above her head.

She’s positioned facing the writer. She looks up at him again, realising that her ordeal is being closely observed. She averts her eyes, ashamed.

Her master proceeds to lay on the strokes: hard, fast, purposefully. The writer can no longer see her eyes: they’re downcast, the girl absorbed totally in her flogging.

She’s untied. She grabs her costume; covers herself; runs inside.

And the writer records what he’s seen, and reflects on what he doesn’t know: the girl’s name, her offence. Whether it was her first whipping. Given she was facing him during the flogging, how she’d marked. Who’d comfort her afterwards.

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