They lived with their widowed mother in a small cottage at the bottom of a big hill. You may even have heard of them. There was a well known poem that was written about them going up that hill to fetch a pail of water. But what you probably DON'T know is the REST of the story of what happened that day.Jack was a strapping lad, 5' 10", wide at the shoulders, narrow at the hips, with bulging muscles all over his body. That's because Jack spent most of his day going up and down that hill, fetching pails of water. His mother ran a laundry business, you see, and used a LOT of water. Because of this, Jack had procured bigger and bigger buckets, so he wouldn't have to make so many trips up and down the hill. These large buckets weighed a lot, and Jack got awfully buff carrying them.The reason he didn't want to make so many trips wasn't because he was lazy. It was because in those days, only women brought clothes to the village laundress, so, if he was in or around the cottage, he got to see. Two thousand years ago,” she stepped nearer, the slit in her dress exposing a honey-smooth thigh, “He kept it filled with his loveliest slaves—captured from every corner of the Empire... The things they did here,” she wetted her lips, playing with one of her pearls, “Things that made young Caligula blush.”She stood close to him now. Close enough to whisper in his ear. Owen locked his jaw, and clenched his fists. It wasn’t real. But perhaps, it didn’t need to be—desire, either way, had seized him. Poisoned him. It made him drunk. And far more than knowing what was real, and what wasn’t, he wanted, badly, to touch her. To kiss her. To grasp her thigh, and tear that slit higher. To lay her down amid the ruins, writhing and moaning beneath him.“Do you want to know, Owen?” She breathed, and he felt a fiery rush in his blood, “Do you want to know what he did with them,” she shrugged, letting the shoulder of her dress fall free, “when he was finished?”Owen swallowed, unable to speak.“Over.
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