Her bare foot was just beginning its hard press against the front of her latest tormentor's leg, when Anastasius' voice rose in the room, crept into her ears and mind like the slow creeping vine, unfurling suggestion like leaves, implanting little tendrils seeking wet and sun. She felt as if her stomach surged, body fighting uselessly, and the sweet taste of grape washed over her tongue to color her breath, the vines coiling a tighter grasp around her than the skin-scraping manacles in the ship's hold had ever managed.<br/><br/><strong>"So, <em>arch.</em>"</strong>he commanded, and the compulsion that welled up and spread, infiltrating her lean-muscled body, answered with a movement. White-knuckled hands gripping the edge of the table tightened, her foot slid off and past Quintus' knee - and she<em>arched</em>. Like an abruptly strung bow in winter, her body threw itself into a backward curve, head whipping back to through the loose white strands of her hair into Quintus' face like a flurry of upblown snow. Yet there was nothing cold in her now, the sharp, forceful movement of the warrior woman plunging back upon the shaft that nuzzled her sex and granting that fleshy sword the most intimate of sheathes, a plaintive cry gasped toward the ceiling as she burst her maidenhead upon him.<br/><br/>It was a pain like the horrible grips of Anastasius' fingertips had pressed into her nipples, hot and sparking low inside. Ground was broken in the field of her woman's body.