Bethany was as assertive as usual. “But we don't know anything about archaeology,” I protested.

“They're giving instruction. Two days of tuition,” she retorted. “You and I are doing this. Okay?!”

“What are we going to learn in two days?” I argued. “People do three-year degree courses in archaeology!”

“You'll love it, I promise!” she declared. “What's more, it will be fun cuddling up in a cosy tent at night and enjoying some hanky-panky.” She gave me one of her disarmingly infectious smiles—a smile that washed away all dissent. I winced as my penis gave a jerk.

oooOOooo

Two weeks later, we arrived at the dig in Northern England. Our quest, along with that of ten other students, was to excavate the suspected remains of a First Century CE Roman villa.

We volunteers were all novices, and only Professor Willoughby, the Dig Director, and his assistant had any qualifications in archaeology. We'd had our two days of lessons back at the university, where we'd received instructions on how to meticulously scrape away earth with small trowels, looking for anything out of the ordinary.

Careful observation and slow progress were the watchwords. “Remember,” the elderly professor had drummed into us, “you can easily remove earth with your trowels, but you can never return it to the same place. Softly, softly catchee monkey.” We had all nodded wisely, while wondering how primates came into the equation.

“And don't forget,” he droned on, “if you find the merest hint of anything of interest, you must stop work immediately and summon help from me or my assistant.” He pointed to a geeky man who was smiling lecherously at Bethany. She smiled back, but only because she returns anyone's smiles.

oooOOooo

When the coach arrived at the site, it was cold and it was raining —a typical British summer, in fact—but it served to confirm in my mind that we'd made the wrong decision. Bethany, though, was as enthusiastic as ever. “At least we won't get sunburnt,” she remarked. “Think positively, for God's sake!” I wish I could.

After being shown our tent—which was every bit as tiny as Bethany's description of “cosy” had implied—she and I were taken to a trench on the far side of the site.

I say trench, but this is to use the archaeological term. What we were presented with was an area about two-by-two metres where the top fifty centimetres of topsoil had already been removed by a mechanical digger. Our task was to now scrape away at the exposed earth in the hope of finding something ancient.

We began work, painstakingly scratching away at mud, while rain seeped down our necks, down the waistbands of our trousers and into our wellies. Yes, we had taken the advice to bring suitable waterproofs, but little good they did.

By late afternoon, I was ready to pack it in. “No, you're not giving up, Harry,” Bethany proclaimed, undaunted. “We signed up for two weeks, and two weeks we'll do. That's my final word!”

“Are you really enjoying this, Beth? We've not found anything yet, Roman or otherwise.”

“That's because we've only just started, and we've not gone deep enough,” she informed me. “Tomorrow could be different and we could find a hoard of Roman gold.” Some chance, I thought, but I felt it safest to keep my opinions to myself.

oooOOooo

After an afternoon of digging, we then spent a wretched evening under leaking awnings around a campfire which had been used to cook a stew of dubious composition. I glanced around at my fellow volunteers and, apart from the ever-chirpy Bethany, they all looked as miserable as sin. We were a mixture of boys and girls, all students who had fallen for the romance of digging for buried treasure.

After consuming a barely edible meal washed down with lukewarm lager, we all trooped off to the ablutions tent where there were chemical toilets along with makeshift showers delivering cupfuls of freezing water—just what you need after spending hours in the rain and mud.

Needless to say, I was not in the best of moods when Bethany and I retired to our tent, but at least I could look forward to sharing a double sleeping bag with her and enjoying some “hanky-panky”.

oooOOooo

Under the glow of a battery-powered lamp, we undressed in front of one another. The tent was of insufficient height for either of us to stand, so Bethany could hardly do the dance of the seven veils while stripping off, but she still held my attention. After discovering my masturbation addiction, she had taken the decision to ration my sex which had led me to become even more obsessed with staring at her body at every opportunity.

After flirtatiously removing several layers of outer clothing, she was soon down to her undies, and I found myself marvelling at her scrumptious figure—a flat stomach, pert boobs, cute bum, shapely thighs—everything I could wish for. I was one lucky guy! And her underwear caused my pulse to race—she was attired in the flimsiest of black thong panties along with a lacy black bra that was thin enough to show some of her underlying flesh, but discreet enough to obscure her nipples.

As I watched her, I suddenly noticed something—or, rather, the absence of something. “Where's... where's your chain?” I yelled, unable to conceal a rising tide of panic.

She looked down at her breasts, as if she would be able to see something I couldn't. “Shit!” she exclaimed. “I forgot to put it on this morning!”

“What?!”

“I just forgot, Harry. I'm really sorry, it was an accident. And we're only here for a fortnight... we'll cope.”

“We'll cope?!” I echoed. How could she be so matter-of-fact? She gave me another of her sweet smiles, but this time it had no impact.

“But... but that chain holds the key to my chastity cage? What... what are we going to do?”

“In your case, I suspect not so much as you were hoping!” she replied, before shrugging her shoulders and biting her lips to suppress her natural smile. “I'm truly sorry, Harry, but we can't do anything about it now. The key's 200 miles away... but we can still have fun.”

“How can you be so complacent, Beth? It's not fair!”

“Life isn't always fair, Harry. We have to learn to cope with setbacks and make do with what we have.”

She reached behind and unclipped her bra, letting it fall forward and provocatively wobbling her breasts inches from my eyes. Then, seductively, and making a show of it, she slowly lowered her thong before fingering her crack and placing a wet finger into my mouth.

“If you're a good boy, I'll let you suck a nipple,” she whispered. “But I need an orgasm first. I'll crawl feet first into the sleeping bag, and then you go in headfirst.”

I couldn't believe her indifference to my plight. Surely, she knows that virile young men need frequent release of pent-up frustration.

I wavered, still peeved with her attitude. “Climb in, Harry, for God's sake,” she urged. “It is what it is, so stop sulking. You have to forgive me! I want you... I need you! Come on!”

As was her way, Bethany had moved on and expected me to do the same. I hesitated for a few seconds, but then another of her heart-melting smiles sealed the deal.

She was now in the sleeping bag and occupying most of the space. Evidently, what had been advertised as a deluxe double sleeping bag at an unbeatable price was barely wide enough for one.

Somehow, I squeezed in, my nose sliding down her cleavage, pressing onwards until it reached the required position. It was pitch black, and almost airless, but I had no trouble locating the essence of her pussy and very soon I was attending to her needs.

I knew what had to be done, because I'd done it many times before, and I also knew that she would be slow to respond. It would probably take twenty minutes or more, and all the time the pressure would be building up inside my chastity device as my penis struggled to cope.

I worked earnestly, exploring her pussy, my lips caressing her labia, my tongue occasionally flicking her clit, and sometimes pushing into her vagina in search of her elusive G-spot, never to be found.

If I'd not been caged, it would have been the most delightful experience because I adore the taste and scent of her love juices. But, being locked up, it was a form of torture.

Yet, out of my love for her, I toiled away, looking for signs that her body was waking up. It seemed to take ages, but little by little I felt her twitching when my tongue touched her clit. The twitches built up to jerks, accompanied by murmurings, which in turn changed into louder vocalisations. Her passion, which had been so slow to start, was increasing exponentially, and suddenly, with no warning, she let out a bloodcurdling scream that must have terrified the occupants of adjoining tents.

Her body arched and thrashed inside the sleeping bag, forcing me to move the same way. It was as if we'd been swallowed by a giant anaconda which was now writhing around the tent with indigestion, pushing against one side and then the other. The tight confines of the sleeping bag meant there was no chance of me losing contact with her pussy. We were joined together as one.

Her orgasm, sluggish to arrive, now went on for ages, with me struggling to breathe, while being fearful of the tent collapsing and Professor Willoughby rushing to our rescue.

Eventually, Bethany came down from her crescendo, and, after recovering for a couple of minutes, she helped me out from the suffocating interior of the sleeping bag. We repositioned ourselves, both facing the top, and snuggled up with my lips embracing her erect nipple. “Good work, Harry,” she said softly. Positioned like that, we drifted off to sleep.

oooOOooo

The rain continued the next day as we continued with the dig, removing soil, millimetre by millimetre. There seemed to be nothing to be found, but then, on the third day, my trowel grazed something that struck me as odd.

It was still largely buried but appeared to be a cylindrical wooden object. “What's this, Beth?” I called.

She edged herself over to take a look. “I don't know. Remove more earth to see.”

“No, we're supposed to let the prof know before completely uncovering something.”

“It doesn't look much to me, so let's not waste his time. Move out of the way, Harry.”

“No, Beth!” Too late—with a simple nudge, squatting as I was, she caught me off balance and sent me sprawling face first into the mud. By the time I'd recovered, she had scooped away more soil, and the item was completely exposed.

“Oh, my God! You know what this is, Harry? It's a Roman dildo!”

“No way! Did the Romans have dildos?”

“Well, this appears to provide the evidence they did. And look, it has a bulbous tip, just like the knobbly end of your cock.” Yes, the end of the object had been rounded, and it did look almost phallic.

“And... and I can see a little indentation at the very end. It's a pee-hole that's been carved in for realism! These Romans had an eye for detail, Harry.”

“But it's wooden! Surely, wood wouldn't survive for two millennia?”

“It can, under the right conditions,” she confidently affirmed. “Trust me!”

“It's got a broken end,” I ventured to point out.

“Yeah, looks like a bit's broken off. Not surprising—something would have broken off you after 2,000 years buried underground. And look, there's a hole through the base of the shaft. I bet something went through there to make a harness. A leather cord, perhaps?”

“You mean it's a strap-on? We... we should check with the prof.”

She laughed. “What?! Tell him we think we've found a Roman sex toy. Imagine how embarrassing it would be if it turned out to be something innocent.”

“What do you suggest?”

“It's obvious, Harry! We try it out first. You need to smuggle it to the ablutions tent and give it a thorough wash. We'll test it on you tonight.”

“On me? Why me?”

“Well, it's the closest you're going to get to sex while we're away,” she explained, smiling.

“What?”

“Well, look at it, Harry. It'll go in far enough to stimulate your prostate. You must have a build-up of stuff that needs clearing, and this is just the thing to clear it.”

oooOOooo

I cleaned it, as instructed, and that evening, after we'd eaten more unrecognisable food and drunk more cheap lager, we made our way to our tent. Earlier, I had hidden our find in the sleeping bag, and I removed it for her to see.

“It's so realistic,” she gleefully remarked, rubbing the palm of her hand along its length. “It's so sleek and shiny, isn't it? No splinters from this, Harry! You'll be safe. It will slide in effortlessly because it's been worn smooth through constant use. Just think how many men and women have been penetrated by this.”

I didn't wish to think about that!

“And the men must have been well endowed in those days, judging from its width. It's wider than yours, Harry,” she thoughtlessly continued. “Come on, strip off,” she ordered, in her typical bossy style. “And then get on all fours, with your bum in the air.”

She was right that I needed release, but this was not what I had in mind. However, I always lost arguments with Bethany, and protesting would simply delay the inevitable.

“I've got some lube in my rucksack,” she informed me. Thank goodness for that, I thought.

Very soon, I felt the wet and sticky end of the dildo pressing against my anus. “You need to relax, silly boy,” she declared. “Relax!”

That was easier said than done. It took a couple of minutes of what amounted to deep meditation combined with willpower, but eventually the foreign object began its journey into my rectum. “Gently, Beth! Gently, please,” I begged.

“I am being gentle,” she replied, “But these Romans were big blokes. Just relax and enjoy it.”

I did my best, and, slowly but surely, the wooden object passed sedately through my jacksie into the unknown. It was a strange sensation but actually not as bad as I'd feared, yet I wasn't going to admit that to Bethany.

And then she hit my g-spot. Suddenly, I was aware of my prostate being massaged and stimulated. It was a feeling difficult to describe, other than to say it was not unpleasant.

She sensed I'd calmed down. “You're liking this, aren't you?” she giggled. I kept quiet—I didn't want her to get the impression she could now abandon all restraint.

She kept probing away, and I felt fluid starting to ooze from my encaged penis. Deftly, she placed my tin mug underneath to catch the goo. For probably fifteen minutes, she patiently and tenderly—and I would even say lovingly—slid the tool up and down, squeezing every last drop of spunk from me.

Withdrawing the dildo, she asked me how it had been. “Well, it was good. I feel emptied, but I don't feel I've climaxed.”

“That because you didn't, you idiot, but without the key, that's the best you're getting.”

“Yeah, it's a shame about the bloody key,” I muttered inaudibly under my breath.

I ignored her suspicious stare, leading her to carry on, “But, most importantly, we've proved beyond all doubt that this was a Roman dildo. We'll take it back to the trench tomorrow, bury it, and then call the prof over. He's going to be astounded, Harry!”

oooOOooo

The next morning, we did our best to make it look as if the dildo had never been removed, partially burying it and pressing earth firmly around it. Then we called the prof over.

“Look, Professor Willoughby,” exclaimed Bethany, bouncing with excitement, “We've found something. What could it be?”

He took her trowel and skilfully removed the earth from around the artifact. “That came out surprisingly easy for something buried for so long,” he commented, glancing up at Bethany, who was now turning pink.

“Hmmm?” he added, holding the object in his hands.

“I wonder! Could... could it be...” Bethany excitedly shouted. “Could it be a Roman sex toy? A... er... a strap-on? Have you ever held one, Professor? I mean a Roman one, obviously, not a modern one—perish the thought! Roman ones must be very rare.”

He looked at her patiently for a few seconds and then smiled, “No, I've never held a Roman sex toy, Bethany, but I have seen the broken ends of sturdy broom handles. I date this one as circa 1950—Common Era, that is! A piece of string would have gone through this hole to hang it up. You need to go down a few more inches to reach the Roman layers.”

“Oh!” was all she replied. She looked deflated, but I knew it would only be minutes before she moved on and regained her bubbly enthusiasm.

THE END