No... but still you will resist her to the last.

As you lie, dejected, on the table, one hand desperately wrapped around your dick, moistening it with your own semen, Bizia smiles evilly at your predicament. She turns her head as she sips at her wine, giving you a view of her soft, plush lips as her drink disappears between them, running her tongue over them as she does. The witch, you realize, is taunting you, deliberately inviting you to imagine what she could do.

You hate her, even as the burning, terrible pleasure in your groin rejoices at the thought. Despite the pain and sensitivity of recent orgasm, it still screams for attention, demands that your libido be fed.

Is this it, you wonder? Is this how you'll die? Alone, hand wrapped around your cock, too mad to even answer questions to a people with whom Rome might make peace? Would giving them just a few answers be such a sacrifice?

As your resolve wavers, you recall your father's voice, long ago, in your equestrian family's estate, as you plied him for great stories of the wars of the Republic. "Son," he had told you, "many men believe that they would give their lives for Rome. But it is an easy thing to give one's life in glory and be remembered forever. It is quite another to give one's life face-down in the muck, unmourned and forgotten, sacrificing even dignitas to preserve what is most precious."

You groan, loudly, feeling another surge of orgasm in your burning genitals. You pray to Bellona, the goddess of war, to Sancus, the god of oaths, to Janus Quirinus, the god of Rome itself, for the resolve, for the will to hold to your course and perish without betraying your state. As you do, your abused member spurts again, splattering your body with seed. A poor libation, but all you can spare, as your hands scrape up the wet stuff to reapply it to your phallus.

"I will give you nothing," you growl at the priestess, still smiling at you from her corner of the room. "But tell your queen that this is such stuff as the Romans are made of."

She laughs. "Tell her that all Romans are like **** youths, frantically stimulating themselves to the point of pain without a hint of restraint? Surely she already knows this!"

"No," you grunt, every second your hand leaves your burning, still-wet erection to gather more moisture for it pure ****. "Tell her that we will die alone, in madness and indignity, before we will betray our city."

Bizia's smile doesn't change, but her strange, alluring eyes narrow slightly. "That remains to be seen, Roman," she whispers, her tone strange. "And even if you do, it does not prove that every man of your little tribe possesses such will." She begins to stalk closer to you, one hand snatching up the jar of terrible, wonderful ointment that is sinking into your groin, the other the leather gloves. "I had hoped to use you, you know. Hoped that you would see reason. But, if you want to be stubborn..."

She pulls on the gloves, glaring into your eyes now, her control cracking. "If you are of no use to me, Roman, then this exercise is pointless. Better to hasten you on your way." As Bizia opens the jar, you cannot look away, even as your hand shamefully continues to masturbate. "I have only given you one dose of the ointment, Roman, on only one part of your body. Can your little, male mind imagine, I wonder, what would happen if I were to put it elsewhere? Your face, your chest..." Bizia smiles again, her sadistic glee clear, "The inside of the anus? You've only one hand, Roman! One source of moisture to spread amongst them! Only one way to relieve the burning that will consume your mind until your body breaks! Which one will you give up on first?!"

As the witch scoops out another handful of the sizziling cream, you close your eyes and try not to let your fear show on your face. There is nothing you can do to save yourself now. It is all in the hands of the gods.