The only thing maiden Anne Hathaway seemed to like these days were her huge, heaving breasts. She had two of them, and this particular spring morning she was staring at their reflection in a bathing basin. Anne Hathaway pulled her right bosom far out to the right and released it, and it’s momentum sent it slapping hard into the left one, which in turn flung out to the left and then sling-shotted back into the right one, and this continued for several hours, like one of those desk ornaments with the hanging metal balls, and she eventually stopped it, sad and sweaty and bored.
“Is this all that I am?” whispered Anne Hathaway to herself, tears now streaming down her face and eventually dripping down onto her breasts, which were really sweaty by now if you recall, so by this point you couldn’t tell what were tears and what was booby sweat.
Make no mistake—Anne Hathaway was a strong woman. She was independent and successful and sensitive but a little insecure and that’s okay and it’s also okay to worry.
No, the problem was, it was the second century A.D., and both the Roman Empire and Anne Hathaway’s sex drive were peaking simultaneously. And the only man who could satisfy both was the great gladiator Toddicus Spoonicus. How her loins burned for him, though sometimes they burned because Roman hygiene wasn’t the best, but usuallythey burned for him. Toddicus Spoonicus, who had battled boars and bears and beasts, was now in for the fight of his life against the birds and bees of Anne Hathaway. Also—her vagina.