Caveat Emptor (Closed for Apollo Wilde)

[Talon]

Tiberius groaned as he reclined his shoulders back into the mountain of plush pillows his upper body was propped up against, his arms folded behind his head, legs stretched out before him, parted at enough of an angle to allow vantage for the woman lying on her belly between his thickly muscled thighs to perform her sensual task. The woman’s plump, ruby red lips were affixed to the tight sack of flesh that held his tesicles, the tip of her tongue pressed into the mass of wrinkled flesh, lazily tracing around one of the ovoid treasures it held compressed beneath the base of his phallus as her lips suckled at it. Her left hand rubbed against his midsection, gently raking carefully manicured nails down the firm musculature of his belly as her other hand held the pillar of flesh she sought to bring to full arousal aloft above her head, secured between thumb and forefinger, the weighty mass of flesh bucking in her grip as her efforts evoked it’s transformative growth.

The girl sighed lustily as her face lifted, her hand sliding down the expanse of shaft to nestle in the hair around it’s base as she gripped it firmly, nuzzling the soft, smooth flesh of her cheek against the firm underside of the oversized monolith of man flesh near its root, her hazel eyes flickering up to meet his gaze as she cooed, the massive organ casting its shadow down across the right side of her face as the left half peeked out from behind it. “Gods, Tiberius, I missed you...I missed him…” Her eyes shifted, casting up as if taking in the scope of the length that extended up past the top of her head, nearly crossing as they focused on the object before them, her lips puckering as she turned her head enough to press a soft kiss against the side of the shaft, the tip of her nose brushing against the skin as she sniffed it, scrutinizing his scent. “...he doesn’t smell of cunt, though, so should I take that to mean I am the first girl you’ve visited since your return to the city?”

Tiberius cracked a lazy grin, rufling the light blond mess of hair atop his head, his head cocking to the side as he considered her, his face drawing as if he were insulted by the unspoken insinuation. “Of course, Versica…”

The girl grinned, her free hand swatting playfully at the length of cock she held secure with it’s twin, correcting his mispronunciation of her name with a slight note of exasperation as if it wasn’t the first time she’d had to correct him. “Ver-IS-ca…”

Tiberius’ grin widened as he corrected himself and continued on. “...Ver-IS-ca...I’m hurt that you would suggest otherwise. You know you’re my favorite girl…in this sector of the city, at least.”

Verisca scoffed, her head shaking in mock disapproval, the dark ringlets of curly hair that framed her face dancing and bobbing with the motion. She gripped his cock now with both hands, squeezing it as if she were threatening to strangle it, the pale, purplish head atop the healthy length of prick that jutted out from above her fists flushing red as her action caused it to fill with blood. “You’re lucky you have such a magnificent dick…” she loosened her grip, the flush fading from the upper half as the natural flow of blood resumed, his prick throbbing in her grasp as she pressed her lips against the bare, veiny length of shaft above her fingers in another quick peck of a kiss. “...if it were any smaller I’d charge you double for your insolence…”

Tiberius smirked, the thick musculature of his upper body flexing, pectorals rippling, as he pressed his head back against the palm of his hands and interlaced fingers, groaning as Verisca trailed kisses up his length and flicked the tip of her tongue across the underside of the head. “Usually you reserve the threats to charge me double for when I’m ramming it deep into your tight little cunt...an improvement, I suppose…”

Verisca shot him a faux stern look from under lowered brow, her head elevated now, the knob at the tip of his cock resting against the soft pillow of her bottom lip. “I reserve the right to price my services as I see fit…” Her upper lip brushed against the patch of sensitive skin that sat just below the head as she spoke, her breath warm against him. “The weight of your purse when you exit my room is subject to my whim…” Her tongue lashed across that sensitive patch of skin a few times. “...if I decide to charge double to service men with such freakishly oversized cocks…” A wet kiss. “...then you’ll pay double. Although perhaps I should charge triple for the likes of you.”

Tiberius cackled, his hands moving out from the back of his head as he sat up, the fingers of his right hand lacing through the curls of the hair above her left ear, his other brushing her hands aside as it gripped the base of his now rock hard phallus. Verisca giggled as she playfully struggled against his grip as he turned her head up towards him. “Or maybe I’ll charge you, instead, eh? Once for every orgasmic cry that this cock tears from your throat while it’s churning around deep in your guts…”. The wrist of the hand holding his cock aloft before her flicked forcefully, the head of his prick colliding with her face as it slapped against her cheek with a dull thwap.

Verisca looked up at him in defiance for a moment, a twinkle in her eyes, before her gaze slowly slid from his to fall to the phallus he held outstretched between them, the head close enough that she needed only to stick out her tongue to brush against it. Her eyes slid slowly up its length, starting from the distinctly bell-like shape of the head, large on its own but overshadowed by the superior girth of the shaft beneath it, to glide up along the expanse of dusky skin, interlaced by a network of sinuous veins that fed this monstrous specimen the blood it needed to fuel its sizable expansion. By the time her gaze landed on the patch of hair around the base she could feel wetness beginning to form along the cleft of her sex, a soft whimper escaping her throat as she felt a flare of heat at her core, her front teeth gently biting down as she chewed her lower lip. Despite a near decade of experience, having had a diverse group of clientele darken her doorstep over the years, rarely had she crossed paths with a phallus prodigious enough to even be comparable in physical dimensions to the one before her now. It didn’t matter that she’d seen it before, that she’d experienced what it felt like inside her even, there was something about it’s exceptional size that awakened a primal hunger deep within her core. “Tibs...let me suck him. Please...I want to taste him…”

Tiberius growled playfully in his throat as he manipulated his prick to wave the head beneath her nose, the earthy scent of the precum that sheened at its tip filling her nostrils as it enticingly swayed back and forth before her. “In a moment...now, spit on it…”

Verisca frowned, whimpering again as she was denied the fulfillment of her lustful desire, even if only for the moment. She bit her bottom lip again as she lifted her hips, a hand sliding between her body and the mattress beneath her, her fingers brushing against her clit. Her eyes remained hungrily fixed on the object of her desire. “Please, Tibs…”

Tiberius slapped the head of his prick against her cheek again, Verisca gasping in shock, her mouth falling slightly agape as the impact roughly jarred her from her near mesmerized state. “I said spit on it, slut.”

Verisca gathered moisture in her mouth, her jaw working a moment, before she leaned down and crudely let the accumulated saliva dribble from her mouth, a fat glob falling to impact against the dark red flared rim around the head, leaving a wet trail in its wake as it slid down its length to pool against his fingers where they gripped along the base. His hand worked up and down a few times, spreading the viscous fluid across the span of the shaft with a wet schlick as the liquid worked between his fingers. Verisca watched in silence, transfixed, her tongue unconsciously licking across her lips like a hungry predator eyeing her next meal.

Tiberius smirked as he eyed her, the hand wrapped in her hair restraining her head in place forcefully, the other once more holding the rigid length of his prick aloft before her face. “Good girl...now…”. He held there a moment, the head mere inches from her lips, close enough she could smell the combined musk of his precum mixed with the scent of fresh saliva. Verisca whimpered.

“...suck.”

She fell upon his cock with ravenous abandon, taking the head between plush lips, stretched thin around the girth of the shaft beneath as she sought to engulf him, her initial foray too eager as the thick head bumped against the back of her throat, triggering a loud, inelegant retch as her entire upper body convulsed, the sound muffled by the sheer amount of meat that filled her mouth. Verisca pulled back, her lips slurping wetly around the head as she suckled at it with a sense of urgency, seeking to satisfy not his needs but her own, to quench the burning desire to worship at the altar of this man’s brutish member that roiled within her. Dainty hands brushed his aside as she seized his prick in a two handed grip, one holding the pillar of flesh steady at the base, the other working the shaft with a twisting up and down stroking motion, working in time with the travel of her lips, spreading the moisture that her mouth transferred to the uppermost section of his cock down the entirety of its length, the entire organ soon gleaming in the low lamp light from her efforts.

Tiberius chuckled, his hand combing through her hair, a mirthful expression on his features as he watched her endeavor to greedily devour and dutifully service his proud organ. “Careful now, girl...take your time. After you finish spit shining this big dick we’re going to see about reacquainting it with that tight little cunt of yours…” Verisca murmured her approval of his plan from around a mouthful of his sex, her efforts redoubled, head bobbing up and down as she pleasured him, the room filled with the occasional wet smacking of lips or the staccato clicking of forcefully applied suction.

Tiberius leaned back into the plush mound of soft pillows behind him, his head tilting back with a gradual sigh of satisfaction, his eyes drifting shut as the sensation provided by Verisca’s attentive mouth threatened to overwhelm his senses.

Gods, she’s good....and she has a nice little body on her. Firm little breasts, tightly sculpted backside…

Tiberius groaned as Verisca’s tongue skillfully swirled around the head, his eyes still closed, the image of the woman’s slight but shapely little buttocks coming to the forefront of his mind’s eye. She was shaking her hips in a sensual sway or dance. Enticing...but he found his mind wandering of its own volition. Dancing...swaying hips...hips that widened, thighs thickening, cheeks swelling, fair skin darkening as the object of his attention morphed into another woman entirely. A woman the polar opposite of the one he currently shared a bed with by almost every description. A pair of hips you could anchor yourself to, a backside so prodigious it’s shape could never hope to be concealed beneath dress or robe, lean trunks for thighs that gave the outward appearance of softness, but, just beneath the surface, he somehow knew there lie a firm musculature that would threaten to squeeze the life from any man lucky enough to find himself wrapped between them. Tiberius groaned again as he considered the thought, Verisca easily forgotten in the moment, this new woman dominating his thoughts as she sensually swayed her hips, the movement mesmerizing him and leaving him spellbound.

Gods...to have a night with a woman like that...

An abrupt knock at the door startled Tiberius and roused him from his dreamlike state as he sat up and turned his upper body towards the disturbance. Verisca, for her part, either hadn’t noticed or couldn’t be bothered to care as she continued her labor of pleasure. The door opened after a moment of pause, a large, older woman wrapped in fine jewelry and silks stepping through the open portal. She looked at the scene playing out before her, pausing a moment, her eyes widening a bit, before she spoke. “Pardon me, good master… but you have a visitor downstairs. He says he needs to speak with you, that it’s a matter of some urgency…”

Tiberius recognized the women, the brothel madame he had arranged payment with before retiring to Verisca’s room on the second floor. He frowned, turning away from her, his hand brushing against Verisca’s cheek encouragingly as he once more watched her work. “Tell them I’m unavailable at the moment...as you can see, there is a master of her trade at work here, and it would be a shame to interrupt her before her task is complete. If they care to wait, I’ll be downstairs in a few hours. Otherwise, tell them they can deliver their message on the morrow. Now…”. Tiberius looked over his shoulder at the woman once more, a stern look darkening his features. “...unless you care to assist her in her task…” His tone lightened a moment as if to suggest he wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea. “...leave us in peace and do not disturb us further.”

The woman roughly cleared her throat, clearly concerned about having to interrupt her rather large, soldierly client. “A thousand pardons, good sir...but the man said you might refuse. He bid me pass along his name, Manius Barrius, and to tell you that ‘the eagle’s wings have been clipped’...he assured me you would understand the meaning of it.”

Tiberius frowned, his shoulders slumping as he let out an exasperated sigh of defeat. “Bugger all...the man has always had an impeccable sense of timing. Very well, I will be downstairs shortly.” Tiberius turned back towards Verisca, who had by now ceased her efforts of her own accord, still holding aloft his hardened prick as she gradually stroked a fist down the shaft as if to keep it primed. “As for you...you just keep yourself wet and ready, I’ll return before you know it.”

Verisca frowned, leaning down to place a parting kiss against the head of his cock. “Very well...but give this Manius Barrius, whoever he is, a swift kick between the thighs for me when you see him, would you?”




Tiberius growled as he made his way down the stairs to the atrium that housed the reception area of the brothel, mumbling beneath his breath as he descended. He spotted Manius, still clad in his travel garb, looking a bit rough around the edges, standing amidst a collection of decorative statues situated against the far wall opposite the front desk where the madam and her guards sat. He made his way over towards him with due haste, the ache in his balls as a result of the coitus interruptus making his gait a bit awkward as he rolled his shoulders, attempting to release some of the tension that gathered there.

Manius squared up with Tiberius as he approached, snapping to attention and performing a crisp salute as he drew nearer. “Greetings, Prefect Attius.”

Tiberius returned the salute, nodding dismissively, annoyance worn openly across his visage. “Centurion Barrius...what could possibly be of such import that you think it worth disturbing my time with the highest paid courtesan in Rome? Do you have any idea how hard it is to get an appointment to see her? She’s booked solid for months...I practically had to offer up my left testicle in order to…”

Manius cut him off tactfully. “It’s concerning the Legatus and his new wife, sir.”

Tiberius frowned, a hand brushing across the front of his hastily donned tunic as he looked around for any bystanders that seemed interested in overhearing their conversation, and having found none, his gaze settled back on Manius. “And what, then, does the old wolf need some honeymoon tips to keep his new bride happy? He's run out of tricks already?”

At the thought of that new bride, the woman whose body, by mere coincidence, so closely resembled the one he had been daydreaming of only minutes earlier, caused a warmth to pulse through his veins.

I’d be happy to please her if need be...after all, she’s too much woman for one man to handle, even a stud like myself has to admit when he’s met his match…

Tiberius shook his head to clear the improper thought. Where in the hells had that come from?

Manius shook his head disapprovingly, clearly perturbed by Tiberius’ attempt at jest, his stern tone drawing Tiberius’ away from the distraction of subconscious thought. “Nothing of the sort, Prefect. I’m afraid the roads proved to be treacherous, and as I said in my original message, the eagle's wings were clipped, if you take my meaning.”

“Message received, Centurion…” Tiberius sighed in resignation, hands pressed against his hips, his gaze lifting to the ceiling. Although this was not some predetermined code that Manius was using, it was easy enough to infer his meaning. There was very little that was subtle about the former First Spear Centurion, nevermind his manner of speaking. At the very least it was quite obvious that his night of lusty endeavors had unceremoniously drawn to an abrupt close. “Just one night...you couldn’t give me one night…” Tiberius said to no one in particular as he turned away, then, looking back at Manius over his shoulder. “Give me a moment to clear my tab and gather my things...you can fill me in on the details on our way over to the stables…”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Marcus stepped out from the warm waters of the heated bath, waving off the servant who made as if to approach him in order to assist with his journey over to the nearby bench that held his fresh change of clothing laid out across the top. “No need...as you were…”

“As you wish, Dominus.”

Marcus shuffled over towards the bench, his shoulders rolling as he worked freshly limbered joints, the nagging ache that had plagued him this morning either mostly resolved from his system or masked by the soothing heat of the water he had just been soaking in. His body, at least, felt somewhat renewed, refreshed by the bath and the morning, and midday, rest he had drank so deeply of. After leaving Gaia in their bedchamber, a grief stricken and anger drunk Marcus had managed to shamble over to his tablinum, the private office he kept in the villa, situated well away from the higher traffic areas of the estate. Once there, he had collapsed onto the couch within, and using the balled up sheet he had taken for a pillow, he rather easily fell into a deep slumber. It was a fitful rest, Marcus occasionally tossing about, finding comfort in the presence of the sheet, of the cloth that still held the memory of their joining within its fibers.

There he lie for most of the day, either in slumber or momentarily stirred from it to toss and turn about, gazing idly off into the darkness of the room, it’s shades drawn to summon that comforting blackness, the only source of light the gentle ambient glow along the top and bottom of the shade where there were slight gaps in the cloth, seeking to clear his troubled mind to allow sleep to once more overtake him.

Marcus found that the heat of the anger that had been stoked in his gut as a result of their squabble had died down the more that time had passed, little more than embers by the time he finally arose from the couch, it’s flames replaced by the cold, dense weight of guilt. Guilt, that he had pushed her away in the most crucial of moments, that when she’d opened herself to him, he’d not only pushed her away, but then kicked her while she was down. Why was he here now, wallowing in his own sense of guilt and remorse, when he could be tracking her down, drawing her to his breast, telling her of how he was a fool, how he’d meant so little of what he’d said, that he’d been vulnerable, defensive...that he was sorry.

Marcus picked up the fresh tunic from atop the bench, a simple garment of a cool, light blue coloring, pulling the clothing on over his head, still cautious as it moved past the wrapping of the bandage on his upper left arm. He stopped a moment, his eyes fixed there, staring distantly at the material, unblinking.

Clearly she cares...enough to be concerned about your wellbeing, at least. Were you concerned about hers? She was wounded herself...did you even bother to ask how she’d received those wounds? Had one of the ambushers attacked her directly? She must have been scared out of her wits! You weren’t the most stable after your first combat either, you old fool...



Marcus paused a moment in the hallway after having left the bathing chambers, standing beside a window, his old, dirty blue wedding tunic held in a grasping fist by his side, his gaze fixed on the sun as it began its descent below the horizon, it’s rays reflected off the water in the distance, gulls cawing as they circled above the beach not far behind the villa. If only he could fix his emotions so, to be so serene as to resemble the calm of the scene outside his window. Even now his subconscious attempted to make excuses for why he should leave, even as a splintered part, perhaps the sensible one, offered counter arguments as to why he should stay. There was only one counter argument it repeated, though, over and over, the answer to every question: She was here. Gaia...his wife, his lover, his love. Desperate as he might be to escape the complex emotions that swirled within, he could no sooner leave her than he could remove his heart from his breast. Now if he could only say as much to her, he might could begin to repair the damage that had been done.

Easier to turn back the passage of the sun across the sky...

Marcus turned away from the window, tossing the dirty tunic he held in hand over his right shoulder, moving down the hallway at a leisurely absentminded stroll, his thoughts consumed by the planning of how he might begin to right his wrongs.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Mikkos hummed a soft tune beneath his breath as he strolled the halls of his Master’s villa, his arms clasped behind his back, trained eye scanning, looking for any servants who dared tarry too long in corners they thought hidden from his gaze. They were mostly empty, with the household staff busy seeing to the evening tasks.

Rounding a corner, he suddenly came upon Gaia, standing in the hall in a simple but well cut yellow stolla, holding aloft a rabbit, seemingly searching for someone to dispose of the carcass. Perhaps the animal had made its way in unseen. Had she needed to kill it herself, were there no attendants nearby who could see to it’s disposal? Mikkos’ cheeks reddened as his step quickened, closing the distance between them.

“A thousand pardons, Domina, that you would need to perform such a task yourself. Allow me…”

Mikkos took the carcass from her, which she readily offered, and he held it before him by it’s hind legs, taking a moment to examine the creature. There was a clear entry and exit wound on either side of it’s midsection. So...someone or thing had killed it, it hadn’t simply wandered in and died of natural causes while hidden out of sight. And not by blunt force...Mikkos’ gaze rose to meet Gaia’s, a look of understanding washing over his face, a gentle, knowing smile forming on his lips.

“Ahhh...many thanks, Domina...I am just off to take supper, perhaps I shall have the kitchen prepare this instead. It looks healthy enough, perhaps a bird or feral cat drug it in here to save for a rainy day…” Mikkos smiled at her, bowing his head forward ever so slightly. He looked her up and down a moment, then, not appraisingly, but instead as if a caretaker looking after the concerns of those in his charge. Despite her perfectly presentable outward appearance, casual yet elegant, he could see clear signs that tiredness plagued her. And likely she herself could use a meal. Since the events of the previous day she could see in Mikkos’ gaze an added dimension of respect, not merely for her station, deeper, more personal, and there was a warmth to his tone as he addressed her that she had not detected before, back at her father’s villa.

“Shall I have them prepare something for you as well? Would you care to share in the bounty of your found prize?” His pronunciation of the word found evoked the thought that he was being conspiratorial, just a slight change in intonation, but notable. “Or perhaps instead you would prefer a warm bath? A change of bandage? How can I be of service?”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Only those well acquainted with her would be able to tell that she was flushed with embarassment. The ruddiness leant to her rich earth skin a deeper hue, pushing it past the simplistic description of “dark brown.” As Mikkos approached, she seemed not so much to hand the rabbit to him as so much as thrust it at him, her gaze skyward to the ceiling. Less of a new mistress of the villa, and more of a sheepish child giving a gift to an admired other.

“I, um,” her tongue felt thick in her mouth, no doubt not helped by her own lack of sleep. Though she’d managed to grab a few hours worth, it was hardly enough to replenish her after the events of the past few days, “I wanted to thank you for your service,” the words rushed out of her mouth, a stream of sound. A deep inhale - exhale through slightly flared nostrils and a brief closure of her eyes. Finding language, she started over. “I wanted to thank you for your serivce,” she repeated, slower, gracious. “From the attack.” The last word was still hard for her, a fact that she wanted to kick herself for. The danger had passed; there would be no point in being scared to refer back to it. “Even though you were wounded, you still pulled everything together. I honestly would have been lost without your guidance and know how. It’s not much, and I can, and will do more, in the future, should you but ask, but the Goddess was kind enough to reward my efforts with this,” she glanced back to the rabbit, then to him, a small smile cautiously appearing on her lips. If her lips were having trouble, her eyes had none of it - they shone with the thankfulness that she felt. “Please take this, and do let me know if you would require anything of me.”

At this, she would incline her head - deference to him, not because of his station, which would have been unthinkable. Deference to him for his knowledge of the household, his clear care for his master.

Manius and now this Mikkos; Marcus certainly chooses his men well. And now he’s saddled with me. There might still be time yet to run off and join the wolves - and save him embarassment.

She’d been astute enough to catch the understanding in his eyes, and with it, the invisible weight from her shoulders lifted. She was still tired, true, but a bit more at ease. “I hate to ask this of you, but…” If she could twist her hands in her stolla to calm her nerves, she would. Instead, she wiped her palms on her thighs that still seemed to form a bit of a lap as she stood, the rounded swells of muscle clear with the slightest pressure against the loose fabric. She had re-wrapped her hands as a part of her hasty toilet, and only the hints of dark henna peeked from under it, a reminder that she was still a bride. “If you would be so kind as to keep my ability with the bow a secret from the Dominus, I would be grateful. It…would be unseemly if he knew of his wife’s ability.” Mikkos’s eyes were kind, a difference from the quiet respect of Manius. It reminded her of the faint memory of her grandfather - a wry little man who seemed born of wheat and laughter than an actual human being.

He has a warm face; I can trust him.

“It’s not very feminine,” it was apologetic, but without the hint of actual shame - an apology for the state of the world without the suggestion of how to change it. “And I doubt that it would bolster his standing if his wife makes him a laughing stock. With that being said,” a wider smile now, slicing through her fatigue, “Though food would be appealing, I haven’t had much rest today, and I fear that my carelessness has…upset the Dominus. If you could show me to where I can sleep without disturbing him or being within his sight, I would be in your debt. A room of my own, perhaps…near the stables, if it’s not too much to ask?”

It hurts. I’ve hurt him with my fear. With not wanting to know more of him, for more fear of hurting my heart. And I’ve kept my mouth shut, tried to walk back how I felt, and all I’ve done is turn the dagger back towards myself. If I could be honest with him about one thing, why can’t I be honest with him about how I feel? And just pray to Venus for the strength to bear it all - I can’t assume that his heart would be my own, and always my own. He makes no such demands of me. But surely he has to know that he is the first man I’ve felt like this for? Or does he take it for the silly ramblings of a virgin who knows no better?

Oh, Diana, it’s too much for me to think on it. Please just grant me a restful night, some time, before I start to think too deeply on this.

Realizing that she’d stood there, staring intently at absolutely nothing as she spoke, her flushed cheeks returned, and she cleared her throat. “While a warm bath does sound lovely,” and lovely and lovely and more lovely still, “I think that a good night’s rest would be best for me. If Dominus…” hesitation. A sliver of hope, before pressed down into neutrality, “If the Dominus asks about my absence from the evening meal, please let him know that I have chosen to retire early, and no longer wish to earn his ire with my misplaced words.”

That’s polite enough. Or does it sound petty? I don’t mean it to sound petty.

Panic showed on her face. “Does that sound cold? Oh, I don’t mean it to,” exhaled now, in a rush, the tremor in her voice barely restrained panic, “I don’t. I truly do not.”

What if he wants to know where I am? He could find me within his own home. But surely he doesn’t; he was angry enough when we last parted. He will need time, just as I have. And maybe between now and then, the Gods will allow for cooler heads, and tongues, so that neither one of it makes such a mess of things again. Namely me, certainly. It’s too much to hope that one day my tongue will be truly freed.

“…I just…” I’m saying too much already. It’s unseemly. Again. “I don’t mean it to be,” quieter now, shrinking. “But I truly do not wish to anger him further, and I believe that a night separate would be for the best. It gives me time to consult the Goddess.”

 

[Talon]

Mikkos had listened to her speak attentively, with more concern on his face than a man of his station generally has for their Mistress, the look of joy he held when she spoke her praise of him morphing slowly into a look of sadness as she spoke of whatever troubles had caused strife between the newlywed couple.

“Domina...I owe you much more than silence, and it means the world to me that you would ask it of me rather than command. If it is your wish that I hold my tongue, I of course shall, both out of respect for your station and as my attempt at humble repayment for your act of bravery, a debt I could not possibly hope to repay otherwise. But, if I may, I would like to say something of it, for your ears alone, and then I will not speak of it again, it will be as if it never happened.” Mikkos’ eyes filled with moisture around the edges as he looked upon her with a mix of admiration and gratitude, tinged with the slightest hint of hesitation, as if he wanted nothing more in that moment but to embrace her as family, as perhaps a father would a troubled daughter. That would be taking too much liberty with her person, surely, and despite the emotionally charged conversation, Mikkos had managed to hold on to some semblance of proper bearing, even if he were speaking more freely with her than he knew was appropriate given the difference in their station. “I have no children, and it seems for me the season for such things is well passed...but if by some miracle I were to have a daughter someday, I would give sacrifice to all the gods above and below that she would grow to be half the woman you are. You are cast from the same mold as Atalanta, the great huntress, and perhaps some day you will permit me to tell you the stories of her, if you are not familiar, and you can take inspiration from her example. For now, know that all those who your brave actions has spared from the executioner's sword see you as nothing less than the beautiful young woman that you truly are, noble not only by blood but by character and deed, a woman that any man would be proud to call sister, daughter, wife...or Domina.” Mikkos smiled warmly, a fat tear running down one cheek as he held his hands clasped together in front of him, strengthening the grip as if inhibiting them from shooting out to embrace her in a comforting hug of their own volition. He held her gaze a moment, his eyes gleaming wetly as his expression spoke a thousand words, words of humble gratitude, respect and admiration, words he kept behind his teeth with Herculean effort. “A thousand pardons, Domina...I forgot myself in the moment, I will not permit it to happen again. You have better things to do than listen to an old man blubber...” Mikkos looked flustered a moment, sniffling, wiping the tear from his cheek as he composed himself. “If you would follow me, I think I know of a place that will suit your needs…”

Mikkos cleared his throat, talking as he walked in front of her down the long corridors along the south side of the villa that served as a quick method of passage for the servants to the different parts of the estate. “I think I know of a suitable place from where you can come and go without causing much of a stir. When the Dominus first purchased this estate there were some renovations undertaken. As part of the work, he commissioned the building of a guest suite of sorts...I suppose he meant for it to be for the Lady Marina someday, should she decide to stay here while the villa is otherwise occupied.” The pair passed a group of young servants who stood to either side of the corridor with bowed heads to allow ample room for the Domina to pass uninhibited. “As of yet it remains unfurnished, though there is a privy and a private room that I think would be suitable for your purpose. It’s near the back of the estate, not far from the stables, and if you’re careful about what time of day you come and go, there would be few prying eyes around to observe your passage. Just to be cautious I will warn the staff not to go near for the time being, to allow you some measure of privacy. Assuming you will not protest, I will send Philomena each midday to refresh and clean...she has proven thus far to be trustworthy, and as she is yet fairly new to staff, she doesn’t mingle freely with the others. That should keep the gossip to a minimum, I think. “

“I ask but one favor, Domina...you must permit me to prepare the space for you before you settle in for the evening. I should bring at least suitable bedding and a wash basin, at the very least. I would sooner allow myself to be crucified than think I have failed in my duties so severely as to allow you to sleep on the bare floor in a household I am charged with keeping…” A smile from Mikkos which suggested some manner of levity, but it was clear from the look in his eye that the sentiment was real. For a man such as him, not being allowed to keep a servant stationed with her to see to her needs was scandalous enough.. “As for the Dominus...I will pass along your message, and knowing him, he will likely pry no further. So long as he understands you to be safe, a message I will be sure to convey to him, I think it unlikely that he will seek you out if there has been some sort of conflict between the two of you...” Mikkos seemed as if he wanted to say more, perhaps either to offer some advice on how to deal with Marcus or to commiserate with her on the subject of his stubbornness, but he bit his tongue. He’d already spoken out of turn enough for one evening, better not to push the boundaries too far, even with someone as even handed and gentle spirited as the Domina.

Mikkos stopped then, somewhere close to the kitchen judging by the sounds and smells filling this section of the corridor. “Wait here a moment, Domina, if you will...I will drop off my supper here and have the cooks get started on prepping it…”

Mikkos emerged from the doorway after a few moments, a warm smile on his face as he gestured down the corridor in the direction they had been traveling. He held in his hand a small bundle wrapped in thick cloth, the smell wafting from it suggesting it concealed a loaf of freshly baked bread. “Shall we proceed, then, Domina? One more stop along the way to allow me to fetch some bedding and then to your quarters for the...” Mikkos wasn’t sure how long this squabble would last, or what he should say, so he went with the most non-committal option he could think of. “...time being.”


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Marcus leaned his head back against the wall of the corner his back was pressed against, the corner he had been about to round before he heard the sound of voices that had given him pause. He had operated on instinct, and, even though he was the Master of the house, somehow he’d instinctually read the moment, had known not to proceed around the corner and interrupt the conversation, drawn instead to eavesdrop from a position of stealth.

He recognized the voices, then, of his Majordomo and his Wife...a sudden rush of warmth washed over him, the hair standing up across the back of his neck as he heard her voice. A sense of longing gnawed at his gut…

Go to her, man! Take her in your arms...tell her you were a fool...are a fool...beg her forgiveness!

A gentle voice in his head entreated him, spurned him to action.

Maybe I should...nothing has been said that cannot be undone...tell her I wouldn’t dream of leaving, couldn’t, even if I wanted to, not so long as she was not with me…

Marcus’ feet felt heavy, fixed in place as if they had been turned to stone.

To the hells with that...why should you? Are you not a man, Marcus? Should you fall to grovel at her feet and beg forgiveness like a dog who has soiled her prized carpet? Where is the honor in that...she won’t respect it, won’t respect you, if you cannot even respect yourself. Be a man!

Marcus bit his lip, the aspects of his personality warring in his head, unable to make a decision, leaving the man known for his decisiveness, his ability to react to the chaos of the moment, unable to function. The conversation between the pair in the next hall was tough to follow from this distance, but he could make out bits and pieces here and there, enough to surmise that she sought refuge from him, from their marital bed…

Go out there and take her, she is yours! Your woman, your wife, your lover… she is honor bound to obey your will!

That particular voice was harsh, ragged, enraged, of a tone and quality his own had never held once it passed from his lips. The protective aspect of his psyche, triggered by the depth of the wound that formed as the thought of being estranged from his wife took root in his mind.

I will not force myself upon her...whether legal or not, honorable or not...I do not wish to see the light fade from her eyes as she looks upon me. No...if it is space she desires, if she truly cannot stand to be in my presence or even cross paths with me...then I will respect her wishes...




Marcus walked along the beach outside the villa, his feet bare, sinking into the wet sand beneath them as they carried him forth with a casual, contemplative pace. The sun had half way traveled beneath the horizon, gradually sinking into the sea, and the coloring of its rays reflected across its surface and through the smattering of hazy clouds in the distance painted a beautiful backdrop upon which his distant gaze settled.

Was my tongue so sharp that she truly wishes to be kept so far from me?

Marcus’ head fell, his feet shuffling a bit as he kicked at a small rock that was in his path to send it tumbling towards the gentle ebb and flow of the evening tide.

She can’t even bear to be in my presence, and yet there is little I want more...to hold her, to be held by her, to taste her lips again...to hear her voice cry out in pleasure...

A gull, circling above him, over the waves, screeched in that moment, a shrill cry that echoed in his ears as if issued derisively. Marcus halted and looked up, his gaze considering the bird that lazily circled in the breeze just out of stone shot.

“Even you, huh? Is there nowhere I am welcome, then?”

The bird offered no retort, drifting further down the beach in its hunt for an evening meal.

Marcus scoffed, kicking the sand once more before he continued forward with an easy gait. He noticed then a figure along the shore line ahead of him, someone busy inspecting the sand, half bent forward at the waist, an arm occasionally reaching out, fingers plucking at something before tossing whatever they retrieved into a cupped hand before continuing on. The figure was ahead of him by a few hundred meters, and Marcus found that his natural sense of curiosity absentmindedly steered his direction of travel towards the strange figure. As he drew closer it became clear that it was a young boy, shaggy haired and wearing only a pair of light breeches. He appeared no older than twelve or thirteen summers, still slender and a bit gangly as if his body still had some growing to do.

The boy stopped what he was doing and stood to his full height as Marcus drew closer, fixed in position as he considered the approaching figure as if he were trying to determine if he should turn and run or stay and address the older man. The boy spoke first. “I don’t want any trouble, sir...my mum said I could come and pick shells after supper, but I’ll put them back if you are cross about it…”. The boy's voice trembled a bit as if he recognized who Marcus was and was concerned with facing the repercussions of potentially offending him.

Marcus stopped a few paces from the boy and offered an easy, halfhearted half-smile, as close to open and friendly as the man ever got. “Nonsense, you have done nothing wrong. I’m curious as to what treasure it is that you are gathering, is all.”

The boy, relaxing somewhat but still stiff in his movements, held up an open palm between them, displaying his bounty of a half dozen shells of various description, all roughly the size of the last joint of a finger. They were the spiraling, conical variety, with a tiny hole on one end and a larger at the other where the creature that had formerly inhabited the shell would emerge from. “Just shells, sir…”

Marcus nodded, eyeing the boys prizes for a moment, a note of curiosity in his voice. “I see...and for what purpose do you seek them?”

The boy lifted his other hand, shaking his wrist, the movement displaying a bracelet of woven twine that was affixed there, decorated with similar shells affixed evenly across its length that clicked together as the movement jangled the accessory. “Bethamina gave me one...my brother told me I have to make one to give her in return…” The boy rolled his eyes, pulling back his hand and closing his fist around his treasures protectively.

Marcus smiled, a knowing look spreading across his visage. “Ahhhh...so this Bethamina, you like her, then?”

The boy’s brow knit as he violently shook his head. “Yuck...gross! She’s a girl...she’s…”

Marcus laughed under his breath as he held open hands before him. “Alright, I get it…?” Marcus looked at the boy expectantly, his intonation suggesting that he was expecting the boy to provide his name.

“Thiseas, sir….”

“I get it, Thiseas...you know how to make something like this?” He gestured towards the bracelet on the boy's wrist. It didn’t look like it would be all that hard to replicate for a skilled craftsman but he doubted it was a simple enough thing to pull off with no instruction.

“My brother showed me how. I have to be the one to make it, it will shame her if I give her a bracelet made by someone else, it’s bad fortune, the gods will…”

“I get it, Thiseas...it’s more about the effort than it is the quality of craftsmanship.” Marcus looked around a moment, searching for signs of anyone else near, and finding no one, his gaze returned to the boy. “Can I ask a favor of you, Thiseas?”

“Sir?”

“If I find my own shells, would you be able to show me how to make a bracelet like this?”




Marcus grumbled as he jerked at the length of twine he held between his hands, roughly undoing loose knots that he’d tied in the length of cord he had begun to weave together in the manner that the boy had taught him. It was his third attempt to replicate the bracelet he’d seen the boy wearing. He was sitting on the edge of their marital bed, wearing naught but a thin evening tunic as if he were prepared for sleep, working in the low lamp-light conditions into the late hours of the evening.

“‘It’s so simple, sir...all the children make them’...” Marcus sneered, his tone elevated as if to mimic that of a prepubescent boy’s range, dropping back down to his natural low rumble as he continued his line of complaint. “…I ought to have that boy strung up and whipped…”

He’d managed to string together three shells thus far, securely fastened behind a loop of twine on the end, but progress was hard fought. His fingers worked as he spoke to himself. “‘Here you are, my love… I know you are accustomed to finery from all corners of the world, fashioned by artisans whose family have passed their craft down through generations…”. Marcus lifted a length of twine to his lips, biting down on it to hold it secure as his fingers worked, mumbling from between clenched teeth. “...but please, even though it looks like it was made by a handless, sightless, mind-addled man who wove it together with a gnarled foot after being kicked in the head by a donkey…” Marcus scoffed as he let the twine fall from between his teeth, one hand reaching over to the small table beside his bed to retrieve a shell from the pile that lay atop the surface. “...please, accept this as a token of my undying love…” Marcus’ head drew closer to his hands as he focused on the shell, on threading the length of twine through the small hole at the bottom that he had previously widened with a metal needle as the boy had taught him. “...each time you look upon it, be reminded of how dull of mind your husband truly is, that such a task eludes him so readily…” He fed the twine through the shell and out the larger hole, sliding it down until it rested against the knot he had tied behind the previous shell in line. His mood darkened as his thoughts turned to her, the timbre of frustration in his voice lightening. “...be reminded that you are loved, even if your husband is not always capable of showing it…”

Marus sighed as he tied off the knot that would secure the fourth shell in line, lifting it up for closer inspection, turning it this way and that, and with a grunt of satisfaction, he retrieved another shell from the table to continue his task, intent on completing it before laying his head to pillow, hopeful yet that he would be interrupted by her shadow darkening the door frame.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Decius Maximus raised his goblet of wine to his lips, eyeing the man who sat across from him on the opposite side of his desk over the rim. The man, his name given as Sorkatti, was dressed in a fine silk tunic and adorned with an eclectic mix of gold and jewelry of various styles that seemed out of place on him, as if he were wearing a costume or signs of wealth newly acquired. Decius knew a capable man when he saw one, evaluating people was one of his gifts, after all, and it was clear the man before him was no simple messenger. He traveled without guards, for one thing, suggesting either that he had too much faith in the population of this part of the city or he was confident in his ability to defend himself from potential muggers. Decius’ money was on the latter.

Sorkatti was the messenger for the Nubian client, and being a Nubian himself, was of a dark brown complexion, his skin rough and weathered, seemingly tanned an even darker shade by frequent exposure to the harsh sun in the arid deserts of his homeland. The man appeared to be somewhere in his middle years, and judging from his composure and the way he carried himself, was a man accustomed to physical conflict. He had chosen not to partake in the offering of wine or women, seemingly the sort of man who liked to keep his professional dealings just that. He stared daggers across the desk at Decius, his visage expressionless, blank as stone, waiting for the other man to speak.

“Why this woman, in particular, though? If it is simply a dark skinned woman he desires, I could assemble a plethora of highly suitable candidates with but a snap of my fingers. What sort of a man is he...what are his tastes?”

“Tambal, my future King, is strong of body, sound of mind and virile like the bull…” Sorkatti raised a clenched fist skyward, forearm bent up at the elbow as if to symbolize just how abundant his liege’s virility truly was. “He is a giant of a man without equal on the battlefield...but his blood is of the people. The royal families will not willfully accept being ruled over by someone of common blood, and although my future King could bring them to heel for the immediate future, forever would they scheme and scam behind his back. Perhaps the gods will grant him the strength to hold them back during his reign by virtue of his sword arm and the size of his army, but even then, still they would come for his son or his son’s son once they have ascended to the throne after my future King has passed from this world. And so you see, what my Lord Tambal truly seeks is not merely a pretty young bride, for he has women at his feet wherever he goes. He places little value in the size of her teats or the shape of her backside, and it is not the color of her skin that draws my Lord’s interest...it is the color of her blood…”

Decius grimaced as he nodded in understanding, his fingers drumming across the top of his desk. He swirled the goblet of wine he held in hand gently, contemplatively, as he leaned back into his chair, resting his elbow against the arm and resting his chin against the heel of his palm. “...so that his heirs will inherit it. And soon enough, as the sands of time slip through the glass, most will forget that his blood was not the source of his heirs royal claim to the throne.”

Sorkatti nodded curtly, his head bowing slightly, the array of jeweled bangles and bracelets clinking together as he raised his hand to gesture to Decius in acknowledgment of the accuracy of his conclusion. “This is the way of things. You see, whether this Gaia knows it or not, she is of a noble line, distant cousin to the puppet King who currently holds the throne and dances along the strings manipulated by your Roman Emperor, Augustus. Many signs and portents have been read as to the strength of my future King’s reign, that he will be a force to make even Rome take heed, but in order for it to truly become a dynasty, they all say he must mate with a virgin woman of the current King’s line. He has spent a mountain of gold in pursuit of finding such a woman, and as it turns out, this ‘Gaia Africana’, she is the only childless woman of appropriate age left in their family line, and my King is too old to wait for future offspring to present possibility.”

Decius sat forward, leaning his upper body over the desk in front of him, his elbows pressed into the wood beneath him as folded hands propped up his chin. “Very well…” A heavy sigh of resignation passed through his lips. “...I accepted the contract to deliver this future ‘Queen’ to you, and so deliver her I shall. Our schedule for delivery will of course be delayed…and, it would seem less likely she will remain a virgin in the interim...is that going to be a problem?”

Sorkatti had once more assumed his stone faced look, and was as unreadable as ever. “My future King is capable of showing great mercy to those who serve him well...whether her maidenhead is intact or not, bring this Gaia Africanus to me before the seed of her Roman husband bears fruit in her belly and your past failures will be all but forgotten. My spies report to me that she has a fertile look about her, and as you said, there is little doubt her husband endeavors to swell her belly with child even as we speak, so I would be quick about it, were I you. I cannot deliver a future Queen to my Lord with a ripe womb filled with some half-Roman bastard...”

“We are of one mind, friend Sorkatti…” The cold expression on the Nubian’s visage suggested that he didn’t readily share in the feeling of friendship. “...and you know me to be a man of my word, after all, you chose me for this contract for a reason. But even the most skilled boatsman gets caught in a storm from time to time, it’s how they steer their ship out of it that counts in the end. Give me an extra month to deliver her and your future King shall have his Queen, as promised...”

Both men stood, reaching their hands out to clasp wrists over the table, over lengths of vellum unfurled there, over a picture, sketched in coal, of their mutual target, of a young woman with soft, yet noble features…

 

[Apollo Wilde]

What could she say to such warm praise? Praise that indeed, caught her by surprise - for long moments she could do little more than gape at Mikkos. He wasn’t lying; that she could tell, but he was being far too kind. She had only done what her brother had taught her, what the Goddess Diana had bestowed upon her. It would have been thanking the sky for it being blue. As strange as it was for her to be praised, complimented, it felt fitting that it was at least in service of her archery, and nothing else. There was, after all, little else that she could feel truly blessed in.

Without thinking, she reached out and gently wiped a tear from Mikkos’s face, her returning smile indecipherable in its placidity. A secret passed between the two of them, perhaps, but far be it from her to take credit where it wasn’t entirely due. “Give thanks to the Huntress Diana rather than to me,” said lightly, buoyed on the ghost of a warm laugh, “But I give you my thanks, as well as my great anticipation in getting to know you and this household better.” A spoken embrace as their stations would not allow it - words that she truly meant. “As of yet, I am still a stranger here, so to be in your good graces would be very much a boon to me.”

There seemed little need for further words, and she nodded her assent in his leading her to the smaller room towards the stables. As they walked, she listened, but looked with great interest at the walls, the floor, the servants, that they passed. It was not her father’s home, far from it, with its earthy charm that no amount of money could wash away, but there was a heart here too, buried beneath all of the impersonal mosaics and pottery. With the sound of the ocean in the distance, the villa seemed to be a great conch shell, containing the rippling murmur of the waves no matter where she went. “It’s like being under the ocean,” she breathed, still looking around, taking in the high ceilings, the chill of the night air as the sky further darkened. “A truly beautiful home. So different from my father’s.” The sound of her own voice was reassuring - better for it to live in the air here rather than echo aimlessly in her own brain, digging her further into her own folly. “I’ve never had much of an opportunity to be this close to the ocean,” her fingers danced along a fresco painting of sea creatures, the dark ribbon of a dolphin arching through blue and white waves, “I think we went when I was younger, but my family has always stayed close into the land. Maybe it was a lake, then, that I could be remembering. It was so long ago…I hope I can explore the ocean as soon as possible. I could only see a little from before - but it feels like it calls to me.” She smiled sheepishly then, realizing that not only was she rambling about silly things, but that she’d stopped, and Mikkos was a few steps ahead of her. Holding up her skirts, she increased her pace to keep up with him. Thankfully, he’d stopped by the kitchen, and, unable to resist, she peeked in.

It was a warm place, stale with the smell of baked bread and herbs, only the faintest undertone of the ocean breeze from outside. It seemed that it would possibly be stuffy under different conditions, but with most of the servants settled in for the night, there were only two cooks that she could see - and one of them with their back to her. The other, a woman firmly seated in her middle years, hissed at the servant with their back to the two. The other, jumping in surprise, rapidly turned. It was another woman, perhaps a bit older than the first: either that, or there were streaks of flour in her deep brown hair.

“Domina,” they said, almost in unison.

“I’m Myrtis,” said the first, inclining her head. She had vivid light brown eyes in a warm, tanned face, creased by laugh lines at her eyes. Her mouth was thin, but smiling - the visible traces of her hair steel gray but abundant enough beneath her simple white pulla. She was shorter than Gaia, squat as a barrel with a wide bosom and full arms.

“And I’m Melissa,” said the other - equally as stout, it would seem, as Myrtis, but with a few more inches in height. Her eyes held the faint panic of someone woken out of a deep sleep, struggling to make sense of the world around them. With the faint freckles that dusted her nose and cheeks, it gave her a childish look, though she had to have at least a decade or more on Gaia when it came to age. “How may we be of service?”

Before Mikkos could speak, Gaia cut in, giving him an apologetic look. “Would you mind, terribly, if I were to help you at your task?”

The two cooks looked at each other with raised eyebrows. Then looked to Mikkos for reassurance. Hesitation hung in the air, almost as palpable as the smell of rosemary, but Gaia took her opening:

“Oh, Mikkos, I can stay here while you prepare the room; that way, I’m out of your way, and I can learn more about my new home.” A sense of pleading there, of the rough formation of an idea, one that was rapidly approaching birth. Mikkos considered, setting the rabbit down on a nearby table, and with that kind shine in his eyes, nodded.

“A fine suggestion, Domina. I will return when your accommodations have been prepared.”

“Thank you, Mikkos,” another secretive smile, before she turned her attention to the two women.

More awkward silence, before Myrtis cleared her throat. “Is there anything that the Domina would want prepared?”

Gaia shook her head in the negative, looking round at the shelves, the various jars. She’d spent precious little time in the kitchen in her father’s home, leaving most of it to her mother and her sisters. “I..I was just curious,” she started, in a voice as small as a girl’s.

Why are you ashamed to be here? These are your new servants; they’ll need to be used to you and your face and your requests for as long as you live here. Courage, Gaia!

“I was just curious,” she started again, trying her best to channel the shy ease that Magnus was well-known for. After all, she didn’t need to dazzle like Lucius; she just needed to learn. And in order for that, she had to be open. “Does the Dominus like sweets, by chance?”

Myrtis and Melissa glanced at each other.

______

Myrtis thought that she would never get the taste of burned dough out of her mouth.

Who would have imagined that a Noblewoman would be such a terrible cook?

It truly boggled the mind. If she wasn’t switching salt for sugar, she was far too heavy handed with spice, with no regard to their scarcity. Her use of cinnamon had nearly sent both her and Melissa fleeing from the kitchen for their inability to breathe. Myrtis was quite sure that she would be sneezing cinnamon for the next week. And then there was all of the honey that she knocked over, and the eggs she’d dropped. Melissa nearly broke her neck slipping on them.

But Vesta bless her, she just tried so hard. And she never gave up, no matter if her dough didn’t rise, or once she got it to, she burnt it to cinders in the oven. And she tried so hard to be helpful, without any notice given to her station once she got to working. Every mess she made (and even those that she didn’t), she dutifully cleaned without so much as a grumble. By the time Mikkos had come round to collect her, Myrtis felt less that she’d been baking with her Domina, but working with one of her grandchildren.

True, it was the saddest honey cake she’d seen in her life, lumpy and uneven, and the cinnamon and honey topping was the most unappealing shade of brown she’d seen this side of the manure pit, but it was truly a labor of love - and Myrtis would not soon forget the look of utter joy on the Domina’s face as she tried a slice of the fifth cake, and learned that it was good at last.

“Well, that was one for the ages,” she chuckled, sitting down on a small bench in front of the preparation table.

“Mmm,” murmured Melissa. She was in a chair, her head tilted back against the wall, a cool towel pressed to her eyes. “I didn’t know that cakes could catch fire.”

“I think Dominus will be pleased.”

“…At least pretend to be. I’ll let Gallio know that he should make a digestive aid sooner than later.”

“A wise decision.”
_______

Though she knew she was tethered to the earth, she felt as if those restraints had been lightened a bit. She had to stop herself from humming with her cake preciously bundled up in the small basket that Myrtis had given her. It was covered with a small white cloth trimmed in blue, and she carried it as if it was her child. And it was with the same amount of care that she handed it over to Mikkos, with her instruction, that, in addition to her apologies for not meeting him for the evening meal, that she had prepared a honey cake for the Dominus. An attempt at reconciliation, perhaps, or a truer expression of her emotions. Though she had been so troubled, the process of baking, of chatter with Myrtis and Melissa, made her feel so at home. And though she knew she was a nuisance, and was terrible at cooking, the women had said nothing to discourage her, though she knew it took effort for Melissa to hold her tongue. The two women were treasures, and she would be sure to let Marcus know as soon as she could.

I hope that this will be sweeter than my tongue has been for Marcus - but outwardly, she said, with a small smile to Mikkos, “I do hope that he enjoys it.”

“I’m sure that he will, Domina. Rest well.”

Silence, save for the sound of the sea outside the window. Maybe the murmurs of servants as they passed each other.

Was it that the room was too small?

No, that wasn’t quite it; it was a sizable room, sparse, yes, but the skeleton of wanting to provide comfort was there. Clean linen, crisp with herbs, a vase and bowl for washing up. Was it that it was a strange room?

No…It’s because I’m alone. She could allow herself that much honesty as she sat down on the bed that felt far too large for her.

I had my own room at my father’s home, close to one of mother’s gardens. I could always smell the flowers from there. But here…all I have are my foolish words that brought me to this solitary place. My own words, and clumsy gestures. Why couldn’t I be more honest? Why couldn’t I have been braver? Isn’t it better to have him while I can than to keep waiting for the worst? He is here with me now - Goddess, why can’t that be enough?

She looked up towards the small window that the room was equipped with. Stars littered the night sky, the air blowing coolly but not frigid, keeping the air in the room fresh. The quiet night speak of horses in the stable, the call of lone gulls as they sought to roost. Strange sounds mixed with the familiar, but still chilling, still cold, too cold.

Pacing away from the window, she knelt on the ground, and clasped her hands.

Venus, I seek your guidance.

It was a simple prayer, but there did not need to be much more to it. Pressing her head to her hands, she inhaled deeply of the night air. Then got to her feet, and climbed into bed.

_____

Laughter in the distance - unfamiliar, but warm. Laughter that pulled her in, that made her want to unburden her heart. And so she did; a long conversation with a girlish voice that drifted in and out of sea foam, out of roses, flowers lowering their magnificent heads to whisper in her ear, doves fluttering above her head. Spring was exploding around her, the heavy feeling of young hearts, of past summers running in crushed grass. Of hearing his voice, and running towards it, dropping the flowers she’d gathered from her lap, so happy was she to hear him, and then that laughter again, sweet, comforting, a physical force pushing her closer to that man who waited for her with open arms, with a half-smile -

Gaia awoke with a gasp. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been asleep. Her senses muddled, she sat up, looking around, reorienting herself to her surroundings. Moonlight filtered bright white through the window - it had to have been late. The air was quiet save for the distant lull of the waves, still in a way that tripped the fine hairs on the backs of her arms. A witching hour, certainly - but perhaps the first privacy that she’d had since she’d arrived.

What had that man looked like? Like most vivid dreams, his face seemed to slip from her the moment her eyes were open, but the feeling lingered, as warm as the sheets she found herself wrapped in. A warmth that wasn’t from the room - it took her a bit longer to realize it. Warmth, yes - his arms around her, his lips on hers, his hands moving freely up and down her body, caressing her, making it sing in tune with the green world of her dreams. How had his hands felt? Could she remember? Where would she even start? She looked down at her body, pressing against the linen of her night stolla. Her breasts rose and fell, her legs, linen covered mountains - hills that could flatten into valleys. She stretched her legs out, pointed and flexed her feet. Every moment she could make could be so precise, so measured. It was a wonder - but yet, as well as she knew it, he had been able to coax new reactions from her.

Was it because he’d touched her breasts? She cupped them in her hands, the motion all too familiar, the weight of her breasts as steady as always. Her thumbs brushed over her nipples, once, twice. That was a new movement - she’d never paid much attention to them. And yet, at the faintest brush, they changed - stood erect, though she was not cold. Another faint brush, and there it was - a hint, a small charge. It’d felt…good.

Maybe her stolla was in the way.

Without much thought, she stripped it off overhead, tossed it carelessly to the floor. Looked down at her bare body again, the smooth rolls of her stomach, the heavy creases of her breasts. Again, she brushed her thumbs over her nipples, the erect nubs pebbling even further. Then, curiously, she pinched the right nipple. Hard, then harder still, till she winced - replaced pinching with a small rolling, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together around the flesh, working the sting of the pinch out. Oh. Oh. That felt even better…

It would be easier to do this laying down.

A quick glance around the empty room, to ensure she was alone. A pause, listening to the stillness of the air, prepared to dress if she heard so much as a cough. But there was nothing, nothing but her own frayed nerves, the burgeoning heat in her stomach that spurred her onwards, the muscle memory of the dream, of that light laughter, letting her know it was okay. That she could explore.

As she laid down, she ran her left hand over her stomach. Her skin was so soft; the donkey’s milk baths and walnut scrub that her mother insisted on, amidst all of the unguents and all else did their job, even she had to admit. There wasn’t a raised patch of skin anywhere on her body; all was burnished smooth to a satin touch, smooth, unbroken brown, her body a field of it, an expanse of fertile soil. And further, below the thumb press of her navel, there was her sex, the black curls pressed flat by her subligaculum. Without opening her eyes, she ran her left hand over the wire-like hair, back and forth, mussing, teasing, until she could feel the hair standing free, still curled, perfect black circles overlapping one another, her fingers slipping through easier now. She was so warm here, almost as warm as her breast. The right hand cupped the right breast, then the left, fingers admiring the smooth skin, the pebbling of the areola as it gave way to her nipple - and a repeat of that rolling motion, of caressing it between the thumb and forefinger, tugging a little now, yes, that was it - but it could be better, couldn’t it?

Marcus’s mouth had been so warm there - bringing her more pleasure than when he touched her alone. But she couldn’t suckle at her own breast, not laying down, at least.

What if I…?

Right hand brought to her mouth, a flick of her tongue against her fingers. She could still taste honey and cinnamon trapped beneath her nails, the sweat from baking, the traces of perfume that still clung to her skin from her earlier application. Myrrh, it had been, myrrh and oudh, home but not - and her dampened fingers tweaked her nipple again. That was better, but maybe, if she closed her eyes, it wouldn’t be her fingers. It would be Marcus’s mouth, pulling from her the man from her dream, the one with that half-smile, with hands of warmth…

“Mmm,” she couldn’t keep the sigh trapped behind her lips, sinking deeper into the pathways of her imagination, spurred on the path by her dream. Warm lips at her nipples, right then left, then right again, occasionally re-dampened by her tongue, and her left hand, sliding up and down the mound of her sex, playing with the hair, but dipping lower, and lower, brushing against the lips. They were changing too, she could almost feel them swell beneath her touch. It was pleasant, stoking a slow fire, that rubbing, just feeling the fatness of her labia. Feeling them slowly awaken, a twist of the imagination, and the hand was no longer hers, but his. He was gentle here, pressing here, then there, listening to her breathing, to the rapid drum of her heart as he was content to rub. But if that hand moved higher, to where her body split, there was a button there, she could feel it, remember it, after Marcus had showed her where it dwelled with his tongue, and it was getting warmer too, like the lips of her sex.

Parting her labia with her left hand, she soon realized that it would better to switch - and right hand replaced left, left fingers caressing her lips before they were back to toying with her nipples, rolling, pulling, the faint bite of nails to mimic the brush of teeth. No, Marcus hadn’t done that, but her dream lover had, listening to the things she couldn’t say, but her body asked for, just like her body asked for her right hand to part her labia, to stroke along the delicate and satin lips of her labia minora. They were different; so much smaller, so close to her opening that the slightest hiccup would bring her fingers into contact there, that warm, small hole, how had he ever fit inside her? One finger pressing against her opening felt to be too much; she wasn’t as wet, that much she knew - but there was a growing dampness. Growing warmth that was bolstered all the more when she thought of Marcus - not just of his touch, but his eyes when he first lifted that veil, his eyes as he looked at her, no, the smolder in his eyes when he looked at her from between her legs, the low growl of his voice with his command.

She had to force her eyes open for what she wanted to do next. Held up the trembling fingers of her right hand. How wide had he been? Three of her fingers, fore, middle, ring - no, he’d been wider than that. But she only had those fingers, and even then, she wasn’t sure if they’d fit. She contemplated them - her body wasn’t wet enough. Not there at her sex, not yet. But she could help it along. What had the bawdy songs said, “spit and split,” or something equally vulgar, but maybe there was merit there, too. It was her hand, yes - and there was no shame in what she was going to do next, she reassured herself. A tentative lick to her forefinger, then, slipping it into her mouth, she added the middle and the ring finger. Traced each one carefully with her tongue, careful to nearly drool on the digits. She needed to be wet, wetter still, if she was going to attempt it.

Her tongue’s work completed, she let her fingers escape her mouth, skipping past the long trail of her torso, not to disrupt her left hand, far comfortable with lifting and cupping her breasts, of toying with air-dried nipples, bypassing the plain of her stomach. Damp against her labia, she gently pressed her three fingers to her opening, winced as the newly stretched muscles tried to accommodate her fingers. It was too much now, as it had been too much then, but there was something she was ignoring, she knew it - a quick flick of the tongue against her fingers of her left hand, bathing those three fingers as her right hand shifted, pressed higher against her sex. Tracing the thin lines of her labia minora high, from where they flowered open around her sex - there it was! It felt like a small pearl, the flesh tight and firm. The brush of her wet fingers against it, flesh sliding across flesh, made her eyes flutter behind closed eyelids. How had he done it - a rubbing up and down - so she tried. It was good, but different. Too different. Not quite the right fit. And as her left hand continued to stroke at her labia, switching from labia majora to labia minora, she moved one finger away from her clitoris, one at a time, till only her middle finger was left, running long circles around it, and that was it - the key she’d been looking for.

A muffled sigh from her as her hips involuntarily flexed up into the motions of her hands, the three fingers of the left continuing to seek entrance, the middle finger of the right rubbing circles, speeding up as her body flexed, the lips of her sex growing hotter, wetter, and then, yes, one finger, slow down, one at a time, she had all night, one finger, then a second, and oh, it hurt, it stretched, but she liked that too, it reminded her of him - and it could be him, couldn’t it, it could be her Marcus touching her like this, coaxing her higher and higher, smiling that smile, those dark eyes of his, so cold, but capable of such warm, he was looking at her with love now, she could almost imagine the way his lips felt against hers, against the side of her neck, and then, three fingers were inside of her, and she didn’t have to think so hard. What was there to consider, the circles round her clitoris, the three fingers slipping in and out, getting easier now as she grew wetter, as she imagined his voice warm in her ear, combined with that sweet laughter -

Her orgasm overtook her with a brief cut off cry, as if she had been surprised. And in truth, she had been - she had no idea that she could make herself feel that way. That she could stoke that warmth. No. It hadn’t been her. Not her alone. As she forced her eyes open, forced her breathing to slow down, she stared at the ceiling. It was good, but it wasn’t enough. It hadn’t been enough. Would never be enough.

And knew what she had to do.

_____

It was late, she knew that. And perhaps she should have knocked. Made a bit more noise. But it was on paper feet that she approached what had recently been their shared room. And perhaps had she been seen, she would have been given a wide berth. Her eyes were glazed, cheeks flushed, lips parted, a woman dazed, but on a mission.

“Marcus…” Her voice was soft, little more than a whisper, but it was all the warning that she gave him. In her loose stolla, she breezed into the room, was upon him like a vengeful ghost. Pressing the fingers of her right hand to his mouth, she traced his lips with them, before slipping fore and middle finger into his mouth. She wouldn’t have to say anything else; she knew he would taste her on them, this close, her hands were redolent of her sex, dark and secret like her eyes, her desire leeching from her, threatening to set the air of the room ablaze.

Scarcely had she removed her hand that she replaced it with her mouth. She was kissing him, forcing her tongue into his mouth, wrapping her arms about him, leaving him no place to escape.

I want his lips to tattoo my body. I want to burn like this, always. Curse my foolishness. I can’t survive without this. If it makes me weak, it makes me weak. I leave my life in your hands, Sweet Venus.

And in the corners of her mind, she heard the sweet laughter from her dream.

_____

Octavia sat up in bed. She wasn’t surprised to see that her husband was also laying awake.

“I dreamed of trouble on the sunrise,” she said, somewhat flatly, staring off into the darkened corners of the their room. Their home was quiet, too quiet, without the constant presence of their last daughter. “I dreamed of a woman in labor, who bore a monster in a gush of blood.”

“A nightmarish vision.” Not just the description of the dream, but the distance in Octavia’s voice. Times like this she sounded less of herself, and more of the voice that was from the depths of the earth, that sang existence into being. “Is there more?”

“The monster turned to devour the glimmering cities of his ancestors. Sought the last of his line, to devour it, to spit it back out as a seconding of himself, to eat and swallow and spit on into eternity, bringing more blood and sorrow. But before he could devour that being, an eagle carried them off to a shining city.”

Virgil turned to his side, facing away from his wife. He’d felt a chill in the air, pulled his night toga firmer around him. “May the Gods deliver the eagle safely.”

Octavia said nothing, but stared off into the night.

 

[Talon]

Marcus finished tying off the bracelet with a strongly seated, thick knot, leaving two small lengths of twine trailing out behind it to enable the wearer to tie it securely. He tested its function, threading the knot through the loop on the opposite end, and satisfied that it was fit for purpose, he stood and moved closer to the table set against the far wall. There he utilized the low open flame of a candle to burn off stray strands and melt the tips of the loose twine at the end so that they would not chafe when worn against skin. Holding his creation up for inspection he examined it with a layman’s eye, and having no real taste for art or finery, he could only judge it’s symmetry, which, he had to admit, was rather poor. If its length were to be broken into thirds, the first section was rough, the weave loose, the distance between shells differing enough to be noticable. The second was more uniform, at least, but one knot was off, perhaps tied too tightly, causing the last third of the length to be set at a slight cant from the rest. Other than its odd angle, his craft had been perfected on that last section, and its length resembled closely the tight weave he had seen displayed on the bracelet that the child on the beach had been wearing. Altogether there were six shells along its length, long enough to rival the span of his open hand, and although he had not taken measurement, he was quite sure it would be sufficient to allow for a comfortable fit on her wrist. He turned the bracelet a few times, noting the luster of the clean, off-white pearlescent shells as they reflected the flickering candle flame.

I think the coloring will compliment her quite well...assuming she will agree to wear it at all. Am I not a fool to think that a childish gesture such as this will even move her? I’m near old enough to be a grandfather, and yet, here I am, emulating the courting rituals of children.

Marcus’ hand closed around the bracelet, gathering it between his thumb and forefinger, absentmindedly rubbing at it as he mused.

Now that I’ve come to know the warmth of her embrace I am loath to spend the night alone in a cold bed...I can hardly bear to be separate from her any longer. Perhaps her inner fire has cooled enough, perhaps she will allow me to explain, to speak of my own confusion, to tell her how much I simply want to taste her lips…

“Dominus?”

Marcus sighed, pulled from his reverie by the familiar voice of Mikkos, his Majordomo. Marcus’ head turned to face him then, and try as he might, he could not conceal the hint of anger that flashed across his features. Anger, not borne of the man directly, mind, but he’d had a hand in keeping her from him nonetheless, even if he had been commanded to do so. He’d heard the tone of their discussions, though, and it hadn’t taken a sharp tongue to bend Mikkos to her will.

“You have a dangerous habit of sneaking up on me, lately...what is it?” Marcus’ tone was cold, harsh, impatient, devoid of the mirth that normally passed freely between the men, difference in station aside.

Mikkos seemed taken aback by his Master’s tone, and sensing it would be better to hasten their dealings, he entered the chambers, holding aloft a wooden tray before him upon which sat a small basket, a pitcher and an empty goblet. “Pardon the intrusion, Dominus, but Domina wishes me to impart to you her most sincere apologies for her absence from the evening meal. She has prepared something for you with her own hands, a post-meal treat, and she hopes you will take as much enjoyment from it as she did in making it for you.” Mikkos quickly moved across the room to set the tray down against the top of the dresser Marcus stood in front of, well aware that Marcus’ eyes followed him and were fixed on him, not unlike the gaze of a bird of prey perched high in the trees, searching below for signs of it’s next meal. Mikkos bowed his head and backed away as Marcus moved forward, eyeing the contents of the tray. The scent wafting from the basket caught him first, familiar and yet different, but definitely something sweet.

“Tell her...tell her that her husband is grateful for the gesture and the effort she must have put forth. Tell her…”

“Beg pardon, Dominus, but perhaps you should tell her as much yourself…it will mean more coming off your tongue than mine. She is not so far away as you might fear, physically or otherwise…”

Marcus frowned, his gaze momentarily fixed on the white cloth that concealed the contents of the basket, considering what Mikkos had said for a moment before it dawned on him. His eyes widened, his head slowly turning towards the door, incredulous that his servant presumed to speak to him so freely.

“What did you sa…”

Mikkos had disappeared back into the shadows from whence he came.

Marcus growled, rolling his shoulders with a harsh scoff of disbelief. “...I suppose I shouldn’t bother to ask whose side his loyalty falls to...old fool…” Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Marcus took a few steps forward to stand before the tray that Mikkos had deposited there. First filling a goblet to the brim with cool water from the pitcher before taking a deep sip, Marcus poked at the cloth atop the basket a moment before peeling it back to reveal the contents that lie hidden underneath. It appeared to be a cake of some description, not unlike many he had seen in the past, if not a bit more...humble...in its appearance. Marcus lifted a knife from the tray beside the basket, cautiously quartering the cake before setting the knife back down on the tray. The smell of cake and honey met his nose, evoked by the cutting into and exposing of its insides, and just then his stomach growled menacingly in protest, lamenting the fact that he had provided it with precious little sustenance since he had awoken earlier this morning.

Wasting no time, Marcus unceremoniously plucked up one of the sections of cake, lifting it to his nose for a cautionary sniff, before taking a solid bite and chewing it thoughtfully. He frowned, looking down to consider the piece his hand, turning it this way and that as he worked the treat between his teeth.

Hmmm...not half bad, actually...better than it looks…

Marcus swallowed, raising the piece to his lips as he took another, larger, bite, his gaze growing distant as his mind worked.

So the woman can bake, too…

Swallow, another bite.

There is so much more to her to discover. I peel back a layer thinking I’ve found the core only to find there is so much more hidden beneath…

Marcus finished his original piece, stopping a moment to take a sip from his goblet of water before fetching another.

How can one woman be so many conflicting things...thoughtful, yet emotionally distant...strong, yet soft...humble, yet proud...simple, yet breathtakingly complex...

Marcus finished his second piece, absentmindedly reaching out to retrieve the third.

Why would she make me this...surely she would have sent something more impersonal if her thoughts strayed far from me. Does she suffer as I do? Is she awake now, somewhere nearby, considering how I will receive her gift?

Marcus noticed then that he was sucking at the tip of his thumb, and pulling his hand away from his mouth, noted that somewhere during his musings he had devoured the fourth and final piece without deliberate thought. He took a final, deep sip of his water, draining the goblet, before turning away from the tray and rubbing a hand across the front of his tunic, over his now content belly. Another sigh, this one of satisfaction, as he shuffled towards the bed, flopping down onto the bed haphazardly, his hands sliding behind his head, arms folding back into the mattress beneath him.

I will seek her out...just going to close my eyes for a few moments...collect my thoughts…






A low sound roused Marcus from his state of sleep, his eyes drifting half open. Before he could begin to process what he’d heard he felt someone climb up onto the bed, over to him, hovering. He began as if to speak, groggily uttering. ”Ga…?”

A finger pressed softly against his lips, tracing a rough outline of them, his eyelids lifting, still heavy...and then it hit him. Worn heavily upon her fingers was the distinctive scent of her sex, and due in part to their proximity to his nose, the familiar musk all but filled his nostrils, the powerful a jolt of heat to rush throughout his veins in a surging wave, her phermones triggering an instinctual response from him, one deeply rooted, back to a time before words or language or culture or distinctly different peoples. The musculature in his chest and shoulders twitched, rippling, as if unconsciously anticipating and preparing for the need to fight off other males for the right to mate with this fertile female once they had caught her scent on the wind. His eyes shot open, wide, and met with hers hungrily. It was clear from the look they shared, for that one moment in time at least, no more than a heartbeat, that she held him in the palm of her hand, as besotted as if she had cast a spell on him. He was but a puppet, and she held the strings.

Her fingers were in his mouth then and he was welcoming of their unannounced invasion, suckling greedily at them as if to clean them of her arousal, to take every bit for himself, groaning, his lips vibrating against her fingers as he sampled once more her taste. The beginning of a dissatisfied grunt as she pulled her fingers free, only to be cut short as she pressed her lips to his, their tongues swirling together in a by now familiar dance, their upper bodies embracing, hands clutching at backs, sliding over shoulders, grasping hips, their actions conveying sentiments that neither would ever speak, of longing, of passion, of lust…

Marcus, with Gaia still clinging to him, their lips and tongues still locked in their intimate embrace, managed to lift his upper body until he was in a seated position, his hands tugging at her, pulling her onto his lap, her thighs wrapping around his middle, her arms over his shoulders. The two of them worked in concert, then, to shed their night clothing, both garments discarded as carelessly across the room as they had been the morning prior.

This is how we should be together always...the world is ours...we are alone upon it, together, when we can feel the heat of our bodies freely mix...my rightful place is here, with her…

She was slightly taller than him in this position, seated on the tops of his muscular thighs, the heat of her burning sex threatening to burn through his middle, his own, as rigid as stone and feeling twice as heavy, threatened to scald the flesh of her rump as it pressed up against its cheeks from underneath. His head was inclined back, mouth tilted up to maintain contact with her lips as his arms wrapped her around her middle, resting in the curvature at the small of her back, fingers brushing across the soft landscape of flesh, tracing around the ‘v’ just above the cleft where her bountiful cheeks met. He could feel the hardened little buds of her nips threatening to bore holes through the flesh of his collarbones as her the ripe orbs of her breasts were compressed between their bodies, and once more, so closely were they intertwined, it was as if they had been carefully chiseled into existence from a singular block of stone.

Marcus’ hands slid up her back, holding her, pressing her against him, as he rolled the pair of them over to his left side, laying Gaia’s back down against the cushion on the mattress, breaking the kiss only momentarily as he adjusted his body to once more rest between her thighs, their chests pressed together, the thickly swollen knob at the tip of his manhood brushing across the smooth flesh at the insides of her thighs, butting up against the mound of her sex as if seeking out her core of its own volition. He broke their extended kiss then, parting with a soft nibble at her plump lower lip as he pulled back, his upper body moving back, breaking her hold where her arms had been wrapped around him, lifting himself from her grasp, moving back until he was on his knees between her legs, his rump settling back against his calves. All the while his hardened prick waved about in front of him crudely, the probing knob at the tip still half shrouded in it’s natural hood, the very tip gleaming wetly in the low lamplight with a combination of both of their arousal.

Marcus looked down at her then, at the shape of her body, surrounded as it was by a near perceptible ambient glow, the heat of her arousal practically shimmering off of her into the cool night air above it.

Do it, Marcus...take her. She came crawling to your bed, enticing you with her flesh, tempting you with the taste of her cunt...she doesn’t want to make love...look at her...she wants to rut...to be fucked, to be pounded so hard she won’t be able to walk straight for days. Well...what are you waiting for, exactly, a written invitation?

Marcus leaned back down over her, pressing a quick kiss against her lips before speaking, his eyes locked with hers, his eyes smoldering with an intensity that spoke to the desire that burned within, his voice low, deep, rumbling, just on the verge of devolving into a growl.

“Roll over...up on your hands and knees...I’m going to plow your cunt from behind until you soak the sheets again…”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

More delicious than the honey she'd licked from her fingers as she baked, more smoldering heat than the cinnamon were his lips. Sweeter still, the traces of honey cake that lingered there, proof that he’d gotten her cake, her gift, her clumsy emotions rolled into dough and put through the fire of the oven. Similar to the fire that was stoked in her belly now, the orgasm that she’d given herself not even ten minutes earlier simply a prelude to what she wanted now.

It hadn’t been enough that she’d slid her fingers into his mouth - the caress of his tongue made her press her forehead to his, nose brushing against his, before withdrawing her fingers all together, before replacing them with her mouth, she slid them partially in, partially out, sliding the digits across his tongue, his lips, fucking his mouth with a confidence she couldn’t have imagined bearing not hours before. Now, spurred by that laughter, she moved as a woman possessed, acknowledging little else but what was in front of her, feeling her body guided by invisible hands. The same hands that guided her arms around his neck, who guided her to press her mouth harder, harder still, against his, to not so much press her lips to his but almost past them, molding herself to him so that there was no light, no break between them. Only the passage of their clothing, her, grabbing the bottom of his tunic and pulling it overhead, his hands doing the same, would be enough to break her apart from him.

Her legs easily wrapped around his waist, locking about him, pressing his heated length against her belly, sliding temptingly across the coarse curls of her sex, and it would be her turn to growl, softly, timid, a lioness finding the strength to roar. He was teasing her, and she would have none of it. He’d slid against her, between the cleft of her lips, so close, but not inside of her - enough for him to feel that she was soaking already, throbbing, wetter still, a frantic desperation in her kiss now. He would be the one that broke the kiss next, her easily following the change in his body as he laid her down. And in the flickering butter glow of the lamplight, she laid out, comfortably, confidently, beneath him, a queen returning to her throne.

Shadows cast her brown skin into black, dim golden light drew long fingers across her breasts, her stomach, the fluttering there of her pulse. And lower still, a highlight of those curls - as she propped herself up on her elbows to get a better look at him, her eyes darting down the lines of his torso, the dark circles of his nipples, the dusty trail of hair that lead down towards his sex. Teeth flashed white, catching the plush pink of her lower lip as she let her eyes rest there on his erect cock, and the throb in her cunt grew to nearly painful. But she wouldn’t let her gaze linger there. Not when she had to have him inside of her - and she’d let him know as much. Shifting beneath him, she made sure that his eyes found hers after that last kiss, after the gradual drinking in of his body, as she brazenly parted her legs, reaching down between her legs, her right hand resting on the swollen lips of her labia, before she parted them, feeling the heat, the thick wetness parting easily before him. She would look deep into his eyes, her own dark, hungry, predatory. A far cry from the somewhat timid woman before: the look on her face was nothing less than a goddess of desire, asking for her rightful pound of flesh from her devotee.

Give it to me.

Desire met desire - her lips were harsh against his, the sharp bite of teeth before the kiss was parted, and he was telling her how to move. Was that the slight flash of a smirk, of a smile that understood and allowed for the shift of power now, or a trick of the light? Either way, it didn’t matter. Slowly, deliberately, she rolled to her right side, turning her body to show it to full display, masking it under the innocence of simply moving - no mistake in the way she rippled over the sheets, flexed the muscles in her back, started to her hands and knees by pushing her ass first into the air, stretching as easy as a cat, before hands were planted in alignment with her shoulders, hips above her knees, soles of her feet, lighter than the rest of her, still bearing healing cuts, upturned on the mattress. She was as if a table - back straight, neck firm.

A hum, humoring his request, turning it round and round in her head. She couldn’t think of what to say, what to demand of him, even if her mind had pressed the matter, her body responded before it could. She didn’t bother to keep upright - no, she pressed her chest against the mattress, pillowing her breasts against the sheets as tenderly as if it was his chest, turning her head to the right, looking at him over her right shoulder. Fingers curled in the sheets, eager, a wave of that rear in front of him. Reaching back with her left hand, she gently grasped her left cheek; pulled it to the side. Her damp labia gaped with the gesture, her fluids already slicking her curls into odd patterns, the darkness of her sex melting into the darkness between the cleft of her ass, to the tight pucker of her rear most hole. Darkness, wetness, gave way to the startlingly light pink of her entrance, stretching her opening just a bit, still tight, still deeply flushed, still apparently too small for his member to bore into her. If the motion of her left hand wasn’t enough, her right snaked around - but rather than grasp the right cheek, she pressed her fore and middle finger to her entrance, running them round and round, showing him the involuntary shudder of her labia.

“Fuck me.”

What else could she say? Where had even those words come from? They were said with a burning certainty, no pleading or whining, no fear. Close to a command, but with the kindness, the underlying sweetness of a request, of doing a favor, of wanting to partake and share in something good, a secret between the two of them.

“I need you, Marcus. My hands aren’t enough. They’ll never be enough. I need you inside of me to quench this burning.” A slight wiggle of those hips, a pressing of her ass higher into the air, her lips parted against the sheets. “Fuck me, fuck me until I don’t know my own name.”

 

[Talon]

Marcus leaned over, reclining on his left side against an outstretched arm in the common fashion that one would in their triclinium against one of the couches there as they dined, his hips canted, left leg down against the bed, right bent with its knee towards the ceiling. He lazily stroked at his hardened prick as he passively observed her, his palm wrapped around the uppermost section along where it gently curved, concealing within it’s embrace the most notable feature of his manhood, the broad, brutally thick battering ram of a cockhead that sat atop the fat length of dusky shaft. The musculature along his forearm rippled as it activated to power the hand that tugged at his cock idly, almost absentmindedly, as he was clearly enraptured by the movement of her body, that almost arrogant half-smile worn plainly upon his lips, hooded eyes ever so widened, the insides of his dark eyebrows upturned as he watched, no longer like the predator stalking its prey, instead resembling something more like a supplicant seeking succor from his goddess, the kind that could only be provided if she deemed his cock worthy to enter that divinely tight hole that lay between those heavenly thighs.

As she moved onto her knees and presented her upturned rump his upper body leaned forward, careful not to enter her range of motion, but desiring to be closer to her, to the backside that now dominated his field of vision. While true it had drawn lustful glances from him since he first took note of the shape of his new bride’s body, this was the first time he had been given opportunity to truly evaluate her body from this angle, her prodigious backside presented in all its glory, pushed out at him, bereft of any clothing or covering, made available for him to admire from the most privileged of vantage points. It wasn’t merely about sheer size, although that in and of itself was the most defining feature from his perspective. Even if he had thought to compare her to women he’d lain with in the past, which in that moment, with her body effortlessly commanding his full attention, was an impossibility, he would have found no comparable feminine figure from his past. It wasn’t merely about the shape, different from others he’d seen, more pronounced in its curvature, the natural curve in her lower back heightening the effect, leading to an almost shelf-like stretch where back gradually transitioned into buttocks before it swelled outward to form two expansive cheeks, curvy throughout instead of merely along the bottom along where rump met thigh. It wasn’t merely about the tone or softness of her skin there, of the same meticulously maintained smoothness as the rest of her body, graced by the occasional dimple or line here or there, no more than interesting features that made her body uniquely hers. It was none of those things alone, but instead all of them in combination, that captured her husband’s attention so raptly.

Marcus could almost feel the waves of heat radiating from her core, from the plump, slick mound of her nethers, almost as strongly as if he were standing beside an open flame that had been fed a fresh supply of fuel. A hungry gaze drank in every detail from this novel vantage; from the tiny nub of her clit just beginning to peek from its hood, now positioned at the bottom of the cleft of her sex from his vantage, to the dense, tightly wound curls of thick, sleek wiry hair around the lips, coverage growing more sparse as his eyes moved up, across her perinium, venturing into the dark crevase above, into the valley between those smooth brown hills, now spread apart and held open by the helpful, and much appreciated, assistance of her left hand, gliding over the crinkled flesh around the tightly puckered hole of her anus, the surrounding flesh so dark there so as to be nearly imperceptible in the low light, an intriguing contrast to the rich, warm brown of the mountains above. He leaned further in still as she wiggled her hips at him enticingly, breathing in the scent of her arousal as it wafted across what little space remained between them, studious eyes drawn to every detail as if he were an artist preparing to sketch a model. As if to show his approval of what met his eyes, and simultaneously let her know he’d not been spontaneously struck dumb at the sight of her bared nethers, he pressed a gentle kiss against the mound of her sex, soft lips brushing against her clit, the light growth of stubble on his cheeks brushing against wiry curls, before pulling back, once more leaning back against a steadying hand pressed into the mattress behind him.

Just then her right hand was employed to further entice him, as if she thought the sight alone was insufficient or that she simply desired to tease him to even greater heights, two stiffened fingers rubbing against her entrance, around where wetly gleaming darkness bloomed into captivatingly bright color, as if silently demonstrating where she wanted him to fill her. His hand shifted, reversing to grip his cock around the base as he shifting, moving back onto his knees, his hips arcing forward, his wrist jerking, the swollen mass of flushed purple flesh at the end rapping playfully against her fingers as they worked, leaving a lightly wet trail of precum across the backs of them in its wake.

“Fuck me.”

There was something about the way she moved, about the husky, raspy quality to her voice…this was not the same Gaia that had shared his bed the night before. Gone was the shy, reserved facade of a dutiful highborn wife. Whereas her voluptuous figure had previously evoked in him thoughts of comfort, warmth and softness, the kind of woman a man would want wrapped around him on a cold and lonely night, the kind to bear and nurse his offspring, the was a distinct shift in the reaction and thoughts her form evoked from him now. The way she moved, confidently channeling all the natural grace she’d shown during her spirited and skillful dance, evoked pure, uninhibited lust. The air around them was thick with it, as if excess seeped out from her very pores, and Marcus’ breathing grew labored as if he felt the weight of it pressing down against his chest.

By the gods, this woman…

“I need you, Marcus. My hands aren’t enough. They’ll never be enough. I need you inside of me to quench this burning.” A slight wiggle of those hips, a pressing of her ass higher into the air, her lips parted against the sheets. “Fuck me, fuck me until I don’t know my own name.”

Marcus moved like a man who had been given a command from upon the highest authority, almost unwittingly, instinctually, rising up behind her, drawing nearer, his hand still gripping the base of his cock as he held it steady before him, steering it, aiming it, pulling back the flesh around the head to expose it nakedly to the night air, to display the flared ridge around the edge, prominent by its sheer size, thicker than the already notably fat length of shaft that lie beyond and below it, that puffy vein running down its length pulsing as it worked to keep the organ it marked sufficiently fed. Once more she could feel the smooth flesh of the head brush against her fingers where they were busy caressing her sex, butting up against them as if to nudge them aside. The contrast in size between the inner pink folds of her entrance and the swollen head of his prick was never more prevalent than when it pressed into her there, concealing that bloom of color beneath it’s reddish-purple mass, the petite lips of her labia minora hugging around it as Marcus’ hips pressed forward, her labia stretching, growing thin as they were slowly spread further and further apart, mashing against her plump outer lips, hugging tightly around the unrelenting brutish invader that was physically bullying it’s way inside her, no matter how tightly her cunt gripped as if she unconsciously sought to keep him at bay.

Marcus paused a moment as he settled into position, his strong hand gripping either side of her waist where it was smallest, pressing into her flesh as if he sought to keep her in that position no matter how hard she might fight to retreat from it. The thick head of his cock, not even fully seated inside her yet, shifted around inside her entrance as his hips moved.

“I’m sure your hand is nice, and all...but as you said, your fingers could never hope to replicate this…”

Marcus’ hips slammed forward then in a savagely unrestrained thrust, his pelvis impacting the fleshy part of her ass with a loud thwap, his hands pulling back at her hips, pulling her back towards him as the head of his cock forced it’s way through the impossibly tight grip of her entrance to slide it’s full length inside her, the pendulous sack that held his balls swinging forward to slap against her sex as he let out a forceful grunt. He held there for a moment, pressing his pelvis into her forcefully as if he wanted to ensure she felt every possible centimeter of his length, the soft hair around the root of his prick intermingling with the dense mass of curls around her swollen and flushed outer lips.

“...no more than my fist could hope to replicate that grip, to be fair...keep your ass raised up…” his right hand lifted from her hip momentarily to clap down against the outside of her right ass cheek with a loud, sharp smack. “More…” Another clap. “Good...now keep it there, I want to look down and see that tight little pucker winking up at me while I’m pounding your cunt…”

Another hard thrust, this time without the pause as his motion immediately reversed, dragging that thick head back through the tight confines of her inner walls, his hands back on her hips, pulling her back into him as he thrust again, and again, and again, his upper body leaning back as his lower half settled into an easy, sustainable rhythm. His movements were neither fast nor slow, but rhythmic bucking motions of his hips, creating a steady beat as his pelvis clapped into the flesh he had only moments prior been so enamored of, that fascination not completely abated as his gaze was cast down over her, over the sensual jiggling of the flesh of her ass where their bodies impacted, the flesh soft and yet firm, almost impossibly firm for a feature of such notable size.

Marcus growled as he spoke, the words harsh and somewhat breathless as he labored there behind her. “Reach back and spread your ass open while I fuck you...”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

If she had something of modesty left, perhaps she would have been mortified at the expression she made as the head of his cock brushed against her fingers, which quickly moved, so quick they may have well vanished. An inhale of breath, excited, expectant. A slight, tamped down giggle, a shiver of eagerness, before she forced herself into stillness - forcing out the breath she was holding when the world seemed to swim before her eyes, sucking in another quick, deep one to be held as his cock slipped against the already soaked lips of her cunt. And when he finally pressed home, the swelled head pushing into her lips, spreading them wider than her hand, the transformation of her face was complete. Her eyes, half-lidded, rolled to show the whites, irises hiding behind fluttering long lashes, a sloppy smile crossing her lips, sloppy lust-drunk smile, her breath leaving her in the most sated groan she had made in her existence on this earth.

Finally…

The relief of feeling him spread her, not just at her entrance, further in, forging his way deeper, aided by the dripping wetness of her cunt, but still too tight a fit, though her body parted eagerly, sucking him into her, welcoming him: warmth beyond what she’d felt before, sparks, lightning, dancing through her veins from not just her sex, but all the way to her fingertips, the tips of her toes, it was beyond words. Surely he could feel her shuddering as he pushed home, see those rolled eyes finally close, brows knit, plush lips opened against the sheets, that blissful smile glued on her face, more blissful than after that first kiss, more dewy-eyed than their time in the carpentum.

“Never,” she managed, or she thought she had. It would be difficult to tell what words, if any, were coming out of her mouth at that moment, so lost were they in the deep haze of her moan. “Fuck!” An ungraceful exclamation, of surprise, of a bitten off cry of pleasure, with the heavy slap of his hips against her own. No stammered apologies there, no matter how unseemly her language was, it didn’t matter. The thrust shocked her systems, kicked her brain into recognition.

I need more. More. More.

His grinding pressed her deeper into the mattress. While she seemed content to lay there, her eyes still tightly screwed shut, her mouth in an open gasp against the sheets, from the way her fingers curled into the sheets, she wasn’t going to be content to lay there for long. Not when she could take more of him into her. It started slight enough; flutters of her cunt around his cock, pressure of those cheeks into his hips, pushing back. A testing of the waters, before she was pushing back as firmly as he was pushing into her, keeping him locked deep within her as she lifted her chest from the bed, moving to firmly seat her hands beneath her, on all fours again. With the added security of her hands, she was able to move a bit easier, to respond - and respond she did. She could have stayed, obeyed his command. The slaps to her ass certainly encouraged it, but she wanted more and wouldn’t be denied, not with the devil in her cunt and taking control of her tongue.

“Fuck me like you mean it, Marcus,” coy snarl there, challenging sweet. His hands were still secure on her waist, and it would be to her benefit, allowed her some movement. As he pulled back, she pulled forward. It was another dance, a half-remembered refrain from their wedding night. It would take the slightest tensing of his fingers on the dips of her waist for her to respond, her pushing her rear back into his, flesh slapping against flesh audibly, only slightly muffled by the torrent of fluids coming from her, the honey of her previous orgasm, the lips of her labia salivating as she drank his cock back into her. If he was but a minute, mere seconds shorter than her thrusts - she would still her hips, before wiggling them back and forth, merely sipping at his sex, playfully grinding him deeper and deeper still, before she would slam back into him, feeling him bottom out, ignoring the small sparks of pain that it still sent through her. Even that was a blessing, all of this was a blessing - each slap, each grunt pulled from his clenched teeth, each high keen from her, offerings to Venus, on the tray of their mingled flesh.

His timely thrusts, not fast, not slow, were a sweet agony, even as she tried to speed him up, spur him further - he knew what he was doing, and she was still too new, too green to it all for it to fully register, until her arms began to tremble. Tremble harder and harder, and she gave up, falling to the mattress with a thump, taking a moment to simply lay there, little more than a warm hole for him to thrust into, and that feeling, Goddess, it was so sweet. He was her sole anchor now, his hands gripped tightly onto the sweat slick skin of her sides as she feebly tried to match those thrusts as she had before, but it was getting harder and harder to even think straight, to keep command of her body.

“Yes,” she groaned between clenched teeth, sounding on the verge of tears, “Fuck my cunt, Marcus, keep fucking it open, it’s yours, yours,” a litany of filth from her, words she had only used in private anger, never thought to say them out loud, but he was doing something to her, something that proper language couldn’t fully describe, even as she attempted to, drool puddling beneath her cheek, leaving a damp spot on the mattress. “Let my cunt suck you dry, best cunt you ever had,” pleading, maybe, or the inability to keep her words from shaking as she turned her head to the left side, reaching behind her now, taking advantage of his pulling back to grasp onto her ass. Her fingers slipped against the firm and sleek skin of her ass, once, a third time, fumbling, even as she kept trying to match his thrusts with her own, to pull the firm cleft of her ass open wide -

A cry, a shuddering of her body - pulling herself open like this made it easier to feel him slipping within her, the dragging pull as he pulled his hips back. She could feel her cunt gaping, the labia minora still gripping him with a mind of their own, feel the ripple of her anus clench in sympathy, in longing -

Could he, would he touch me there?

It was a thought that brought fresh waves of arousal to her, slipped through her, and she nearly sobbed - it was too much, yet, not enough - like light flickering under a closed door, a closed and locked door that she now had the key to, all she had to do was put it in, turn it, and step inside, and there would be so much more light there, so much beyond her imagining -

He’s turned me into a debased woman…and I love it.

“You’ve turned me into a whore,” she whimpered against the sheets, overjoyed, “Your whore,” a rush of words there, more dampness against her cheek as she didn’t try to open her eyes, there would be no use, each thrust from him was enough to screw them tightly shut again. “It’s so, so good…so good to be fucked like this…Say you love fucking my cunt, fucking me, taming me, filling me...” Dreamy, floating higher, better than the runner’s high when she pushed herself on that last mile, better than the first pomegranate seed bursting warm and tart between her teeth, dissolving onto her tongue, staining her lips, her left hand stayed at her ass, holding her open on the left side, while the right, as she sucked in her stomach, lifted her thighs, moved, brushed against the swollen nub of her clit and the world dropped away. She could feel small things - the sense of the mattress beneath her, her own words damp under her cheek, soaking into the sheets, into the mattress itself, but all else was just him, his cock thrusting over and over and over and over into her, the flicker of pleasure as she rubbed helplessly at her clit, feeling herself being pushed more and more away from her body, more and more into being a tight hole for him, not just for him, but only him, surrounding him, the air heated around their bodies, and then, the indescribable joy that only came to her when she prayed, when she ran.

I’m his.

Was this what it truly meant to be a woman? All of her strangeness, her ability with the bow, her inability to cook, to weave, all of that dropped away. She was still herself, she could feel her muscles beneath her thighs, in her arms, but more powerful than her was him, the hard corded muscles of his thighs slamming into hers, calloused hands that grabbed her waist so tightly that it felt fit to bruising, and that was all right, better than all right, it was fucking perfect, she wished he’d pin her better, fully, have his hand at the back of her neck, force her down so she couldn’t move, to force her ass up higher into his as he slammed into her without mercy, driving home with each thrust that he was more powerful than her, more experienced than her, and, on top of it all, that he was hers as she was his, his to protect and love and service, to breed, to bear his children. He was power and strength and tenderness and love and protection and all of the contradictory, maddening things about man, and, yes, the first man to approach her like this, to see her past the strangeness, to show her that she was still a woman, even if she had her own doubts, and it sent her spiraling higher, onto waves of white, submitting into him, her body veritably melting under his -

“Oh, Goddess, it’s so good…so, so, good…” she sounded like she was crying, and maybe she was, again, carried away by raw emotion, feeling her body, her sex, nearly turn inside out, pulling him deeper and deeper, the sweetest madness she’d ever experienced, “It's...it's getting hotter, Marcus, hotter, oh, please, oh please, harder, harder, harder...!"

She could barely get the words out before her right hand, clumsy in its haste, pushed her over the edge, and her cunt squeezed him so tightly that she nearly forced him out, would have, had he not had his grip on her waist to push himself further in. If her squeezing wasn’t enough, the burst of fluid from her, gushing, squelching from around the stopper of his cock, could have done it as well. She would drench him throughly, her thighs covered in her sweat and her spendings, dripping down to sodden ripples in the sheets from her knees. And her voice, long past the point of speech, was a long, primal howl, the final offering to Venus.

 

[Talon]

Whereas Gaia softened as his efforts bore fruit, Marcus hardened. Their first session together had been about passion, the expression of a wellspring of love that had swelled up in them, the blossoming of a budding attraction that could not be conveyed by word alone...this one was about setting a precedent, about demonstrating to her that he was no dandy, no vellum tiger, not merely a man born of privilege later gifted with station. Hidden beneath that carefully refined exterior was a born warrior, a brute, a savage as readily capable of barbarism as any Gaul or German. A man who took what was his, took what spoils he’d earned through strength and blood and steel. Gone for the moment were the thoughts and concerns of station and hierarchy, of manners and protocol, lineage and legacy. He was but a man, and this was his woman. No matter how far they’d traveled to get here, how improbable it was that two such as these would ever meet and mate and procreate and be prosperous, here they now were. Differences in mind and body were erased, and for these precious moments, miniscule grains of sand among the desert of time, all was right in the universe.

Although it might not be readily apparent to anyone around to bear witness. Marcus pounded into her like a loan shark owed a debt, his expression fierce, the only levity worn upon his features a cocky smile, the only sign that he took enjoyment from it beyond his words the occasional grunt or moan that slipped through his overtly masculine facade, yanked from him forcefully by the unrelenting grip of the inner walls of her cunt as they mercilessly clenched down around his cock, her inner muscles engaged as if she couldn’t decide if she’d rather expel him or coax from him the very essence of his being. No matter the strength of her grip he gave her little choice in the matter, she’d come to him after all, she’d sought him out, teased this reaction from him and then set him loose to prowl like a wolf among sheep. That’s not to say she was his prey, if anything, with the way she threw her rump back at him, with enough force at times to threaten to knock him off balance, this was a scuffle between two wolves to see which would take the most choice cut of meat.

In an empire full of whores and loose women he could easily avail himself of, there was now but one who could satisfy his needs, one who could both vexx and provoke him, push him to the limits of patience and understanding and self control and beyond, only one who could inspire such a performance from him. She’d never know the truth of it, that it had never been like this for him. Sex had been pleasurable and sought readily enough in his youth, but this was different. Like an artist who had found his muse, Marcus’ body made use of his gifts, of his build, his size, girth, length, strength...all aspects worked together in concert to please the woman who graced him with her presence, who so readily shared with him the bounty of her flesh, who met his sexual aggression with a temperament to match, the two for a moment locked in a sort of competition, one where neither truly lost in any true meaning of the word, to see who could fuck who more thoroughly.

He listened and took heed of her, not only to her words or vocalizations of sensual grunts and groans, but to the signs from her body, to the way her cunt rippled as the swollen head of his cock brushed against a particularly sensitive part of her passage, to the deeply guttural grunts of near pain when he bottomed out inside her when their mutual movements synced perfectly, the combined force resulting in a particularly deep thrust that churned her insides. It was clear to him that, despite the occasional grunt or hiss of pain that issued from her lips, that she took no small amount of pleasure from those moments of pain, and as a result, Marcus felt no remorse in providing her with more. He listened to the myriad of feedback she provided and let it inform his performance, meld it to better suit her tastes. If one particular angle provided him with a positive response, he’d tilt his pelvis ever so slightly more in that particular direction for the next few thrusts. A sharp hiss after a particularly deep thrust meant she could expect another shortly thereafter. The wiggling of hips, threatening to shake free, would be met with the strengthening of an already iron-like grip. She came here to be fucked, afterall, and it was both his duty and pleasure as her husband to show her what that truly meant.

Marcus couldn’t help but think it was a good thing that their paths only crossed after he had been successful in life. If he’d have met a woman like her in his youth, he’d never have crawled from bed long enough to make something of himself, not to mention the likelihood that he’d be drowning in children by this point…

Most of her commentary was answered or commented upon by affirmative grunts or forceful bumps of his pelvis against her rump, that is, until she solicited feedback from him, wanting to hear from him reassurance that he was taking as much enjoyment from the act as she was. Never had words more freely flowed from his lips than during his response, for it wasn’t difficult to sing the praises of such a woman. He didn’t stop there though, and as his pelvis pressed up against the cushion of her rump, his length buried inside, his upper body leaned down over her, a hand pressing between her shoulder blades as he addressed her.

“I love fucking my cunt…” Marcus put a heavy emphasis on the word ‘my’, correcting her apparent misconception about who her womanhood truly belonged to. “...it is mine now, no? How could it be yours if you require someone else to tame it? Worry not, sweet Wife...any time you feel that itch creep up, deep inside your belly…” Marcus flexed the muscle that made his prick jump, the head brushing against that spot inside, that barrier at the end of her inner passage, as if to signify where he thought such an itch might develop.”...you need only bend over and shake this rump at me...your man’s fat cock will be there to stretch your tight little cunt out so as to scratch it for you…”

Their passionate lovemaking continued thusly, a fine sheen of sweat covering his head and chest, the strength of his thrusting unrelenting, giving no signs of abating, the air filled with a cacophony of sensual sounds, heavy from their breathing and adorned by the strong, distinctive scent of her sex tinged by a hint of sweat.

“Oh, Goddess, it’s so good…so, so, good…It's...it's getting hotter, Marcus, hotter, oh, please, oh please, harder, harder, harder...!"

Marcus’ efforts intensified then, a burst of energy, no longer the rhythmic pounding that would slowly guide her towards orgasm, this was the exclamation point that would mark it. His hands yanked at her waist, pulling her back roughly, brutishly, as his midsection pumped away, his cock hitting deep, churning her insides, pushing her forwards, forcefully, held in place only by virtue of the strength in his upper body, his shoulders and upper arms rippling as they corralled her, restrained her. Finally he could feel she was close, right up against the edge of that sensual peak, looking down over the side into the deep valley below, her feet slipping, the ground giving way beneath her..Her cunt suddenly gripped him with such force that it halted further advance, her body seizing up, hips bucking, as he felt the pressure build inside her.

Gaia let loose with the most guttural howl he’d heard from her yet, a beautiful expression of pleasure, welcome as it met his ears, as he simultaneously felt the wet expulsion of her orgasm sluice his lower half, tiny droplets of the warm fluid running down his thighs and gathering like dew in the soft hair around the base of his cock. He couldn’t penetrate inside her any further at the moment even if he had wanted to, so tightly clenched were the walls of her cunt, and so he let the pressure force him out slowly, his still engorged prick expelled from her now gaping cunt with a wet, almost satiated, sigh of air.

“Sing for me, Gaia…” Marcus’ hands shifted, one sliding back to grip the left cheek of her rump and crudely pull it open, the other once more gripping around the base of his cock as he wielded it like a club. The swollen head of his prick was made to slap against the plump outer lips of her labia that framed the formerly concealed entrance there between them, the gaping window slowing closing, reforming to its former shape, pink walls undulating and spasming as they worked out the last bit of her orgasmic energy. Smirking, Marcus just kept tapping against her lips, a quiet reminder that their tryst was not over, that her husband was not done taking his pleasure from her body, but was for the moment content with watching her ride the wave of pleasure that had washed over her.

“I warned you that it would be like this...that you would be reduced to little more than a mewling whore, shaking her oversized rump at me, begging for her hot little cunt to be filled…” Marcus ceased the slapping movements, once more lining up the head of his cock for entry, sliding between still loosened inner labia easily due in equal part to the thick coating of her orgasmic spending and the work he’d already done in prying them open, her cunt gripping him with remembered ease, permitting his passage as if his cock were an old friend. His right hand, no longer needed to steady himself, settled in the valley between the cleft of her ass, spread open before him by the prying grip of his other hand. His thumb gently stroked the dark, crinkled flesh around the knot of her anus, pressing against the clenched ring of muscle that lined the center as if testing it’s resistance to entry. He felt her instinctually clench up, his thumb relenting, once more stroking around it, rubbing in a circular pattern.

Marcus’ voice was no longer harsh as he spoke then. “Relax…” Marcus pulled his hand away, raising his hand up towards his face, gathering some moisture there on his tongue before transferring it to the inside of his thumb before it was returned to its former spot, his thumb resuming its gentle stroking, now wet and well lubricated with his saliva. “Relax...concentrate on your cunt, on feeling my cock there…” His hips pressed forward, sinking more of his prick into her slowly, gaining back ground he’d previously won as he felt her spread open for him readily. “...I know you have an itch here as well...I saw how readily you thrust your ass out at me...you wanted me to see it, no? To desire it...to want to touch it…” His thumb ceased its motion, pressing against the slit in the center of the knot of her asshole, the wet tip probing forcefully. “...to want to fuck it.” He felt the muscle giving way, prying open, almost enough for him to force his finger through...but he wanted her to be the one to ask for it, to acknowledge how depraved she had truly become.

“Tell me, Gaia...tell me you want my cock in your ass...you’re not ready for it, not just yet...but we’ll see how well my finger fits while I finish the task of servicing my cunt…”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Her ears were ringing - a high pitched whine that drowned out all else. Her throat was raw, she could feel that, and her vision was blurred. No matter how much she tried to blink, it was a hazy mix of sheer black and blurry blobs of color. Beneath her head, the puddle from her open mouth had grown, a dark circle framing her lips. The very same lips that were parted still, a love-drunk smile on her face. There could be no greater testament to the pleasure she had felt, that she was still caught in. Ripples through her skin as her body shuddered still beneath him, still processing the orgasmic high that refused to turn her loose.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Water dripping into a bowl, before a torrent. The steady pressure of his turgid length against the quivering lips of her sex echoed through her body, landing last on her ears. A monumental effort then took over her, spite, maybe, the beginning whisper of a second wind, blown upon her by the rosy lips of Venus herself. Her head moved a bit, just a bit, from its position on the sheet, the besotted lust smile fading into something more calculating. Flexing of vaginal muscles, winking of the petal pink of her entrance against the deeper, almost purple head of his cock. The slapping continued, each landing of his cock against her lips, the shallow sound of flesh against flesh deepening into more of a schlick, thudding against her sodden lips, creating more fluid from her as her arousal raking hungry fingers through her body. It would claw through fatigue, through dull pulses of pain, through the desire to want to wrap herself around him, humming and contented as a fatted calf, to sleep the night away. The Goddess had answered her prayer, and she was helpless before the pyre she found herself on.

That door was opened within her now, just a sliver - and if she could find the energy, muster more strength, there was more, sweeter than ever, waiting right past her finger tips…

“Mmm…a whore…I think I could happily spend the rest of my days like this…” She made no effort to wipe the drool from her lips, though the movement of her head was a bit more pronounced as she looked back at him. No artist alive could capture the sheer bliss on her face that shone from it, sunlight in the darkened room, absorbing the flickering of the lamp light, turning it back out to him. Her voice was husky, wire brushed raw, hoarse in parts, but burning, desire that smoldered, that spoke of the ruin of man, lost among the quiet undertow of her passion. He’d awakened a monster, and he was blissfully unaware of it, thinking, silly creature, that he was still in charge of it. She would play along, the words of possession warming her, slipping into the core of herself, reassuring. He wanted her as she wanted him, and though she had not the words for it, she could tell him again and again with her body, push past all else in divine service to Venus. He could say that her cunt was his, but oh, he’d learn. Her cunt was hers, just as that splendid length of his was hers as well, she was proving it as she sucked him in again, his head slipping within her with a bit more ease, gliding along the path he had carved into her.

She wouldn’t attempt to stifle the eye-rolling moan that came from her, her eyelids fluttering shut again as he pressed into her. It was an audible entrance, her cunt sopping wet - his exit had been met with the sucking in of air, and now, as he pressed in, air was forced out in an ungraceful and indelicate ppbbbttt, the pressure of him forcing it out - sounding all the world like flatulence, causing her to break through the veil of passion to laugh, joyously, at the joke her body had shared with his. He’d fucked her open indeed; she could only be properly sealed with him inside of her. The laughter shook her body and warmth flooded her; how she wished that she was less prickly, that he was less stoic, that he would laugh as well and take her in his arms and kiss her, kiss her till she was breathless, laughing, her hands in his hair, his against the clean skin of his scalp, and he would reassure her more in his touches, in playful kisses and tweaks, and it would be less of a battle, a concession of sweetness -

Damn her mind, she couldn’t settle on one thing or the other - she wanted him to be rough with her, to toss her body like it weighed nothing and plow her until she was back into the heavens, knowing nothing but his cock inside of her, but she wanted him to be sweet and gentle, to be tender in his words, to tell her more of how he cared. But as the Goddess moved her to his bed, so the Goddess would guide her through now, and she cast her cares into the ether with another silent prayer, feeling that devil in her tongue as he spoke into being that desire that had slipped through her, filth upon filth, and if that was the only way that she could speak to him, to let her love, yes, that’s what it still was, love beneath it all, bolstering, allowing her to be like this with him, let her love speak to him, then she would gladly bow to this as well. But “bowing” would make it seem that she was merely submitting, and she knew in her heart of hearts that she wasn’t. He was showing her, helping her open that door, but it was her door to open.

The touch of his thumb against that pucker - a twitch of her ass. A deep breath, an exhale, as she forced herself to relax. Not out of fear, but out of sheer concentration - her privates as something other than just the passage of waste was new, too new - his touch was welcome, but novel. A flexing beneath his thumb, testing the muscle, seeing how the flexing rippled through her cunt, tightening both holes, a squeeze around his cock as he pressed into her. Like finding a new toy, she would clench the muscles rhythmically, silent laughter, silent teasing and coaxing of him, welcoming him to enjoy this as much as she did, to blunt the hard edges of the warrior, to turn that warrior into a man who, having won his prize, was enjoying it with boisterous laughter, even as he spoke of the most foul things. “My ass responds to your touch,” she said, airy beneath the leaden weight of her longing, “And as your whore, should you not try all of my holes?”

A wiggle of those hips, sucking in more of his cock, drenching him more. The second wind was building within her, as the mild burning of her lips built in earnest, her anus beginning to give way as he pressed his thumb further home. A muffled groan from her, the hissing of sheets as she pushed her ass further into his hand, her chest more into the mattress - before a stroke of brilliance. “I’ll take your cock in my ass, like some sordid Greek…But I want it on the floor.” The floor wouldn’t give way beneath her, wouldn’t yield as much. It would press her back further into him, give her more leverage. “You want that, don’t you? You want my ass,” another slow wiggle, her hands kept firmly pressed beneath her. There was no need for her to spread herself more, not when he was doing it himself. She looked over her shoulder at him, her expression heavy with desire. She wasn’t just taking more of his cock in, through her motions, she was forcing his thumb deeper, finally pressing past the tight ring of muscle into the empty warm beyond it. The sensation would send fresh waves of trembling through her, a heavy groan, a gush of fluid around his cock as her body began to scale up the mountain again, even without her touching the sensitive nub of her clitoris. “Ass fuck me into this floor,” she was past the point of asking nicely, a challenging edge in her voice, “And let me drain that cock of yours.” Though her cunt spasmed around his cock in longing, begging for her to take back her words so that it alone could suck his spunk from him in the primal desire to want to bear his young, for him to breed her over and over till she was overflowing, she wasn’t going to back down from his unspoken challenge - if she had learned her place through him, he would need to learn his through hers: the one who would bring her to pleasure, over and over, who would breed her, but whom she loved beyond her own safety, for whom she would willingly and gladly debase herself for if he but smiled and touched her tenderly. That the alter of her heart was his and his alone, and that he was her first thought in the morning and the last thought of hers at night, in a completeness that scared her and made her timid, and it was only through the grace of Venus that she could begin to express herself here, to pull him into her body as much as he was in her heart.

 

[Talon]

“You want that, don’t you? You want my ass...”

‘Want’ was too frivolous a word to describe the breadth and depth of the desire that Marcus felt. One ‘wanted’ a nice vintage of wine to go with their supper, or perhaps ‘wanted’ a long pull from a cool waterskin after long hours of hard labor beneath the harsh rays of the afternoon sun. What he felt was a compulsion on another level, one born of equal parts greed and lust, carnal urges too strong to be classified simply as a want. An individual possessed of an even moderate strength of will could resist the temptations of ‘want’. This was nothing less than need that drew him to her, plain and simple, as compulsory and base as his need to fill his lungs with life sustaining breath. He needed to experience what that deliciously dark ring, currently all but suckling enticingly at the comparatively meagre length and girth of his thumb, would feel like as it constricted around the thick shaft of his prick. He needed to hear her grunts and groans as he conquered her, drilling into her where there was nothing to gain but pleasure, the hole that offered no promise of progeny should his seed be spilled there. To know that she bore the discomfort of accepting his cock into the ‘wrong’ hole, the one not equipped to naturally provide lubrication for his passage, gritting her teeth against the pain, taking it in stride as she willfully permitted him to explore all of her holes, to lay claim to every sexual frontier her body had to offer.

His near overwhelming desire for her cunt could perhaps be brushed off as instinctual, a natural, almost primal, drive to breed with a female whose form so readily evoked thoughts of health and fertility. This hole however? His drive and desire to penetrate her there could not be so easily excused, it was clearly born of little more than pure depravity. If only the rest of the Senate could see him now, the staunchly conservative and stoically reserved old Legatus reduced to little more than an oversexed nymphomaniac, practically drooling at the mouth with the thought of penetrating that tight hole that lie between the shapely cheeks of his nubile young wife’s buttocks.

“Ass fuck me into this floor, and let me drain that cock of yours.”

Marcus gently pulled his thumb free from the vice-tight grip of her anus, once more tracing the outside of it around the crinkled flesh that surrounded it as it slowly constricted, lazily sealing shut once more, puckering beneath his finger as it favoring it with a parting kiss. His thumb remained there a moment, almost as if removing it from its former target's proximity took no small measure of willpower. He let her invitation linger in the air a few moments as his eyes drank in the sensual sight greedily, Marcus raising up his recently unoccupied hand suddenly before bringing a cupped palm crashing down against the right cheek of her ass with a sharp, loud crack. The volume of the smack was multiplied by virtue of the shape of his hand, the force applied in the smack measured so as to provide little more than a stinging sensation.

“You know I want it, woman…” Marcus leaned down over her, his arms wrapping around her, the thick bump of his right bicep pressed into the side of her ribs just beneath her armpit, right hand gripping her left breast as his left hand slid along the inside of her hip, fingers trailing through the thicket of dark curls above her sex, down the plump lips of her outer labia, palm pressing against the nub of her clit. With his arms wrapped around her he pulled her back, straightening, her back pressed into his chest, their bodies fitting together like a lock and its key, his head tucking into the nook where her long neck met well formed shoulder, the soft hair along the side of his head, streaked with silver and grey at the temples, brushing against the smooth skin of her scalp, his mouth pressing into her neck just below her right ear, kissing there, nibbling, sucking a moment before he hoarsely spoke. “You know what the sight of your body does to me…” He kissed her again, his hips grinding into her rump, the section of his cock that was able to penetrate her from this awkward angle pressing into her, the thick head throbbing as if offering it’s testimony in silent proof to his statement. His hand at her breast squeezed, kneading at the heavy orb of flesh, his fingers pressing into the firm flesh, it’s abundance spilling over between them, his first and middle finger squeezing together, tracking the erect nub of her nipple between them, tweaking it, picking it as his fingers worked. His other hand busied itself between her thighs, content to stroke fingers through the dense mass of curls there, teasing them out, coating them with a fresh sheen of her arousal as his fingers worked there. “...it sets my loins ablaze with lust even as my heart swells with love...” The hand that stroked between her thighs shifted up momentarily, pressing into the softness of her belly above the dark mass of hair at her pubis. “...love for the woman whose womb will someday bear our children.” His face pressed against her, kisses trailing up her neck as his lips sought out hers for another deep, if quick, embrace of their lips before he pulled away, head drifting back down towards her neck.

“Besides....what red-blooded man wouldn’t want to lay claim to such a tight little hole if given the opportunity...” Teeth nibbled at her earlobe as his hoarse voice rumbled lowly, his hips slowly grinding, hands working. “...who needs pleasure slaves when you have a wife blessed with an ass like this…” A light ‘mmmm’ of self-agreement punctuated by another kiss as the arms that wrapped around her chest and stomach pulled her in tighter against him, his torso grinding into her rump forcefully. “...an ass I’m going to thoroughly enjoy the privilege of fucking…” A nibble, warmth gliding along the smooth expanse of skin at her neck as his exhalations grew heavy. “...of pounding until your cunt weeps with jealousy…come then, my love…” A gentle bite, then, across the ridge of muscle that stretched between neck and shoulder. “...let us be about it.”

Marcus shifted back then, his cock once more slipping from her as he walked backwards on his knees, his hands parting from her body with one last, sensual caress of the curvature of her backside, a moment of reluctance as they pulled away, his feet thrown over the side as he turned and moved to stand beside the bed. While she shifted about he moved over to the dresser along the wall that held the tray of food that Mikkos had brought, topping off the goblet of water from the pitcher before moving back towards with bed, sipping from the container as he moved, the light sheen of sweat across most of his body a testament to the heat of the room, environmental and otherwise. He drew up beside her as she stood, his hip bumping into hers, free hand sliding around her back to settle in the curve just above her rump, his other hand bringing the goblet up towards her face, offering her a sip from it as he held it steady for her. The mood had softened somewhat, a half-smile gracing Marcus’ lips as he watched her with wetly gleaming eyes, both of them taking a moment to refresh themselves before resuming their carnal activities, chaste if not for the exploratory rubbing of the hand at her back, the callouses across his palm, formed in a bygone era when it was more commonly wrapped around the handle of a gladius, brushing against the smoothness of her warm, brown skin. Once she no longer required the goblet he turned away just briefly to set it down on the top of a nearby table, turning back to her, wrapping his arms around her hips, gripping the cheeks of her backside, hands fondling the object of his desire as he pulled her in towards him, her breasts pressing into the firm wall of his chest, the underside of his cock, still wet with her arousal, pressed into the soft cushion of her belly.

His head angled down, their foreheads meeting, his eyes full, expressive, shining with emotion, the blazing inferno of lust within them tempered somewhat by a tinge of admiration and desire around the edges, desire not only to couple with her, but to be near her, for their bodies to meet not only in pursuit of pleasure, but in the expression of love. He lingered there a moment, in silence, for what words could measure up to the depth of emotion in his eyes, the rapid beating of his heart as he held her gaze, the feeling of contentment after reconciling with the woman he loved, that love still fresh, not reflexive or matured, still sharp around the edges, unfamiliar. Finally he spoke, his voice deep, warm, soft. “As much as I could spend all evening wrapped in your arms gazing back at my reflection in those beautiful eyes...my lady asked for her ass to be plundered…” His hands renewed their grip, pulling her lower half into his, his cock trapped between them, still hard, still throbbing as if it sought to remind Marcus that it had not yet had its fill of her holes. “...I think the rug there before the bed is as good a spot as any to go at it like a pair of wild dogs…” A smirk. “...why don’t you take up position there and spread those cheeks apart, we'll see how much of my cock that tight little pucker can take..."

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Where had those words come from? Like a devil had grabbed hold of the root of her tongue. Ass fuck her into the floor. Hadn’t the press of his thumb been invasive in a way that she couldn’t articulate? It was filthy; shameful. Only Greeks and the lowest of whores would readily accept a man there. Cassia had threatened that he’d take her that way, and she’d ignored how it scared her; chalking it up to Cassia being the bitch that she was. And surely the way that Cassia had meant was a thing of pain, of screams, of terror, or, even worse, of excruciating pain born in stoic silence, the perversion of all that it meant to be married. As a good wife, she should present her cunt in cool quiet, and endure her husband’s rutting to ensure legal heirs. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? Well, aside from political alliances - she had no illusions as to how and why she’d gotten bundled off so quickly to a man unseen and rarely discussed in the household.

Worse yet was the realization in her gut, the tickle that started there and blazed down into her sex: it was no devil. It was her desire, it was her curiosity, it was her wanting to experience him in all ways that she could. To want to have the feel of his cock memorized, each hole that she had to offer molded just for him. There was a great affection there - she couldn’t deny that; some unspoken part of her responding to some unspoken part in him, to know that here was beyond all normal social trappings.

I’m free.

A thought that widened her eyes; filled her. Maybe not entirely, not just yet, but in time - could there be no limit to what she could ask of him, what he would freely and eagerly give? The internal door was blown open. Laughter, short, cut off before it could gain traction, rippled through her - cut short by the smacking impact of his hand against her rear. As a girl, she’d had the occasional physical punishment - little more than a sandal across her rear, or a switch in the tender spot right where her rear met the tops of her legs, the crease between ass and thigh - but a hand so deliberately raised to her, praising…Strange; that. To know without him saying a word that his action meant approval, the sting from his palm the same as if he kissed her. She smiled then, burying her face against the sheets in a fit of shyness, embarrassed for him to catch her so pleased with herself, with the fact that he delighted in her body.

But I’ve yet to see all of his. I’ll have to rectify that - a stray thought, but caught firmly. It wouldn’t be enough to see him. She had to touch, taste, study, rub, massage every inch of him, to see what a man’s body truly was. But now, it was her time to luxuriate in what he could bring to her. Perhaps in the near future she could even ask him directly; had he not said so much himself? If she got that ‘itch’, she could present herself to him. A flip up of her stolla; would she be audacious enough not to wear undergarments when she did so? Her mind practically whirled at the possibilities, and she allowed her smile to show plainly as he lifted her body, wrapping his arm securely around her. There had to be some current in the air, a wind that blew through the two of them that allowed her to understand so much of what he was saying in his body. His arm around her was strength and security, tenderness even as he cupped and weighed her breast, rolled the nipple between his fingers, the left hand caressing even as it grasped her sex. He could feel the hum of her amusement shake her shoulders, curl deep in her stomach as she titled back with him, not letting out so much a whine when he came close to slipping out of her depths.

His hand over her belly, momentary, was held in its place by her own. Laced fingers through his, brown and tan. “It would be my honor.” Joy made her voice new; small. Though in its lightness there was weight, truth that tied them together, a fraction of the bond between them spoken into possibility. The answer to her desperate prayer when she thought she was on the verge of losing him - Goddess, the loss…she had only assumed, had only thought she knew what sorrow it would have brought. Knowing him like this, his body within hers, this moment of tenderness between the inevitable fights and coldness and disagreement. Beyond her greatest hope and now her most stark fear - a fear she kept pressed back, knowing now was not the time. Now was the time to rejoice, to offer more blessings to Venus, to revel in being depraved, in falling into the depths, but not falling alone -

“ ‘Pleasure slave’?” There was playful indignation there - she had heard of such things, but there had never been such a slave in her father’s household. “You bring her or him into this household and I will poison them.” A glance over her shoulder - or the attempt at it, as she tilted her head back to better allow his lips to find her ear, her cheek, her throat. The possessiveness in her voice born out of love, a bit of fear. It was a joke; she could feel that much, a murmuring reassurance from him. She was graceful enough to play along; to play the role of the proper Roman matron. “And show me what they would do for you, and I swear by Venus herself that I will learn to do it better. Or perhaps I’ll just have to tire you out enough that there’s no time for you to stray.” Beneath the jovial layer there was the core of steel - the will that fed into all of her actions. It was no idle threat, even if said in love.

An open titter as he shifted back - and, in a moment of impishness, she went with him. Throwing her weight back into him, she would knock him back to the bed, her back against his chest, his cock popping free from her depths with an audible squelch, her thighs parted and cooling rapidly from the rush of fluids across them. She would lay on him for a twinkling, before she was rolling to her side, allowing him to stand up. Propping herself up on her elbows, she rolled to her stomach, folding her legs at the knees to playfully kick one up, then down, her head tilting side to side, all childish glee, until she stopped, crossing her legs daintily at the ankle. If he were to turn back and look at her, he would be greeted by the sight of him propped up on their bed, well-nigh glowing with hidden mirth, with all of the fresh affection of a girl, not a woman, in love. An openness in those dark eyes that was, perhaps, unlike that he may have seen before in a woman of her age, of her station. Eyes that were eager to see nothing but the best in him, that had yet to discover the sobering disappointment of heartbreak.

Seeing him pick up the goblet was an unspoken invitation, a reminder that her throat was indeed sore, scraped raw by their shared love - and, if the look in his eyes was any indication, that had yet more of a work out ahead. Without any of the gravity of the situation, she rolled from her stomach to her feet, slipping off the bed and, with a bit of a hobble, came to stand beside him. Grateful for the arm he wrapped around her waist, the hand that offered the cup, she took both. Leaned into him for support, drank deeply of the water offered, refilling the cup and, offering it to him first before she drained it again - and handed it back to him. Responding to her unspoken desire, he pulled her close, the pillar of his cock pressed firmly between their bodies, and her arms went loosely around his neck, a shift of her body as she lifted to her tiptoes, all the better for their foreheads to touch. Her eyes drifted closed as she let out a sigh of profound contentment, of security. The words, those three words, burned the base of her tongue, fought against her lips to escape. She should say them; let them out. Her lips pursed, started - but instead, she said what she needed to in the briefest of pecks against his lips. He was, after all, acquiescing to her request.

“Woof,” she was oiled silk slipping from his arms, padding over to the carpet on quiet bare feet, still somewhat bruised from her cuts. Her back was to him as she made a show of inspecting the carpet, smoothed it down in one corner, then another. Grabbed the sheet from the bed, yanking it off with a slight “oof” before balling it up, and, easing down to her knees, placing it neatly beneath her knees; they would need the cushion more than any other part of her. Content with her makeshift cushion, she, on all fours, made an exaggerated show of shaking her rear, a poor approximation of a dog wagging her tail. Turning so that her ass was now promptly on display for him, with one more shake, she reached behind grasping her cheeks, and pulling them open - flashing the pale pink of her cunt, a spot of color between the plump labia and dark curls. She’d greatly overestimated the ability of her legs to hold her up, and she staggered, nearly falling forward with a slight squeak, before her arms flew out and she was back on all fours again. “Well, it looks like you’ll have to do the spreading!”

 

[Talon]

Marcus’ visage bore a lopsided grin as he sauntered over to where she’d prostrated herself on hands and knees atop the rug that lay on the floor before the bed. His manhood dangled pendulously between muscular thighs, swaying with the rhythm of his movement, the tip having once more retreated back into its hood of flesh, the outline of it’s broad mushroom cap shape clearly defined beneath dusky skin, skin stretched thin by the effort of encompassing its mass, the expanse of shaft above pliable yet still retaining some measure of it’s recent tumescence, appearing both thicker and longer than it would when fully at rest. He chuckled beneath his breath as he watched her attempt to spread herself open, pulling closer to her as if drawn towards her magnetically, front teeth gnashing at his lower lip, gaze affixed to her upturned rump, the low rumble of a purr of approval deep in his throat as his eyes took in that flash of color where her womanhood blossomed open. As he drew up behind her Marcus moved to take a knee, straddling her calves, the point of his right knee joining hers on the rug beneath them, his hips opening as his left foot planted flat on the opposite side of her legs.

“It would be my pleasure, dear wife…” Marcus smirked as he reached out with open hands, palms cupping the outer quadrant of her buttocks, fingers spread wide as the heels of his palms pressed against her flesh, lifting, exposing that dark valley between the substantial cheeks of her rump to his sight, his gaze roaming there, undecided on just where it should linger, shifting between the crinkled flesh around the pucker of her anus and the still gleaming, plump lips around the mound of her womanhood. Like a child asked to choose between his two favorite toys, Marcus found himself then faced with one of masculinity’s most confounding dilemmas, one that had tried the minds of even the greatest of thinkers; ass or cunt...which to sample first? He hummed inquisitively for a moment, his fingers kneading into her flesh where they held the cheeks of her rump aloft, his grin deepening as his brief inner deliberation arrived at a unanimous verdict; cunt.

He shifted then, his own rump dropping down to rest against the heel of his foot, his shoulders down near her thighs, his head brought closer in proximity with her most intimate area as he leaned forwards. “Mmmm…” His nostrils flared as they detected her scent on the air, the distinctive tang of her arousal, strong, earthy, powerful. He leaned forward then, placing a kiss along the inside of her thigh, against the soft, warm, smooth brown flesh that still bore upon it a hint of the source of that scent, the nectar that had flowed so freely from her as they coupled. “...sweeter still than even the most delectable of honey cakes…” Another kiss, this time closer to the origin of that nectar, placed just where the flesh of her inner thigh began to darken as it drew closer in towards her sex, his lips vibrating against sensitive skin as he hummed with approval. He lightly nibbled at her, along the inside crease of her leg, the nibble resolving into a kiss, multiplying as he moved closer to her core, lips brushing past wiry, tightly wound curls, suckling at the plumpness of her labia majora, more humming, more vibrating, his mouth moving down, the tip of his nose brushing down the skin of her perineum as it traveled past. His tongue could be felt against the slit between those plump lips, probing, delving deep enough to part them, to taste her as it slid down, brushing against the nub of her clit, his lips wrapping around her there, suckling, his nose brushing against her, the tip of his tongue lashing, lips working with exaggeratedly loud, wet kisses against the summit of her womanly mound.

He lingered there a few moments, long enough to get her inner fires going, to stoke the flames of lust that had perhaps been tampered down during their brief respite, his mouth and tongue working in unison to pleasure her with just as much fervor as they had that first night when he’d tasted her. Satisfied that his goal was met, judging by the fresh wetness he could simultaneously see, feel and taste as it all but seeped from her, he pulled away, licking his lips crudely, savoring the remnants of her arousal gathered there, unashamed of how pleased he was to be engaged in such an act, one that some men might judge as distinctly unmasculine.

If enjoying this makes me any less of a man, well then, perhaps Gaia has an extra stolla she could loan me.

Marcus’ smile deepened once more at the strange mental image that stray thought evoked.

She's beginning to rub off on me…

He grunted satisfactorily as his head lifted up, peeking up over the mound of her backside as he once more addressed her, picking up where his words of praise had left off. “Have I told you just how much I love the way you taste?” His head tilted forward, placing a soft kiss against the expanse of smooth, brown flesh beneath his chin. “More specifically...the way your cunt tastes…” Another kiss. “Promise me that no matter how fiercely we might squabble…” Kiss. “...how frustrated with my stubbornness you might become…” Kiss. “...that you’ll never deny me the pleasure of this…” Kiss. “...of tasting you until I know of no other flavor…”

His head was moving now, shifting back towards her center, to the dark valley between those prodigious cheeks his hands were still engaged in spreading apart. Confident in the knowledge that she had asked for him to explore here, that she was not some reluctantly brushing prude that would faint or wilt once his tongue touched her rearmost hole, he confidently set about his task of preparing her for penetration. Truth be told, if asked at the right moment, he would admit that he took no small amount of pleasure in this particular act, beyond just the thought that soon his cock would be replacing his tongue there. With how much he enjoyed using his mouth to please her womanhood, perhaps as much or more as she enjoyed receiving it, it was only natural to him then that this would be an extension of that pleasure. Not every woman enjoyed this, or could or would freely admit that they did, and if one wasn’t careful about who they tried it with, they might find nasty rumors circulating of just what sort of activities they got up to in their bedroom hours. Not her, though, not his Gaia. Despite how sudden their marriage had been, how rocky things had been at several points, she was proving to be a free spirit, sexually open minded, seemingly willing to explore anything that provided pleasure without the need to coerce or cajole or beg or bargain. He’d heard the phrase, 'lady in the streets, whore between the sheets' used to describe what a man should seek for an ideal mate, and for as crude as that particular phrase might be, he couldn’t think of a more apt way to describe her. She was the sort of partner one wanted to experiment with, that made you want to try things only imagined in the deepest of lust filled thoughts.

Marcus’ tongue was first to make contact with her, extended out past his lips, stiffened so that the tip was made rigid, warmly wet in its plushness as it traced along the ring of muscle around her anus, leaving a wet trail behind in its wake as his tongue carried out its task of preparing her, lubricating this impossibly tight hole for the purpose of penetration that would soon follow. Here there was no innate flavor to greet his tongue, only the slightest hint of sweat, natural, clean. His tongue circled around a few times before centering itself on the ripe pucker of her rear entrance, that slit at the center that offered the promise of entry if he could but pry it open. His tongue pressed there forcefully, wetly, as if seeking such entry, vibrating with another hum of approval as he worked, alternating between pressing and lashing at it, a few stray beads of saliva rolling down her perineum and across her vulva to mix with her own wetness in the process.

Satisfied with his efforts Marcus’ head pulled back, his upper body lifting up, hips raising, the swollen knob at the tip of his cock brushing against the back of her thigh as it passed, his prick no longer merely half-hard, its length now the likeness of rigid steel, jutting out from between his thighs at a slight downward angle, weighed down by its weight. Marcus’ right hand released its grip on her rump, pulling back to seize his prick by its base, brandishing it before him as he flicked it in the air a few times as if to test its rigidity. It was as long and as thick in that moment as it had ever been, as if it were a soldier standing at attention proudly, intent on displaying it’s physical prowess to any passerby who might cast their gaze in it’s direction. His manhood’s most distinguishing feature was showcased then as his grip shifted, the fleshy hood around the tip retreating, peeling back to expose the smooth flesh around the head, flushed a deep reddish purple beneath a thin outer layer of pale skin, ripened until it seemed fit to burst, the prominent ridge around the broad knob expanding further as it was nakedly exposed to the cool night air.

Marcus tarried here not too long for fear his previous efforts might go to waste, the head of his cock steered towards the entrance of her cunt as his hips pressed forward with urgency, not bothering to pause to fill her in on his plan, figuring she would work out the details as they went along. A by now familiar wet squelch filled the air as his cock delved between the lips of her sex, deeply enough that what air had slipped inside from when he’d exited her last was again expelled unceremoniously with a crude ‘brapppt’, his girth testing her limits, the head probing deeply as if it sought out the source where the sweetest of nectar could be found, that ridge scraping against her inner walls as it retreated only to be propelled forward once more into her depths. The hand that had secured his cock now moved to grip her around the most narrow point of her waist, his other joining in turn as he roughly pulled her back towards him, the speed of his thrusts increasing, the musculature in his upper body rippling and flexing as it worked, his cock pistoning in and out of her in with a brisk rhythm as if he sought to churn her insides, his pelvis slapping against her rump forcefully as he rutted into her. Marcus grunted as he labored, guttural expressions of both effort and pleasure, his hands tightening around her waist as they pulled at her, tugging her backside back into him as he thrust forward to meet it.

Thwap, thwap, thwap, thwap…

As suddenly as his penetration had began it was over, his cock pulled from her unceremoniously with a wet schlick, his right hand once more releasing its grip and pulling back, seizing his prick around its base as his body elevated in preparation to operate from a higher angle, the head of his cock aimed higher, his left hand peeling back the left cheek of her rump, exposing the still wet spot at the center of the crevice that split its center. The silky smooth head of his cock, now slick with its coating of her thickened arousal, brushed past the inside of her cheeks as it was maneuvered forward, abutting up against that tight pucker, throbbing as it made contact as if to greet its intended conquest, the slit at the summit of the head aimed directly at the center of her tightly clenched pucker, mashing up against it as his hips pressed forwards, his grip around the base holding his cock steady, his body positioned at an angle ideal for penetration, prick slanted downward, that battering ram of a head applying pressure there like the siege weapon of an invading army battering at the gates of some foreign walled city.

“Tell me...tell me where my cock is going, whore…”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“Somehow, I knew you’d oblige me…”

Why was it so much easier to talk to him now, when she couldn’t imagine the two of them having dinner together? What could they possibly have to say to one another? He was cold, he was distant, and a true Roman man; his duty to the Emperor before all else. She had no interest in war stories - less so after seeing, hearing, smelling, the reality of death -, and had no idea how his home was to be run. For his part, his interest in her seemed to be solely of the physical sort, something she could possibly find insulting, were she not on all fours, her cunt tightening in anticipation already.

But why slap away the hand of blessing that Venus was bestowing her? If she could speak freely now, then she should take full advantage of it. He certainly wasn’t holding his tongue. “I believe all of our conversations worth having are going to take place with your prick buried inside of me, aren’t they?” A cheeky smile shot his way, playful and sultry - the girl that proposed lifting up her stolla for a better look at her nether regions, but only if he did the same - and give her a pretty flower on top of it for her trouble. Even as anticipation made her fairly quiver under his touch, exploratory and domineering all in the same breath, she couldn’t stop her tongue. “Yes…spread me wide. That’s it. Take a good look,” a tightening of her cunt, the female equivalent, perhaps, of his own “jumping” cock, a gesture meant to draw attention, desire, a beckoning. What would he see back there? Even she wasn’t entirely sure; she had the most rudimentary knowledge of her own sexual organs; little more than what was needed to keep them clean. She’d assumed, hoped, that he’d find them pleasing - men could be strange about such things, so she’d heard - idle talk from her sisters, the vitriol of Cassia, the pleading and sugar wrapped truths from Agrippina in those scant hours before the wedding ceremony. Even the most ribald conversation that could be had in the household (usually dominated by Natta) was conducted in hushed voices; shooed away from Gaia’s ears.

But if you’re curious…why not ask?

“Am I not formed pleasingly?” It was a confident breath, sealed with a slow arching of her back, a graceful effort to watch him over her shoulder. “So you’ve said. Which is your favorite-” Words cut off by the slurping of his tongue, his lips closing over her labia, her long drawn out moan of contentment. When her mouth could form words again, they came as she parted her legs wider, braced herself firmer. “That’s a fine answer - and the best use of your tongue. Your mouth.” Peering between her legs enough to watch the crown of his head, the line of his jaw. “You look absolutely perfect there; licking my cunt like a starving man offered a banquet.” A purr of satisfaction, then - “I wonder how much better your face between my thighs would look if I were to sit on it? A Marcus stool.” She couldn’t stop the high laugh from her belly then, thinking of him sitting patiently beside the bed, head tilted upwards, tongue out, waiting for her to mount him. The thought alone was humorous, but enticing - working in concert with his mouth as he lavished her cunt.

As if he’d read her mind - funny, that - he was speaking, telling her of his enjoyment of her taste. There was little time to be skeptical, to shake the illusion of their talk. It was fun - he was enjoying himself, she was enjoying herself, what was the harm in a little banter?

Because I want it to be true.

So she ripped the veil; just a bit. Just enough to let the truth slip out, winding its way through what could be considered pillow talk, empty nothings: “If you promise me,” a sigh, a deep inhale, a loosening of her fingers on the floor, “That you will always be honest with me here. If nowhere else. Do not fill my head with lies; tell me pretty things that you think I want to hear. I want to be the best that you’ve ever had, ever will have, on my own merit. And I can’t do that without proper guidance.” There. It was said. Reiterated, at least. Perhaps there was no real hope in wanting to own such a man - like caging a wild animal. He would need to be left to run free, to come willingly, should she beckon, to feel at home and comforted by her. If she was a songbird in a cage, meant to sing only for him, it would only be because she partially wove those golden bars herself; she couldn’t blame him for not feeling the same, for not wanting to be trapped.

There it was - through the haze of it all, stronger, hotter than his lips, that sinking in her stomach. The one that happened when she tried to think, when she got her thoughts lined up and reality stretched ahead of her, as sure as the trade routes through the city.

Why must I be troubled with these thoughts, even now?

It was enough to make her want to scream, to do something, anything, to wash them from her mind. Why couldn’t she focus on what was happening now? As small as the thought was, was it not the same thing, the same nagging, that had lead her to being so misunderstood before? If she had to ask him to be honest with her here, with not even a thread of clothing between them, could she not do the same?

Venus, help me. I want to think of nothing but him. Save the real world for once this is over.

Her silent prayer would be helped by his tongue on the tight ring of her anus. That was…different. Wasn’t sure if it was pleasurable or not; the feeling was new. Strange. He could feel her jerk a bit under him; not out of wanting to get away, but a brief startling. Tense muscles would relax, slowly, under the careful ministrations of his tongue. She was quiet - too quiet - while he licked, the sensation rolled round in her head as she tried to figure out how it was supposed to feel; when it was supposed to be enjoyable. Surely there wasn’t some sort of magic pearl of flesh there, like in her sex, that would make the world feel like it was melting? Nothing like her nipples there either - wouldn’t that make going to the bathroom strange? So it felt like what he was doing - licking at her.

Maybe…

Leaning forward, she shifted, her hands pillowing under her generous breasts as she pushed her ass further into his mouth, into his tongue. Maybe if she pressed back, she could find a spot that felt the same? Or…maybe the enjoyment was from the fact that he was doing it. It did send a bit of a tingle through her cunt, imagining how he must look, his face pressed in her most filthy of places, licking away - oh! Another start as his tongue probed the tight muscle, pressed past it.

“Ohhh…” It was a slow groan, welcomed by a near gush of fluid from her cunt. His tongue had worked most of the tension free from her; the probe would meet some resistance, enough for her to mentally chide herself to relax; it was uncomfortable and maybe it would hurt, but she trusted him, and more than that, she wanted it - wanted to chase that butterfly flit of a thought that hinted at a new bliss, even if it was different and a little more difficult to earn. But it would be worth it; that much she was sure of. Her eyes shut, rolling upwards just a bit, a little flutter of those eyelids. “That’s nice…” It was a small voice, careful, shy. He could have kept doing that, and she would have been pleased - for the moment, at least.

Cool air as he pulled away, a sticking out of her lower lip as she visibly pouted, lifting her head up long enough to look behind her, wanting to see why he’d stopped. She wouldn’t watch long enough to see him reposition himself fully; at the first hint that he was going to penetrate her again, she whipped her head around, steading herself for whatever he was going to do next. Not that she had to wait long - he slammed into her soaked cunt and thrust out a guttural sound from her, something between a growl and a moan, a sound of pure satiation, the first step on the ladder to orgasm. “So good like this, so good fucking your cunt.” The last drawn out, her lips parted against the now rough carpet. Though some time had passed since her last orgasm, her body eagerly remembered that it was this position that brought her there, the same rough hands on her waist, the same powerful thrusts that shook her against the floor. Even with the rug, there was more leverage here; not so easy for him to knock her off balance - easier to breath without the straw in the mattress giving way under her face. It wasn’t long before she was shoving her hips back into his, the quietness of the night broken by the wet slaps of skin against skin.

Over far too quickly. He pulled out of her, and she literally whimpered, looking back at him as if betrayed. She hadn’t been close to an orgasm, not by any means, but it didn’t mean she didn’t enjoy what he was doing - enough to forget the purpose of why they’d moved to the floor in the first place. Why couldn’t she have both?

“Why can’t I have both holes filled at the same time?” she whined, a spoiled princess denied the temporary object of her desire. “I want it. Give it to me one day like that-” A brightness in her eyes that he would catch only momentarily as she turned her head briefly to look at him, “All holes filled!” All with an unspoken Make it happen, like there was no doubt in her mind that he would agree to such a request - or that he would have the means to make it happen. It had crossed her mind, sounded like fun, so what was the harm in saying it out loud?

He was probing at her hole again - with something much bigger and firmer than his tongue. Fear snaked through her; what was she thinking? Her cunt, made for a healthy prick, was barely enough to hold him. If her body was trying to push out his thumb, what would it do to such a large member? Had she made a mistake? She tried to relax, she did, but fear tensed her muscles, even as he took it slow, as he spoke to her -

In a small voice, doing her best to batter down the fear, to chase after that feeling she’d had before, she answered, “Be gentle putting your cock up my ass…If my cunt could barely handle it, I don’t know if my ass can.” She trailed off - then, squaring herself further on the floor, finding her footing there, reached between her legs, rubbed soothingly at her clitoris, woken up again by his tongue. “But I want to find out." A grin, though he couldn't see. She'd heard what he'd called her. "Be gentle with your cock up this whore's ass - you're her first, you see. And you don't want to break your new toy, do you?"

 

[Talon]

“Of course I don’t want to break my new favorite toy, my love...bend, perhaps, but certainly not break...” Marcus could hear the note of hesitation in her tone as she asked him to be gentle, the tensing of muscles, the puckering of her sphincter. She was in a vulnerable position, and perhaps needed to hear a few words of reassurance from the man whose cock was poised to barge up her backside. “This is about your pleasure as much as it is mine…if there is none in it for you, then there is none for me...” His voice was low and deep, lacking the harshness of before, reassuring, genuine and supportive. “...if you find my cock is too much, or that the sensations of pain eclipse those of pleasure, give word and I will withdraw. I will think no less of you if you are unable to find pleasure in this act…” Marcus’ hips shifted from side to side as he resettled his position, his steadying hand renewing it’s grip around the base of his prick as he prepared to renew his penetrative efforts.

She needs something to occupy her thoughts beyond the fear of unfamiliar and imminent pain…

“Now, what was this business about ‘all holes filled’, hmm? Maybe the pleasure slaves we spoke of won’t be for my use, afterall…” The muscles at his core flexed then as his hips pressed downward, a light hiss of air passing between his lips as he felt the pressure building at the point where the tip of his cock mashed up against the unrelenting barrier that steadfastly barred its entry. “Would it please you then, dear wife, if I were to go out and acquire a couple of stud slaves to assist me with the task of plugging up your greedy holes, hmmm?” The fingers of the hand that gripped her rump and held it spread apart dug into the soft flesh there forcefully. “Maybe a couple of genuine bitch-breakers, stallions whose fat cocks hang halfway down to their knees...the type that highborn Ladies rent to stretch out their holes for an evening when they have an itch that sex with their rich husbands just can’t scratch.” Marcus could feel the tension lessening gradually, the ring of muscle there around her anus becoming more pliable as the slick head of his cock began to delve inside. He could feel the heat there, the sensation of that muscle gripping him tightly as if it still fought to keep him at bay, a battle it was gradually losing as he slid deeper, stretching her ass open wider around the hefty girth of his cockhead.

“I’ll make sure they are the clean type, recently broken to task so that they retain some measure of a savage edge, the type who have not yet become bored by the idea of taking out their frustrations on some rich Patrician woman’s cunt. And even if they had...I’ll guarantee they’ve never seen an ass like this...there’s not a man alive who would dream of passing on the chance to ram his cock between these cheeks…” Marcus felt that ring of muscle slip over the ridge of his cockhead, a satisfied sigh issuing from his lips as the hand around the base of his cock, no longer needed to steady himself, moved to assist in spreading the cheeks of her backside open, his gaze drawn down to where their bodies met.

“Or perhaps my wife is a lady of more distinguishing tastes, hmmm? No mere slaves will do...you want free men, men who would decide to lay with you of their own free will...do I have the right of it?” His hips pressed forward, the head of his cock delving deeper, slowly, forcefully but with a measured pace to ensure gradual penetration, to allow her body to adjust to this unfamiliar form of coitus, to process the sensations he assumed would be overwhelming her senses. “You don’t care so much about how they look, where they hail from, their culture...your only standard is that they have a cock that needs milking, and you have just the holes to do it…long ones, short ones, skinny ones, fat ones…” Marcus’ right hand reached back before swatting at her rump with a sharp, stinging crack. “...you’ll take them all, right? After all, how else will you know how best to please your husband without a plethora of experience under your belt? How can you truly be sure I wasn’t lying if I were to tell you that you were the best? Hmmm?” Marcus paused, nearly half the length of his cock buried inside her ass, as he administered another sharp smack to her rump. “Perhaps it’s better then to find validation in the glazed over look in their eyes as they spill their seed in your cunt, or the groans that issue from deep in their chest as they shoot it against the back of your whore throat…” Marcus began withdrawing then, pulling his hips back, dragging his cock from her depths until only the head remained inside her as he laid another swat down against her rump.

“Most women would never dare think of such things, let alone speak them aloud, and to their husbands no less…” Marcus’ hips thrust forward, still reservedly, not with the strength he would if his cock was destined to enter her cunt, but with enough force to slide a finger’s length worth of the cumslick shaft of his prick back into her, grunting beneath his breath. “...either you are brave beyond measure or the hunger is gnawing fiercely enough in your belly that it drives you to desperation…” Reaching the same depth as before, choosing not to push her limits further just yet, Marcus again reversed his thrust as he pulled back with his hips. “...it is fortunate for you, then, that you have a love stricken husband…” The next thrust was a touch deeper, his hands constricting around her waist as if he were settling his position in preparation of a more active pace. “...one who wants nothing more than to see his beautiful young wife’s deepest, darkest, desires well sated.”

“We can speak more of such things later...for now, my love...tell me where you want it...where you want my cum...”

Marcus’ hips bucked forward.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“Good. I’m not entirely sure if you have the means yet to put me back together.” Whistling past the graveyard; an overconfident tongue that didn’t quite hide her apprehension. His words the beginning of a balm, the slipping through of reality, but not quite. Like the moments between when a flame flickers due to the wind, holding steady, burning bright, before shuddering, his voice came through, broke through the play, reassured her as if he’d stroked the side of her face.

He’s been like that since the beginning. She had to bite back a laugh - she did a poor job of it, for she did actually laugh - good luck within bad, for the gesture came as he pressed steadily on, the sound dissolving into a low hiss of pain. Worse than breaking her maidenhood, that much she could say for sure, even with her own fluids to ease the passing. “By Venus,” she growled through gritted teeth, sucking in a deep breath, “are you sure you’re using your cock and not your arm?” She tried to laugh again, tried to find something else to focus on. His push was steady, and she needed to focus -how to relax, but how to make it pleasurable for him at the same time?-, but under stress, she couldn’t help another fit of giggles. “I was just thinking…” Another grunt, a rush of breath as she exhaled, holding her body still, like subjecting herself to the probing hands of the physician, “that you soothed me once with your thumb. During the ceremony…” Sweat was beading on her forehead. Stinging had turned to burning, and she was panting openly, brows knit in concentration, not in bliss. But she was stubborn.

It made more sense in my head anyway. Something about his thumbs. First on my hand, then in my ass. Still doesn’t make sense. It did at the time.

Burning gave the sweat a layer of ice, chilling her forehead. It made his forging of her cunt little more than the threading of a needle.

Why did this sound like a good idea?

A pained exhale, the start of words - a sucking in of breath again, a steeling of her body. If it wasn’t good now, she could make it good. He was calm, slow. Another laugh, this one on the edge of an actual grunt of pain. “You and your mouth; full of bitter when I need the sweet,” she managed to tease, taking the brief distraction of their exchange to reach between her legs. Slipping across her thighs, her right hand stole away to the top of her sex, to rub at her spit slickened clitoris. While it didn’t remove the pain, it took a considerable edge off, her cunt constricting in want, her pelvic floor giving his cock in her ass a ghost of a squeeze. “Me with pleasure slaves - while you watch, your own monster cock in hand, with that smile of yours?” An edge in her voice; not of hostility, but of doing her best to play along, to push towards what that thought had shown her. Besides, was it not true as well that his breaking of her maidenhood had also been painful, before it wasn’t?

“I want all of my holes filled by you alone,” she blurted, as he steadily pressed forward, the words an explosion of breath from her. A confession of both means - “You’ve got prick enough and then some to spare, if this tree you’re currently shoving up my tender little ass is any indication.” Rub rub rub - flexing of her cunt again, the itch there, stronger. If she had another cock the size of his at the same time, she was quite certain that she would simply rip apart at the seams. His slaps startled cries out of her - the gesture jostling him deeper, like -

Nothingness. No, that wasn’t quite it. Pressure. Pressure against all sides of the inside of her, the seal of her anus still defiantly stubborn, clenching around him, doing its best to bar any further passage. But for the part of him that was seated already within her, past that? “It feels…different,” she managed, trying to loosen her tongue. She’d heard his tales of pleasure slaves, of what she wanted, and on the edge of her imagination, the thought stumbled into the air on burgeoning wings. The seed of something that could bloom into something that interested her further, but as of now, something entirely new - “Different…hurts, but if I…” and she, somehow, gathered the strength to push more of that shaft of his into her ass, her hand feverishly rubbing at her clit, even as she struggled to loosen muscles that refused to budge, chasing after that shift, the press of him in this new and dark spot, “Deeper….past the opening…” Words failed her. How could she describe it? It wasn’t the maddening heady rush of him taking her cunt from behind, but it wasn’t…bad. Painful, still, yes, but with an edge that was getting better, but still, not quite right.

“I need both holes filled to know which I like best, at the same time,” she stammered out, pulling forward as he pulled out, before she gritted her teeth in pain.

That doesn’t work as well as I would have thought. “Better when I take you in…not when you pull out,” she gasped out, pushing back even as he attempted to withdraw. The slap he’d given her causing her to yelp a bit, but not to lessen her drive back onto him, to swallow as much of him as she could, past that tight ring, further, deeper -

To his words, so far gone on focusing on them and more trying to pull her body where she wanted it to go, to explore these new depths, she let out a strained laugh, “You love your new whore.” It was scraps in the face of the banquet he was laying before her, but she truly could do no better. This new method of coupling pulled thought from her mind, chasing the ghost of logic, of ingenuity -

She canted forward, resting predominately on her chest, her collar bone. It was uncomfortable, but she needed both hands. With his hands on her rear, she trusted him to hold her the way he needed her to be, giving her a bit more freedom. Freedom she took, the same breath of Venus that brought her here telling her what to do - left hand was brought to her mouth, ring and middle finger quickly sucked, then, glistening, shoved unceremoniously in her cunt, her right hand constantly rubbing her clit in tighter and tighter circles. Uneven working of those hands, clumsy pauses, fumbling, tentative working in tandem with her hips pressing back into his - not enough, never enough, not after feeling his cock buried deep in her, but it would do, it would do -

Her breathing was heavy, labored - the pieces were falling into place. His prick in her ass wasn’t enough, not even the helping hand on her clit. She needed something in her cunt to make it truly complete, she was speaking, somewhere, on the edge of her consciousness, “Cum in my ass; I want to feel it,” knowing it would be a poor second, third, to the feeling of him hot and pulsing deep in her sex, that feeling that she still didn’t quite have the words for, of feeling drunk, floating on his ocean of seed, sucking it deep within her, storing to be turned back out as a mixture of the best of them, of the strange satiation that came after it, that made her feel as if she were drifting in the clouds? But she was sure he could feel her stuttering, her body making those minute jerks as she pushed herself closer to the edge, her fingers in her cunt working their clumsy magic, a sorry, sorry replacement, but it would have to do for now -

“I’m going to…” she was stuttering harder now, her cunt fighting her fingers now, squeezing them so that she could barely work them in and out, her right hand not stopping, her face pressed face down into the floor as she worked, she must have looked a sight, fucking herself to orgasm on the end of his cock, still buried in her ass, her ass quivering as she was steadily trying to take more in, “Just a little more, please..."

 

[Talon]

Marcus acquiesced to her pleading for more, the back and forth sawing motion of his hips continuously feeding the greater portion of his prick in and out of the depths beyond that tight ring that still hugged along the shaft with stubborn ferocity. Taking into account her feedback regarding what felt the most pleasurable for her, Marcus made an effort to focus on the inward thrusts, placing emphasis on pressing more deeply with a slower, more deliberate pace, extending the forward range of motion of his thrusts without withdrawing as much of his cock as he had been on the backstroke. Marcus’ breathing grew labored and audible, deep huffs as he thrust forwards and sharp intakes as he pulled back, exclamations of both the effort he was expending and the pleasurable sensensations her tight hole was providing in return, an easy bargain as far as he was concerned, one he would willingly make again without even feeling the urge to haggle or renegotiate for better terms. What more could he possibly ask of her? She bantered with him freely and indulged in his fantastical scenarios as readily as if they had been her own. She offered up her body to him, not entirely unselfishly, as she took no small amount of pleasure in what he did with that gift once given, but even then, she was focused on appeasing his appetites just as much as she was chasing after her own orgasm. She was capable of being both serious and playful, brazen and demure all within the scope of the same breath.

Marcus sensed the urgency in her voice as she pleaded with him to linger a few moments longer, to help push her over the edge.

The gradually increasing force of Marcus’ thrusts were driving his cock deeper now, enough so that she could begin to feel the soft hair that sprouted around the base of his cock tickling the insides to her asscheeks at the apex of each movement, the pendulous sack of flesh that dangled between his legs swinging, slapping against her perineum, impacting against the fingers that feverishly worked to stimulate her cunt. Marcus’ hands gripped urgently about her waist, anchoring himself there yet not inhibiting her efforts to throw her hips back to meet his thrusts, fingers digging into the softness there, the cadence of his ceaseless thrusting quickening as he felt his own orgasm approaching, distant and yet growing closer with each thrust.

“Cum, woman...cum with your husband's fat prick buried up your ass...I’m not ceasing...unngh...until I feel you’ve been properly pleasured...if I have to bugger you until the rooster crows his greeting to the dawn, I will…”

A bold promise, but one he seemed intent to keep, Marcus’ head thrown back, a grimace of effort on his visage, a fresh sheen of sweat evident under the coating of dark hair around the top of his chest and at the shock of silver hair around his forehead, grunts slipping from his lips, their deep tone heightening, becoming more urgent as the sensations his thrusting actions were generating for him became the center of his world, all other things forgotten in the moment. Marcus’ pelvis was now slapping up against her rump with each forward thrust, the full length of his cock now employed in the task of pleasing her, of pleasing him, that tight ring of muscle around her rear hole sliding all the way to the root as the thick head of his cock stirred her insides and threatened to run her through, to push aside whatever organs it encountered to make a path for itself there in her back passage.

Marcus barked at her then, his tone deep, loud, fiercely commanding. “Cum, Gaia! Cum...spray me with the sweet juice from your cunt...you want to feel my own cum warming the inside of your belly, no? Well then cum, woman!”

Marcus yanked at her hips as the force of his thrusts increased, loud slaps where their bodies met, his prick pistoning in and out of the depth of her bowels with careless abandon, it’s girth swelling further, the telltale sign his own orgasm was rapidly approaching. The grunts from Marcus’ lips grew ever more urgent, deep, guttural, as he rambled profanities, all of his mental faculties consumed by the urgency of his body’s desire to mate, to procreate, even if the hole his cock was reaming out offered no such promise in return. “Argh!..fuck...fuck...fuck!”

His hips slammed into her rump one last time with jarring force, enough to rattle his teeth, as he felt his body seize up, hands digging in at her sides, his hips twitching with small, sharp jerks forward, keeping the length of his cock buried within her as his orgasm fired. “Hnnngh…”

She could feel the energy travel through his shaft, starting from near the base, shooting up the underside, the thick head jerking as it shot its load, thick, hot, voluminous, again...and again...and again...lessening...again...little more than a sputter as she could feel his hands loosen their grip, his panting desperate and deep, Marcus’ upper body collapsing against her back, his arms moving to press fists against the rug at either side of her waist. His head was tucked, a few errant drops of sweat falling from his forehead to impact against her back, pausing a moment to gather himself, to catch his breath, as he panted. He left his prick inside her for a few lingering moments, both to ensure his eventual exit caused her no further distress and because he couldn’t yet move of his own free will, his mind still clouded, conscious thought distant.

Marcus’ left hand rose from the floor, stroking along her hip, over her rump. Gone was the energy his hands had held only moments before when he had stuck her there, now conveying only tenderness, appreciation and love as it stroked her soft flesh. He pressed against her gently, steadying himself as his hips pulled back, his now dormant and soft phallus exiting her body for the first time since it had entered there. Marcus leaned back with a grunt of effort, his eyes moving down, surveying her back there, ensuring that there were no obvious signs of damage. He gave her a soft, reassuring pat on the rump, and seeing no cause for concern that his actions had harmed her seriously, he turned and moved to lay on his back beside her, reaching his hand out towards her, beckoning her to lay against him, his smile warm, eyes gleaming wetly, the man drunk for the moment on the bliss from his recent orgasm that had yet to fully pass.

“No worse for the wear, my love...come...lay with me here a moment. I will fetch water and a cloth to cleanse ourselves...let me catch my breath for a spell...”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Far from the high pitched song she’d given him before, the thrusts into her tight anus created a different sound. Deep, guttural groans, muffled by the floor, shot through with explosive exhales, from her holding her breath, trying to push herself closer to orgasm, to ignore the pain, for it was increasing as her pleasure was. He was turning into a beast too - she could hear it, feel it. The tightening of his grip, his own breathing, as primal as her groans, the master and the slave - his dominance purely, easily, asserted over her. There was no questioning of it, no sparking of coy thought at it. His body commanded, hers responded. And this was something new as well, new, interesting, the way a feeling deep in her belly called to her, pulled her to present her ass higher, to grunt in effort as she took more of his cock in her.

His sack slapping against the sodden lips of her sex, weeping around her fingers, the pain that was still spinning round and round her anus, the thought that he was fucking her open yet again, and in a place that was never meant to handle it, and how filthy was she, to be taking it, not just that she was taking it, but that she had suggested, that her body had told her what it wanted. And the words that spilled from his mouth, over her neck, her back, praise, sheer obscenity, absolutely beautiful in how depraved, and she wanted to hear more, wanted to hear him praise her like this for the rest of her days -

Harder, harder, and harder still, till his nails bit lightly into her skin, till she could feel her slit squeeze her fingers, forcing them out, his last line of swears answered by her husky groan of orgasm, caught, as the whole experience had been, between pain and pleasure, a relief - a sigh as she slumped down fully beneath him. She had orgasmed, yes - but…it felt like something had been missing. Several things. Too sore, too rattled to think further, she let out a soft murmur of contentment as he gently stroked her hips, her thighs, her waist. And then, a pleased hiss as he withdrew from her ass - this passing much easier than his entering. As soon as he’d pulled out, she turned her head, her forehead resting against the cool floor, the rug, as she took in long breaths, trying to focus.

“My poor ass…!” she suddenly cried, laughter at the end of it, as she reached behind her to cradle her cheeks. “Why did I think that was a good idea?” Warmth was there, as well as relief; venting the experience, whining, perhaps, just a bit, eager to play a spoiled girl to be soothed by her doting father. “You should kiss it better,” she slowly climbed atop him, making a great show of wincing, of nursing hurts, real and imagined. “Kiss it better and then lick it clean.” It was ribald, she knew it, and she was joking. Well, a bit, anyway - the thought of his tongue, warm and soft, against the roughed flesh, was quite the pleasant one to think of. “Which hole is more fun for you? Because I’m going to say that this one,” she spread her legs a bit wider, and pointed down to her slit, fairly drooling long, thick strands of arousal, “is far better. But,” she lowered herself atop him, still straddling him, her thighs on either side of his, shoving her arms under his own, as if she were going to scoop him up in her arms, “I’m glad I tried it. And I also still want all holes filled.” She rubbed her cheek playfully against his chest. Though her orgasm hadn’t been as powerful as his, she’d had one, and in the aftermath, found it easier to be gentle, playful, curious, with him. If she could purr, she would be - she was sated, but could feel that, perhaps with a bit more time, and the touch of hot water, that she would be eager and ready to go soon enough.

She gave him a soft squeeze, before releasing her grip on him, bringing her arms to rest against his chest. Toying with his chest hair, she was quiet now, contemplative. She’d been so angry at him. Felt like her words weren’t getting through to him. And, as the case may be, she still might not. There was still much to be discussed, to be worried at. But only one thing came to mind.

“Don’t leave.” It was soft, nearly a whisper. Would she apologize? There was still a slip of anger there; why should she apologize, when she was just trying to run his household properly? He’d been in danger; she’d done what she thought was best. And surely, as…proper as he was, he would…he could…hold her curiosity against her. Think that she was behaving all too much of a wanton, not proper at all. “I…” She tightened her fingers against his chest, looked up at his face.

Should I apologize for being myself?

No; I shouldn’t. Being myself, using the things that I’ve learned, shouldn’t have been taught, is why we’re here; it would be spitting in the face of the Gods.

But there has to be a compromise, somewhere - but why should I run, sniveling to him? He’s taken his pleasure from me, and I from him. Surely that must be worth something to him? To know that he is truly desired here, that I care for him?

She was unable to complete her sentence, lost in her thoughts. Wanting more than anything else for his warmth in this moment to be enough, to soothe her mind, to know that, in time, he would be able to see all of who she was, and not just…these little beads of time, strung carelessly in the fabric of their lives together. Would it be too much to hope that it could always be like this?

 

[Talon]

Marcus grinned as he looked up at her, normally hard eyes now softened, full, his wetly gleaming gaze unabashedly admiring her form as he drank in the sight of her through the haze of post orgasmic bliss. If he were an artist she would be his muse, the inspiration for a masterpiece that would span the ages. As it were, he was but a simple man, no master craftsmen nor burgeoning sculptor. A man of action, of violence, of influence...nothing before her, not now, in the warmth of post-coital bliss where such things were a distant consideration. There were no titles, no matters of station, wealth or power. He was but a man and she a woman. From her he derived pleasure, and although it was his effort expended, his calories burned, without her it was all for naught. He could expend as much effort or more reading philosophical works, practicing with the blade, or the brush...she need only share of her essence, her warmth, and the sensations her body provided in but a few minutes of coitus trumped a hundred hours of such pursuits which seemed mundane by comparison. And not to mention that she shared with him this wondrous gift freely, enthusiastically, even sought him out with the express intent to bestow it upon him. What a woman...

“My poor ass…!”

Gaia’s sudden exclamation broke through Marcus’ thoughts and stirred him from his moment of reverie. His eyes widened in surprise before he joined in her laughter, a scoff that resolved itself in a round of nasally chuckles, his grin widening in turn, displaying his teeth, features rarely seen in their customary position behind pressed lips. His hand reached out to stroke the backs of his fingers up the outside of her thigh absentmindedly as she began to move to reposition herself atop him, his attempt to provide some small measure of comfort through physical intimacy, his eyes meeting hers, still full of mirth, exhibiting shared mischief as she described how he might begin to soothe her sore backside.

“Mmmm…” He all but hummed with consideration, as if entertaining the thought of his tongue soothing her body where his prick had so recently been was not entirely unwelcome or without appeal. “...perhaps I should...although I think it more reward than punishment…” He winked at her before she looked away, his eyes drawn to the movement of her hand as she brazenly pointed, his head lifting as his gaze was cast down between her thighs to the still drooling slit of her sex, dark outer labia yet plump with arousal, framed by their expansive natural coat of bushy black hair that covered the entirety of her pubis, the remenants of her orgasm, or orgasms, still plainly evidenced by the wet sheen across her thighs. As if in testament to the depth of his desire for her he felt his prick twitch lazily in response to the sight, the recently rigid organ that had tested the limits of her body’s capacity to accommodate it now lying slumped over towards his right thigh, shrunken to a fraction of its former glory as it slumbered contentedly, remnants of its delivery still gleaming wetly at the tip where the peep hole in the top of its coat of foreskin exposed the slit. If there was any doubt in her mind as to her ability to please her husband, well, before her lie the undeniable proof. A man well into his middle years, experienced enough in matters of the flesh that he truly knew what he wanted and could no longer be pleased as easily as a younger man, the sort content to merely bury their prick inside any tight hole and thrust away until they eventually fired off their seed. Here he was, grinning like some love drunk fool, his eyes considering her with silent praise and admiration; for in these precious few moments, his body still awash in the sensations of pleasure, of satiation, of a purpose fulfilled, he was all but wrapped around her little finger, clay to be molded by a purposeful hand set to task.

“Which hole is more fun for you? Because I’m going to say that this one is far better. But...I’m glad I tried it. And I also still want all holes filled.”

Marcus playfully groaned once more as she settled fully atop him, not in protest or complaint, but as if he were a hard worked laborer given the softest of mattresses upon which to rest weary bones. An expression of gratitude, as if he were offering a guttural acknowledgement to the gods above for the gift. Once more their bodies met, sharing warmth, the flesh of his well developed chest offering enough give to provide for her a firm cushion upon which to lay cheek, the abundant coat of fine hair there too soft to do more than tickle, the tiny nubs of his darkly purplish-red nipples perpetually hard amongst that coat, surrounded by bumpy, similarly colored areola scarcely the size of a small denarius coin.

Marcus made no effort to inhibit her ability to embrace him, his hands sliding up over the widest part of her hips, palms resting in the curvature at the small of her back, fingers splayed wide, not groping or fondling but attempting to encompass, a hopeless task, as they gently pulled her lower body down towards him.

“I have no argument to offer, my love…” Marcus’ neck craned forward to press a gentle kiss against the still smooth flesh of her bare scalp there atop the crown of her head. “...as much as I enjoyed the bevy of sounds that issued from between your lips as I fucked you there…” His hands drifted higher, over the crest of her rump, drawing nearer to the hole he was referencing, brushing against plump cheeks that had so recently served to cushion the aggressive thrusting of his hips. “...there is but one source of that sweet honey. I will never tire of the taste of it, no matter how many times my tongue coaxes it from her.” He kissed the top of her head again, his deep voice reverberating through his chest, momentarily drowning out the rhythmic beating of his heart, still quickened as he gradually recovered from his recent expenditure of energy. “And I’m not sure I can promise to fulfill your wish exactly as bidden, to have all holes filled only by me…”. A wry smile, his tone soft, playful. “...but if you truly wish to experience it, we shall find a way to make it so, together. I want that you should feel free to express your desires. I am your lover as well as your husband, after all, therefore it is my duty to see that all your earthly desires are met, that you want for nothing…no matter how shameful you think they might be, give voice to your carnal desires without fear of reprisal, scorn or judgement.” He hummed a positive affirmation. “Here, together like this, in our chambers, we are not Marcus and Gaia, Senator and dutiful wife. We are mates, man and woman, engaged in the most natural of states…”. For fear of droning on too long he let his words trail off, confident he had emphatically made his point. He looked down at the top of her head as she nuzzled against his chest, his mind wandering a moment.

To say he was infatuated with her would be going too far in the wrong direction. Infatuation had somewhat of a dark edge, and was more often than not unrequited. This was altogether different. Obsession...was he simply obsessed with her, then? Obsessed with that sizable and shapely rump, those deep eyes...that black triangle that lie between dark thighs...No. Well...yes, but so much more than just obsession. There was a time where he had been obsessed with the way that one particular chef had prepared hen eggs, with the center still runny, warm...no. Obsession was fleeting by nature, subject to whims of taste and preference. Too much of a good thing spoiled it, became the norm, routine, mundane. As it were, Marcus was quite confident that he could never become so accustomed to the pleasures her body offered that he would feel anything of the sort. The softness of her skin where his fingers brushed across it, how the fullness of her breasts retained the roundness of their shape as they hung heavily from her chest, the vitality of youth on full display, not yet giving way to the natural forces that altered the shape of one's body as they aged. Not even in her prime of years, it would be some time yet before she sat astride the peak of life and even more before she began the journey down the other side. Perhaps someday the passage of time would take its toll on her form, weighing down those defiantly perky orbs, thickening her middle, further padding out her already prodigious rump. Perhaps instead the toil of childbirth would alter her body’s current shapliness, stores of energy used, never to be replenished in the same manner they had been formed. Despite conventional thought that suggested otherwise, he couldn’t imagine any of those things would lessen his admiration of her nor temper his scorching lust. The underlying source of his desire, that playful glint in her eye as she brazenly asked for “all holes” to be filled, the sharpness of her tongue as she passionately stood her ground and gave back as good as she got...that was something deeper than flesh. It was the essence of what made Gaia unique, her persona, that truly attracted Marcus to her, that had so easily captured his heart, that had soothed the savage inner beast, burned from past experiences in matters of love and lust. As much as he wanted to think he was in control, deep down he knew the right of it. He would be all that he could in order to earn the right to come home to her, to lie by her side at night, to lie beneath her as she rested her head atop his chest after a vigorous coupling. The word came to mind then, the one that most appropriately described the depth and complexity of his still burgeoning feelings for her, even if it was oft used too recklessly or otherwise felt inadequate, there was none other he could conjure that felt more fitting in the moment; love.

Gods, she’s beautiful…every inch of her, from the bottom of her feet to the top of her bare head.

He grinned as he let his head fall back, staring up at the shadows that stretched across the ceiling as he sighed, content in that moment to feel the warmth of her breath and the softness of her breasts as they pressed against his chest, the movement of her own chest as she breathed in and out, passions calming, heat subsiding, pulses slowing...

“Don’t leave…I…”

Marcus’ head lifted once more, his gaze met hers, the playfulness gone, replaced by a mixture of sadness, regret and vulnerability, a range of emotion he had yet to see reflected in those doey eyes, those deep pools of darkness so clearly defined against the starkness of the white surrounding them. He felt a pang of regret then, the tumultuous bickering of the morning brought back to him in a rush of strong emotion, most notably a vibrant sense of shame and regret. He waited long enough to ensure she didn’t mean to continue, not wanting to interrupt her, his hands sliding up her sides, coming to rest over her own as it curled there against his chest.

“...About that…my leaving…” His brow was drawn, not in anger, but in grief, sadness, regret that his words had struck so deep, his eyes locked with hers, irises flickering about as he summoned forth the energy to speak, the courage to take ownership of the threat he had issued.

Fool old man...time to make good for the brashness of your tongue…

“It was an empty threat, one issued by a dullard too weak of character to think better of it before allowing it to slip past his fool lips. I can’t recall what even angered me to begin with... perhaps it’s better I don’t attempt to recreate such foolish thoughts. I have nothing to offer in my defense...it was wrong of me to threaten such a thing, even if I had no intention of following through with it, maybe even more so then. It was cowardly and dishonorable, to suggest abandoning you at such a time...whatever you said or did, whatever slight I perceived worthy of retort, did not rise to the level of meritting such a harsh response.” His hands tightened around hers. “I will not beg for your forgiveness, that should be yours to bestow upon me once you feel that I have truly earned it. Instead I promise never to entertain such foolish notions again, and vow to do whatever it takes to earn back what trust might have been eroded by my actions…”

His hands stroked hers as his gaze never faltered from hers, the tone of his voice suggesting candor, a slight warble lending emotion. It was clear he took this seriously, and meant what he had said.

“I love you, Gaia...don’t ask me to explain why my heart opened so readily...the reasons are few, and yet many...simple, and yet complex. If I could put it into words, I would, but I think you feel it too. I suffer just as you do, don’t think I am immune to matters of the heart, that I am aged past acting like an immature, lovesick fool just because the grey in my hair would give evidence otherwise. It is so much more than just desire for your fetching form...you have reawakened in me feelings and desires I thought long since passed. I ask only that you be patient with me as we explore the depth and breadth of them together...you are special to me, Gaia, and will forever be…”

Marcus shifted then, signaling to her that he sought to move. “Hold a moment...I have something for you…” He helped her move from him and reposition herself on the rug, his touch tender, a quick kiss upon her lips as he pulled away, his hands grasping hers, squeezing, before distance broke their hold. He turned away from her then, plodding over towards a table on the opposite side of the room on bare feet, his nude form on full display, lean, angular, muscular. He seemed comfortable with her gaze if it followed him, his steps light, a man content with his lot despite the heaviness of the most recent topic of conversation. Once at the table he refilled the goblet of water, and fetching an object previously unseen from atop the dresser, turned to hurriedly make his way back towards her with a newfound burst of youthful energy. Marcus sat down beside her with legs crossed, offering the goblet first to her, an object that appeared to be a loop of cord held in his other fist, his thumb absentmindedly stroking it.

“So this is silly...and feel free to tell me as much if you feel so...but I wanted to give you something, something that I made for you.” For the first time Marcus exhibited something akin to bashfulness, and if the light were better, she might could see the blushing of his cheeks. The tone of his voice was heightened, excited, almost nervous, if the man was capable of such a thing. “I thought it would compliment your skin...and if nothing else, it could remind you of me if ever we are apart…” Marcus reached over towards her, taking her left hand in both of his and softly pulling it over towards him. He looked up at her, a playful twinkle in his eye and that customary half smirk across his lips. “...assuming you would want to be reminded of your stubborn ass of a husband in such times...” He looked down then, and working her hand open gently, he slid the length of looped cord over the tops of her fingers and past her thumb to settle around her wrist. Once there he adjusted it, sliding the tied knot along the length of cord, closing the loop a small measure to ensure a tighter fit, loose enough not to bind but tight enough not to easily be shaken loose. He looked up, his expression radiating warmth beneath a lifted brow. “...I saw a boy making one down by the beach...he told me it was for some courtship ritual, that in order to have value it must be made by the hopeful suitor...” His hands still clasped hers for a moment, as if he were nervous in anticipation of her examination of the gifted object. “...unfortunately your suitor has little innate talent for jewelry making, but hopefully the intent with which it was made will shine through in the finished product.”

He released her hand then, allowing her free reign to pull it away and examine his gift up close if she so desired. It was a simple double loop of coarse, dark brown cord, looped once and knotted, then looped and tied again to form the second. Along its length were strung cylindrical shells of roughly the same shape and size, all some range of off-white to slightly pinkish in color, little knots tied in the cord at either end of them to keep them in place. Thanks to the thickness and frequency of the shells, the coarseness of the cord was never felt against bare skin. If more closely examined, she could note where he had burned away stray strands or fibers from the length of cord in an effort to make the wearing of it as pleasant an experience as possible. It was clearly a novice endeavor, the lay of the shells not perfectly aligned, lacking the synergy of a masterfully made piece. But it was heartfelt, and in that moment, he seemed for all the world like a prepubescent boy eagerly awaiting the reaction of his childhood crush.

“There are words that go along with it too...I’m supposed to ask…” A hand stretched out, rising towards her face, thumb brushing across cheekbone, his face drawing nearer to her as he leaned in towards her. “Will you be my sweetheart?”

Without waiting for her reply he closed the remaining distance between them, hungry lips seeking their mate in hers.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Was there any sound sweeter than his laughter? The ripple of it was enough to nearly stop her; surely her ears had fooled her. The man who she’d seen a scarce handful of full smiles from had actually laughed. If she could have wrapped him into her arms so that he could never leave her, so that she would never let him go, to preserve that laugh in crystal, in glass, to wear as a bauble for the rest of her days, she would have. Instead, she merely smiled back, so hard that she felt her cheeks were fit to split. Snuggled in his arms, his hands over his, all felt right in the world. All of her doubts, fears, and worries were dandelion floss, blown away by the rose-scented breath of the Goddess of Love.

Even before he began to speak, she was soothed. His words, however, were unexpected - both in that he felt need to address her so eloquently, and also…that he’d forgotten the fight. Petty creature that she was, she hadn’t - but was willing to overlook it, just to stay close to him.

And I should have spoken my mind from the beginning, she thought, pulling one of his hands to her mouth, the plush cushion of her lips warm to the callused flesh. But my tongue, ah, it’s as clumsy as a newborn foal. There’s no way I can say something, be myself, without offending him. But Venus, if you please, if you were so sweet to grant me this, this moment which my heart yearned for, please…soften his disposition to me, so that, perhaps one day, I can be my entire self to him. You’ve planted the seed, helped it to grow, shown me the beauty of the blossom. Help me grow in turn. Unconsciously, she clutched his hand tighter, kissing his knuckles.

“And I love you,” she managed, her own voice thick with emotion. His saying it had freed her tongue that much, sent her heart to the cosmos on translucent wings. What more could she say? She was new to love, that much she knew, but she, in that moment, suddenly understood why Agrippina’s beloved had burst into tears when she accepted his proposal, made all of the promises that he had. Had Marcus so much as hinted that he wanted her to run a mile, to pluck the stars from the skies, she would have. A deep sigh - one of contentment, of a weight dropping from her shoulders. The rest of his words were but pleasant embellishments, fine stitching on a blanket. They settled around her shoulders, airy as a silken palla, luring her into closing her eyes. It was momentary, as he was moving beneath her. She sat up with a dramatic sigh - playful, but still loathe to have to move. She could have slept right there on the floor with him, his seed still damp between the cleft of her rear, and not have thought anything of it. Indeed, soothed by his words, it had been difficult to keep the heavy breath of sleep from whispering in her ears.

So it was with slightly blurry eyes, the worried pallor wiped away now by the post orgasmic glow, she was still coming down, still faintly illuminated under the flickering candlelight with a glow that seemed to come from within her. He would catch her childishly wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, doing her best to chase away further fatigue. Sleep had been an acquaintance at best the last few days, and now, with the extra exertion, and moreso, with the heavy emotional burden lifted, it was through sheer will alone that she managed to stay awake. A spark of interest as he walked away from her, the focus of her gaze becoming clearer, even under the slight light.

So this is a man. Sent fire slipping through her veins, pooling in her stomach. How finely made he is. Like a statue. The smoothness of his skin, the deep cut of muscular lines in his thighs, his rear, his back - her eyes hungrily devoured them, glutted themselves on the flesh before her. Until now, boys, and then men, were just that: boys, men. Childhood friends at first, wrested from her with her first bleeding, then, after that, mere shades - always there for the sisters, never for her. And that had been fine with her; the only one she truly needed in life was Lucius. Lucius of the golden smile, of the demeanor that could charm bees from the hive and wild beasts from their caves. Besides, she had other things on her mind, always - anything to drown out the continuous noise of her own loneliness, despite living in a home full of people. Could he be the end to that? The end of the gnawing, the constant hunger, always, no matter how she tried to feed it with mundane tasks, the weaving, the reading, the rituals.

When he returned back to her, she was watching him with the expression of a lovestruck hawk. There was the softness of a young girl looking at the object of her desire, yes, perhaps odd on someone her age wearing it so plainly, when she should have known more subtle indications of her willingness, even to her husband - but it was married, strangely, with the dark and searching gaze of a tactician. It wasn’t unkind, that penetrating look, but one of trying to piece together of what she was looking for; seeing him, seeing through him. Gently breaking him down into parts, turning each one over and over in her hands, assessing, humoring, before putting them back together, as unsure as she was at the beginning of her task. As he spoke, she snapped out of it, the glow of love first and foremost, lending her smile a burgeoning sweetness that was beatific. Open, yet shy, it was the mere slip of what could be, the dazzling and winning smile of her brother, the brilliance turned down. Time would tell if it would flourish under him, become the smile of her elder sister, capable of stopping a man in his tracks, make an old man wish for younger days and a young man to forget his words. Though it was slight, it was promising. It was masked by the goblet as she took a small sip then, rather than hand it to him, set it aside as he took her hand. She looked at him quizzically before turning her attention to the bracelet. There was a soft snort of laughter - not of mocking, but of sheer nerves. It frayed at the end; not even his kiss was enough to keep it from bubbling over.

“I’ve never gotten anything like this,” she blurted. “No one’s ever wanted to be my sweetheart.” She turned her wrist this way and that, looking at the shells. They were unfamiliar to her, but they were cool to the touch, beautifully and perfectly smooth. The uneven nature of it made it charming - all too mortal. Her voice was quiet, unsure. She was already aware, painfully so, of how little she knew of the world. And, as it would seem, how little of the charm between men and women. If even a boy could feel such a flutter in his heart that he would make something like this, what else had she missed out on? At that moment, it wasn't that she felt cheated - but infinitely curious. What was this world that others had inhabited so freely?

She staggered, quite literally, to her feet. Her pace was unsteady before smoothing out - the fresh aches from having her back passage deflowered, of laying still for so long. Gathering the pitcher, she found her discarded night stolla, and, dampening it with the water from the pitcher, she knelt behind him, and began to gently sponge the sweat from his body. In companionable quiet, she wiped down his limbs, trailing her dampened gown down the lines of his arms, down to his hands. There was a reverence in her touch, tender, slow. Her forehead pressed against the nape of his neck, before she pressed her lips there, arms circling round his front. Pressing into his pectorals, she wrapped her gown around him from behind, holding there for a moment, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing against her breasts. “…I said, in haste, that you knew more than me. That you knew more about women.” The sucking in of breath, cool on the nape of his neck, her voice curling round his ear, the featherlight hint of her lips as she leaned into him, continuing her makeshift bathing of him. “While we are here, now, when the air between us is new, while we’re man and woman, in our most natural of forms, I ask for your forgiveness of the mistakes I will inevitably make.” Her hands shifted lower, tracing, studying, wiping, tending. “No one has ever wanted to be my sweetheart; Venus had ignored me up until that moment I first saw you.” The shadow of a smile against him, pressing her hands into the dip of his navel, “I’m going to risk you thinking me even more foolish than you have in the past, but I must speak my mind. Or try to, if things are to ever be at ease between us. I’ve never had…this feeling. This ache in my chest. The desire to want to be near you. It came on me so sudden, when I first saw you, I firmly believed that I was under a spell. I’m still not so sure that that isn’t the case.” Laughter now, butterfly wings against his neck as she shifted behind him. Her arms, her breasts, left him, her breath changing as she moved to kneel in front of him, her wet stolla in hand. She leaned over, the heavy sway of her breasts, low clumps of leaves on an elegant oak. She began to rub his thighs, kneading the muscle as she continued to wipe him down. “I don’t know what I’m doing; what madness this all is. It may sound foolish, if not an outright lie to you, but I speak the truth. My mind…has always been on other things. There is too much in the wide world to be caught up in what seems to be the mundane; in what happens to everyone else, but not you. I’ve always felt like…” A press of her tongue against her lower lip; a pause. She looked up at him, her gaze serious but open, those dark eyes shining. “Like I’ve been watching the dream of someone else. That if life is a play, then I am but a small part, only given one line before I leave the stage, never to be seen again.” There was a ruefulness in her smile then, a world-weary sweetness that grabbed at the heart and squeezed. “Things happened to other people; never me. The world outside, even the world within my father’s home, never seemed to matter or touch me. And now, here I am, suddenly awake, suddenly realizing that I too, exist in this world. But I’m still unsure of my role to play, what I should be, who I should be. Gaia as Gaia has always been unacceptable,” her voice drifted away as she shifted down to his knees. “And I fear that I will, in time, be unacceptable to you as well. But as long as you’re close to me, as long as I can see your face, can reach out to touch you, your hand, even that wouldn’t matter. I feel…like my purpose is to be here with you.” Thankful that it was dark, for she was sure that her face was on fire. The chill of the shells against her wrist made her smile again. “I’m not naive enough to say something as silly as that I was born here to meet you, but I do truly believe that my life started the day that we were married. That kissing you awakened me, but like someone waking from a long slumber, I’m confused. Unsure of where I am.”

To his feet now. She kneaded and massaged the tops of his feet, the soles, with a firm pressure that was natural, an outpouring of her affection, of her desire for him, of the need to simply be close to him. To hear him breathing as he slept, finding the simple joy in the spark of light in his own dark eyes. “So it would seem that we are two newly awakened dreamers, in a strange new world, all else, perhaps, will fade away into the mists of the morning. All I know is that I am here, now, with you, and there is nowhere else that I would rather be.”

The stolla was laid out on the floor, more for it to dry, than anything else. She would tend to herself in the morning. Maybe it was her imagination, but the dawn seemed closer than before - a trick of the light making the sky lighten at the corners, night beginning to slink off? Still, as she stood, she held out her hand to his, to help him up, and then, to bed. Settling in next to him, still minding his hurt arm - ah, she would need to replace those bandages, check the wound - she laid her head on his chest, and, following the calming pulse of his heart, she succumbed to sleep.

_____

There was no nightmare, no change in her breathing. One moment she was asleep; the next, she was awake. The imagined dawn of from how ever long before was now real - pink bands laced the high arc of the sky, the cool of the night melting into purple. It would have been all too easy to shut her eyes again, to curl up into the warmth of Marcus next to her. She had wound her body round his, a vine up a trellis, legs laced together, arms around his torso, head nestled into his chest. The vulnerability of his sleeping face, comfort wiping age and care from it, made her smile. For long moments, she allowed herself to study his sleeping form, the rise and fall of his chest, the soft murmurs he made, lost in his dreams. It was with great reluctance that she untangled herself from him, bit by bit, slowly wiggling herself free.

Slowly…Carefully. Diana, help me. It wasn’t a desperate plea, but one made with some laughter towards the Goddess, imagining her fair face smiling, bemused by the late rising of her devotee, but still expecting her due. And she would have it. Freeing herself from Marcus, she sat on the edge of the bed, ensuring that he still slept deeply, and she was pulling on her night stolla, now dry. She had Goddesses to thank and promises to keep.

_______

Dawn was breaking fully over the day, the mournful call of gulls high and piercing as she brought Tenebris back to the stables. After her morning prayers, complete with the fresh shaving of her head, murmured thankfulness to Diana, the deep joy, peace, she felt at being heard, really and truly heard, she had taken Tenebris out - running along side him, then, practicing her shot astride him, with him standing still. Keeping in mind that this time her presence would indeed be missed if she were entirely too late, she had kept it as short as she possibly could, praying that she would be forgiven, promising that she would make it up to the Huntress. Though she would also, as she thought, with a smile, give thanks to Venus. Perhaps enlist the aid of Marcus to do so…

It was with that cheerful thought that she encountered Mikkos - and, a quick conversation later, was making her way to the baths. She hadn’t properly bathed since she arrived, and the thought of a pool of warm water, with the rippling reflection of sunlight filtering through high windows, was delicious. She would wave away the majordomo’s suggestion of Philomena helping her; she could bathe herself, thank you - and, more to herself, she didn’t want to invite the prying eyes of another woman to her body. It was one thing with her sisters, her mother, the slaves of her father’s home - an entirely other thing now. And though she felt that the woman would have tended to her as dutifully as any slave, the thought was unsettling. She wanted time to herself - time to get her mind together, to be strong enough to discuss what had happened on their way to this villa. She had put it off long enough, and though she knew that she still could not confess to her skill with the bow - she had barely won his heart; knew she was on unsteady ground as it was -, she had to at least see to his wound, to tell him what she saw of the battle while he was unconscious.

Slipping partially beneath the water, she closed her eyes. The bathing chamber was set up so that the windows were high enough to let in the light of the day, but not so low to invite prying eyes. The sound of the distant waves were magnified here, giving the bather the feeling of being on the shore. The tile mimicked the ocean as well, occasional pieces of smooth glass inlaid to be the flickering eyes of sea creatures, watching from beneath the waters of the bath. Mikkos had been kind enough to bring her the few things she’d asked for - olive oil, her perfume, a fresh robe. She would dress fully once she left; tend to her toilet in her new room.

I may not have the best hand at cosmetics, but I can at least be presentable, she thought as she cupped water in her hands to pour over her bare head. The sensation, still new, was one that was entirely pleasant, reminiscent of delicate fingers tracing over the contours of her body. So, sitting on the carved bench beneath the pool, her neck, shoulders, and tops of her breasts exposed, she raised her arms overhead, stretching. Only for a bit, before she was standing in the middle of the bath. Standing, the water lapped at the triangle of curls between her legs, coming up to just the top of her sex. With her back and bare head to the entrance, she seemed less a Roman matron and more of a curious amazon, amused at the water, her skin like polished mahogany against the sparkle of the water, sunlight catching spots of her flesh, turning it to warm russet, fragrant steam rising and distorting the air.

 

[Talon]

IUNIUS XXI 716 AUC - Somewhere outside Siscia, Pannonia - Midday


The unwavering heat of the midday sun at its zenith cast down upon the VIth Legion as they assembled in the open field in preparation for battle. Legionnaire Tiberius Attius Farus, among the reserve portion of the troops near the back of the formation, could feel its strength where it’s rays met bare skin, could see the shimmering heat waves along the ground in the distance, feel the stray drops of perspiration roll down the back of his neck, tickling as they passed between shoulder blades and rolled down his spine. They were surface level distractions, though, a gnat buzzing past ear, with the appointed hour of battle drawing so near. It was to be his first real action outside of training, his “blooding” as the more experienced soldiers called it. He felt an unfamiliar mixture of trepidation, anticipation and excitement churning around in his gut until it formed a knot there, altogether different from the pangs of hunger or the gnawing of embarrassment when a pretty lass rejected his advances. Tiberius wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist before pressing open hand to brow to shield his eyes as he looked out at the still-forming blocks of soldiers several hundred meters to the front of his position.

I wonder what it’s like to be up there, knowing the battle is soon coming...

“‘Oy, Attius! Enough with the arse scratching, back to work with you! If I catch you daydreaming again, you’ll be on latrine duty for the next month, got it?”

Tiberius turned towards the speaker, a gruff man in his middle years standing a few meters behind him, dressed in full battle armor and wearing the horizontal crest of a Centurion atop his helmet. Centurion Publius, the senior Officer for the reserve unit, currently overseeing the final stages of the construction of the defensive ramparts at the rear of the main battle formation.

Tiberius straightened before firing off a crisp, almost too precise, salute in acknowledgment of his superior. “‘Aye, sir, as you say.”

Centurion Publius stood still a moment, his piercing gaze boring through the younger Tiberius as if he were considering further castigation. Apparently deciding he was satisfied, the older man slammed his fist over his heart with a return salute, and turning away, it was but a moment until he was again barking at a soldier he seemed to think was failing to put forth their full effort. “You there...no, the other idiot sitting on his duff while the rest of his unit breaks their backs...yes, you! On your feet!” Centurion Publius stomped away, his hand raised as he pointed at his intended target. “I ought to have you lashed for dereliction of duty...pick up that stack of boards...over your head now...lift!...”

Tiberius let out a sigh as he turned back towards his task for the afternoon, a massive stack of boards to be used in construction of the ramparts. It was his task to carry them to the build site, some fifty meters to his front. While not the most difficult of tasks, it was made treacherous by the unrelenting heat of the sun. He’d made only a few trips and already he could feel fatigue setting in as it sapped away at his strength. Bending at the knees he gathered the next pile and stood, balancing them at an angle against his shoulder so that he wouldn’t be relying solely on the power in his arms to carry them. Shuffling his feet as he turned in place, he set off towards his destination with as quick a pace as he thought was sustainable, the sharp edges of the wooden boards biting into his shoulder as they were jostled by his movement as he plod along across the uneven ground.

Join the army, they say...see the world, they say...all this way and yet here I am, no better than a common laborer.

His eyes were cast to the horizon, towards the enemy formation that was assembling across the field of battle. There was no construction effort he could see, only a line of what appeared to be wagons at the back of their formation, loose groups of soldiers milling about as they made preparations for the fighting to come.

Lucky bastards...I’d rather be up front with the killers than back here with the brokedicks and the unblooded…

Tiberius turned his head and spat, largely a symbolic gesture as the heat had sapped the moisture from the inside of his mouth. His upper arms began to burn from the effort of carrying his cargo, a reminder that he pushed himself too hard, having made piles of boards for himself twice the size of the other carriers. If he could not prove himself in battle, well, then, he’d find some other way to set himself apart from them.

“Ahhh...the great ox has seen fit to provide for his herd a bounty of wood! Perhaps we’ll be able to finish our section before the battle is over, after all!”

Tiberius’s eyes shifted over to his destination where a gaggle of soldiers stood, paired off in twos, one holding a sizable wooden mallet and the other a satchel of pegs. This was the crew he was to be hauling boards for, a group of soldiers he was familiar with, having gone through training and Legion assignment with them. The speaker, the self-styled ‘leader’ of this clique, was one Titus Veridicus, a young man from a family heavy of name but light of coffers. A slight man more bone and sinew than muscle, the top of his head coming up just under Tiberius’ nose, he’d have a handsome enough look to his features if they were less often turned down in frown or sneer. He was the insufferable sort who thought they were above everyone of a similar station solely based on the, now failing, reputation of his family name, the sort who thought self worth reliant on breeding alone. While he and Tiberius had publicly butted heads before, by and large they got on well enough, so long as Titus minded his tongue when he flapped it in his direction. During training the others had taken to calling Tiberius “ox” on account of his size, a semi-affectionate nickname which was neither entirely complimentary nor wholly an insult, of which Titus was the originator. Tiberius was yet undecided on how much he appreciated being called by it.

“‘Atta boy...just a few steps closer…” Titus clicked his tongue as if spurning on a beast of burden. He straightened, looking around to the other soldiers around him with a conspiratorial grin. “I tell you what, Tiberius...if you could swing a sword as well as you can carry a board, we’d all be ready to go home by now. Perhaps the Legatus should challenge the other army to send out their best board carrier and we can decide the fate of the battle with a test of pure, mindless brute strength, eh? I like your odds...what do you think, boys, anyone want to get some betting action going?”

Tiberius grimaced with the effort of maintaining his grip on his cargo, coming to within a few meters of the group before releasing it, the heavy boards clattering to the ground with the dull crash of wood. Shaking his arms out, his chest heaving, Tiberius turned towards Titus and his pack of leering vultures. “Care to repeat that, little man?” Already Tiberius was closing the distance, stepping over carelessly scattered boards as he moved to square up with the man.

Titus smirked, his eyes widening a bit as Tiberius’ shadow cast down over him, his feet stubbornly rooted in place as his back straightened, openly confronting the larger man head on despite the size discrepancy between them. A man like him couldn’t afford to back down and incur the hit to his reputation, even if that meant getting a mudhole stomped into his backside. That much, at least, Tiberius could respect. “You know, Tiberius...we were all talking the other day, and we got to wondering...just out of curiosity, really...was it your mother who was fucked by a bull or your father who stuck his prick in a heifer, eh? I think the latter, is that how you grew to be so big, suckling from a cow's teat?” The crowd around the man burst into a round of derisive snickers.

Tiberius growled as his left hand seized a fistful of the front of Titus’ leather jerkin, holding his steady as his right arm cocked back, his fingers curling into a tight fist.

“I’ll end you, Titus, if you ever speak of my mother like that again…go ahead, let insult fly...see if you’re not spitting your teeth into the dirt before your next breath.”

The look on Titus’ face was one of confliction. His hands had raised to try and pry himself free from Tiberius' grasp to no avail. Lose face or save teeth? The man was in a hell of a predicament, but it was he who had escalated things this far, so the pleading look in his eye did little to evoke sympathy from the bigger man.

“We both know whose side Publius will take...go ahead, then, hit me. Or aren’t you man enough to stand up for yourself? Is there a cunt between your legs where your balls should be? A cow's cunt, I’ll bet!” Another round of snickers from the soldiers around them.

Tiberious roared.

“Enough, release that man at once!”

The strange voice cut through Tiberius’ rage like a blade. It came from the front, where the troops were forming on the field, not from behind where Publius would be. Besides, it was of an entirely different quality. Not gruff like an old veteran but smooth, melodious and confident like one born to lead, one born of station. Tiberius released his grip on Titus’ jerkin as both men snapped to attention, the gaggle of soldiers around them doing the same.

“The enemy arranges themselves at our front while the two of you bicker like children fighting over a toy…”

Into view walked the speaker as he moved to stand beside the would-be brawlers. A familiar man, a young man seemingly only a handful of years older than the recruits he was addressing. His features retained a boyishly handsome softness, hardened by the stern look on his visage, by the stormcloud brewing on his brow. The vertical plume atop his helm and the fine make of his armor marked his rank, and upon closer inspection, Tiberius remembered who this man was, a forceful swallow as he bit his tongue.

This was the Tribune Laticlavius assigned to the VIth Legion to which Tiberius and Titus both belonged, the second in command below only the Legatus. Tribune Marcus Valerius.

Tiberius’ eyes widened as he felt a droplet of sweat streak down between his shoulder blades. The fucking Tribune...why, gods, did you have to summon forth the fucking Tribune? What have I done to deserve your ire?

Titus cleared his throat, attempting to speak. “Tribune Valerius, pardon our…”

Tribune Valerius’ interruption came at a roar. “Silence! You will speak only when commanded to, do you understand? Interrupt me again and you will find yourself lashed to the whipping pole at the battle's end…” Titus only nodded in response, his eyes searching out Tiberius’, a squint of silent communication shared between them, as if the man were expressing apologies for having instigated their dispute.

Tiberius felt the back of the Tribunes hand brush across his arm as the man gestured towards him. “You...you have a soldierly look about you. Can you fight?”

Tiberius frowned, confused. He was expecting a much harsher response or rebuke from the man, his brain knocked off course as he considered the question. “Sir…?”

Tribune Valerius sighed, shifting as he crossed his arms over his chest, clearly exasperated at having to explain in depth such a simple question. “We’ve had to adjust the width of our formation, we need more men for the center of the line. I’ll put it more simply, then...can you hold a shield steady and your sword at the ready? Will you piss yourself when you see the face of the enemy as they charge at our line?”

Tiberius rocked on his heels. “No, sir...I mean, yes, sir...I can fight, sir, I’m ready.”

Tribune Valerius’ stood a moment as Tiberius could feel the heat of his gaze upon him, weighing him, measuring, taking stock of his value. He scoffed then, before speaking, his eyes cast over behind Tiberius at the clutter of boards littering the ground. “For Rome’s sake I hope better than you carry boards.” Tiberius’ could feel the Tribune’s gaze once more upon him. “It is done, then. Gather your gear and hustle to the front. Near the center you will find Centurion Manius, report to him for further instructions.”

Tiberius remained locked in place. “Sir.”

The Tribune growled. “Move, soldier, you think the battle will wait for you? Move, move, move!”

Tiberius turned and took off at a sprint without further comment, heading back towards where the recruits had stowed their arms and gear before beginning construction efforts.

Tribune Valerius turned towards Titus, the weasely little man still standing at attention with his back straight, his eyes snapping to the front as if he had been watching him. “As for you...you look like you could stand to put on a bit of muscle. Take over for that one,” The Tribune jerked a thumb in the direction of the retreating Tiberius. “on the double. I’ll expect to see some progress made here when I come back through...do you understand?”

Titus replied from behind clenched teeth. “Yes. Sir.”

The Tribune smirked as his eyes searched Titus’ face for signs of disobedience, content then there none were forthcoming, his gaze flowed about the throng to soldiers assembled in a loose group behind him. “Everyone, back to work…”

As suddenly as he came he was gone, walking with a self-assured, easy gait as he moved beyond them to engage with the next group of soldiers who were busy constructing their section of fortifications.

Titus stepped forward, eyes locked on the form of Tiberius as it moved away from him, a hard swallow, his brow furrowing. “Stay safe, Ox…”


*~*~*~*~*~*~*


Present Day


“‘Ey, hold that lamp steady there, boy...if I feel piss splash against my feet you’ll feel my hand upside the back of your head…”

Tiberius shot the guardsman behind him a withering look from over his shoulder as he verbally chastised him. The young man was holding in front of him a pole-lamp, the very instrument they had been using to light the roadway ahead of them as they rode throughout the night, now used to illuminate the roadside as Tiberius prepared to evacuate his bladder. He was one of four guardsmen that Manius had sent ahead with Tiberius, the Guard Captain and Guardsman Lucius staying behind in the city to rest and deal with the prisoners they had taken during the attack on the caravan earlier that day.

“Aye, sir...my deepest apologies…” The guard raised the lantern and extended it out closer towards where Tiberius was standing a few meters ahead, his tone holding a note of sarcasm as to the sincerity, but still he moved with due haste to obey. Even half drunk, or half sober, as Tiberius would label it, the man was not only of considerable rank and station, but he had the look of someone readily capable of violent action if driven to it.

Tiberius’ customary jovial mood was nowhere to be found, perhaps worn away after having to endure the tongue lashing from Versica as he’d gathered his things from her room. Even though he had promised a swift return, and had even offered to pay full price for the whole evening as promised, still he hadn’t managed to escape unscathed. As it turns out, the woman’s tongue was as deft at dealing out insults as it was at providing pleasure.

Tiberius grumbled under his breath as his head returned forward, tilting down to watch as he pulled the bottom of his tunic up to fish his manhood free from his loincloth, shaking it a few times in the warm night air before brandishing it in hand and taking aim for the low lying bushes that lie along the side of the road. He could feel the tension there where his fingers wrapped around it, the arousal that had been stoked but not sated, forgotten momentarily after receiving the ill news of his friend’s misfortune and for the first few hours of his trip, now resurfacing. It was like an ache with no pain, only discomfort, forceful signals to his brain that his body seemed incensed he was not taking immediate action to alleviate.

“Ahhh…” Tiberius sighed audibly as he began to evacuate his bladder, the steady stream of warm liquid splashing heavily against the leaves of the bush he directed it towards. Release... a slight relief, in the moment, but not quite the sort of relief his body was aiming for. Tiberius’ head tilted back, face towards the sky, his eyes sliding shut…

“Any of you boys know of a decent brothel along our route?

Gods, I need to fuck...I swear, if Marcus ever dares to question my level of commitment to him I’ll rip the man’s bullocks off and cram them down his gods damned throat…


*~*~*~*~*~*~*


IUNIUS XXI 716 AUC - Somewhere outside Siscia, Pannonia - Evening


Tiberius grunted as his hips worked, the low lamplight of the interior of his tent illuminating the scene; a light sheen of perspiration at his brow and across the top of his chest, one powerfully muscular arm extended out in front of him, hand gripping the nape of the neck of his partner in coitus, pressing their face down into the bedroll beneath them, his massive prick sawing between the upturned cheeks of the rump presented in the air before him, its length shining with a light coat of oil used to ease it’s passage, his other hand gripping his partner’s waist, holding them steady as Tiberius savagely ravaged them from behind. His partner's grunts were muffled by the bedding they held between clenched teeth but yet still audible, deep, guttural expressions that conveyed the juxtaposition of pain and pleasure they were experiencing while coupling with such a well endowed and overly enthusiastic lover. The slapping of Tiberius’ pelvis against his partner's backside threatened to drown out those grunts, however, growing increasingly more loud as he chased after the orgasm that loomed beyond the horizon, there, just out of reach. The mix of sensual sound was loud enough that the pair of them should be concerned that they might alert outside parties to their activities...a prospect neither seemed to be too concerned with, not when they were so near to finishing. It’s likely Augustus himself could stroll in without either of them taking notice.

The young man beneath Tiberius spit out his mouthful of bedding, turning his head to the side, feeling his check scrape against the rough woolen surface as he was continually jostled forward by the force of Tiberius’ rutting. His grunts were subdued now, controlled as best he could, letting out a ragged, high pitched whine before he managed to speak between panting breaths. “Please...please...Tiberius...please cum...it’s too much…too big...”

A beaming grin broke out across Tiberius’ features, who, also panting from the effort of their coupling, increased the strength with which his arm applied pressure to the back of his partner’s neck, pressing the side of their face into the bedding. “You chased after it, you little slut...riling me up before the battle, what did you think would happen, Titus?”

Titus’ hands dug into the bedroll beneath him, clutching at it, not seeking to attempt to pull away but instead grounding himself, anchoring himself there to make the task of plundering his ass that much easier for his partner, the little he could do to participate in the action while restrained beneath the powerful form of Tiberius. Tiberius’ hips kept working as they spoke, continually feeding his length in and out of the formerly tight little hole between his bedmate's cheeks. “I didn’t...unghh...mean it...I was just messing about...please...gods...please Tiberius, cum!”

“You’ll get my cum when I’m good and ready to give it, once you’ve earned it. Quit your whining and bite the blanket, let's see just how well you hold up now that I’m warmed up…”

Titus whimpered but obeyed, rotating his head back around and clamping his teeth around a mouthful of blanket, his backside wriggling invitingly in contrast with his pleading for mercy, demonstrating how he truly felt about the prospect of being on the receiving end of the pounding his lover’s oversized organ was providing. Tiberius hummed with pleasure as he pulled his hips back, dragging every centimeter of prick free from the confines of his partner's greedy hole until only the head remained within. “Hold tight now…”

A muffled squeal of alarm rang out as Tiberius’ hips slammed forward.



Tiberius sighed as he laid back against his bedroll, his hands clasping and rolling over his head as he stretched his arms lazily like some great cat before placing his hands beneath his head and letting out another deep sigh of contentment. The movements showcased the scope of his naturally muscular form, the latent potential for power in the corded musculature of his upper arms and shoulders, pectorals jumping absentmindedly as he flexed them, the chiseled features of his abdomen and pelvis, all still gleaming in the lamplight with a light sheen of sweat, looking for all the world like an Olympian oiled up in preparation for the games. Titus lay beside him, groaning as he rolled over towards him to press his shoulder into the pit of Tiberius’ left arm, his head resting there against the outside of the rounded cap of his shoulder, short, dark brown hair disheveled, his hand sliding across Tiberius’ midsection, the tip of his fingers brushing down and wrapping the soft hair above his sex around them. “Gods, you were like an animal this time...I had no idea the ‘mother, father’ comment would get you so riled up. I’ll have to remember that for next time, I’m not going to be able to walk without a limp for a week...”

For Tiberius this tryst was purely about physical pleasure. He had no deeper feelings for the man, no ‘true’ feelings like those the bards sing of in their campfire tales. He found Titus attractive enough, at least when he was bent over and offering his backside up to him, but it went little deeper than that. Still, he was not an inconsiderate brute, and could appreciate that Titus was the sort who grew sentimental after a roll in the hay. What harm could come of indulging his attempt at pillow talk, if only for a moment.

Tiberius’ head lifted enough that he could angle it down to consider Titus’ face. “Do you truly think that is what it was, hmmm? What about the way you burst into my tent and demanded that you be allowed to suck my cock? Or how you bent over, pulled up your tunic and wiggled your hungry little arse at me? You needn’t insult me to get me to take notice of you, Titus...there are other, far more pleasurable, ways of going about it.” Tiberius’ tone was playful, but serious. While sexually dominating a would-be rival was part of the initial appeal when they’d first started coupling months ago, it wasn’t a required ingredient now. A man like Tiberius, one whose sexual appetites seemed boundless without measure, could be lured into bed far more easily and with less need for such dramatic confrontations. Perhaps Titus would push things too far one day, aiming to spurn him on in the bedroom, instead finding himself nursing a broken nose for having crossed too far over that unspoken line.

Titus, for his part warm and personable now in the afterglow of passionate sex, blushed, a soft smile spreading across his lips, his fingers still playing in the nest of hair around Tiberius’ middle. “I know...I am simply incorrigible when I go too long without it…” Titus placed a kiss against the thick musculature of Tiberius’ pectoral, his hand trailing down, fingertips brushing over the slumbering titan between his lover’s thighs, tracing the outline of the source of his equally outsized affection. “Mmmm...maybe you should give it to me more often, then, hmm? Perhaps we could ask Centurion Publius if he would bunk us together...my family still has some measure of weight to it’s name...I could write to mother...tell her that you are tutoring me in one subject or another…” His fingers wrapped around Tiberius’ prick, lifting the substantial organ up off his thigh and wriggling it about playfully. “...I’ll wake you every morning with a nice suck before we head out for the day…”

Tiberius cleared his throat to interrupt him before he could go on much further, shaking his head in disapproval even as a gentle smile played across his lips. “...I think that I’d never be able to pry myself away from you if that were the case. Besides, why ruin a good thing? A piece of ass like you doesn’t come around too often, if we bunked together we’d bicker and fight over who gets what side of the bedroll.”

Titus looked rebuffed, his head recoiling as if he had been struck. “‘A piece of ass like me’? Is that all I am to you, all this is? Am I nothing more than a warm hole for you to satisfy your prick in?”

A look of confusion crossed Tiberius’ features, the young man genuinely taken aback by the sudden escalation of hostility. “Was there more to this for you? I thought this was about a mutual exchange of pleasure. You like having your arse buggered and I enjoy fucking it...simple as that. Why should there be more to it? Did you imagine we’d go off somewhere and live happily ever after?”

Titus frowned, pulling his hand away from Tiberius’ manhood, drawing his arm across his chest protectively. “Well...no...but I thought there was something more than physical, that you felt something deeper too, that you could be vulnerable with me, here, while no one else was around. That you found someone you could trust to be open with...”

Tiberius sighed. He didn’t want to hurt the man, truly, but it seemed of importance to establish the boundaries of this relationship now and going forward, He could only guess that Titus had harbored these feelings all along and just never openly expressed them. Or, more likely, Tiberius had shrugged off or ignored the warning signs, thinking they were playful exchanges between lovers, nothing more. “And I do, Titus...I do trust you, but I have already shared with you all that I have to give. If you feel you need something more than just sex I encourage you to go out in search of it, I cannot offer freely that which I do not have to give. For all your shit talking and back-sneering you are a fine man, you’ll find someone who can return your feelings someday, of that much I am sure…”

He wasn’t sure of it, and truth be told, if not for the lack of available partners while out on campaign, he wasn’t sure he’d be willing to put up with the man’s hot and cold games. But saying as much would only further inflame tensions, perhaps even turn a slighted lover into a dedicated enemy, and so he chose the path of least resistance.

Besides, it would be a shame to lose out on a regular sexual partner this far from civilization.

Titus’ eyes gleamed wetly as he stared up at Tiberius’ face, holding there a few moments before he rolled away from, grunting with the effort of first kneeling and then standing after their vigorous coupling, deliberately turning away as he donned his tunic, Tiberius watching on in silence. “I understand...and thank you, for your candor. I don’t know if I can continue on with this...whatever this is. I will think more on it…” He moved towards the exit, reaching out to pull apart the flaps across the portal before looking back over his shoulder, considering the nude form of Tiberius a moment before speaking, the soft tone of an intimate lover gone, replaced once more by his default persona of haughty young noble brat. “Sleep well, Ox…”

Tiberius’ head settled back against his bedroll as he sighed.

Why must things get so complicated? Is there something wrong with me, am I missing some core component that I lack the ability to feel as deeply as others? Will I ever feel the tugging at my heartstrings as I look upon another, or am I destined to forever be alone, suitable only for lust and never anything deeper?

Tiberius’ stared up at the roof of his tent long into the night as the thoughts swirling about in his head refused to surrender themselves to sleep.


*~*~*~*~*~*~*


Present day


Tiberius flopped down onto the bed heavily, it’s wooden frame groaning in protest as it was made to accommodate the full force his considerable bulk could generate. He closed his eyes for a long moment, the calming sound of the waves all but beckoning him to sleep, to take rest here after the long night's voyage. He’d only just arrived, and having met with Mikkos to determine the current level of threat and what measures had already been taken to secure the villa thus far, he’d decided that his first course of action was to take rest. He wouldn’t be much good in a fight at this level of fatigue anyway, particularly if their enemies were well prepared and more than just highwaymen or bandits as Manius and Mikkos both suspected. He’d need to be at his best, and for that, he’d need some rest. At least four hours or so, to take the edge off. If the rest of the day went well with no further issues perhaps he could retire early for a full and proper night's sleep.

Shifting about to settle himself he caught a whiff of his own scent, his nose curling as the sour mixture of sweat and horse assailed his nostrils. He was a man accustomed to going without a bath for long periods of time, living on the road and in military camps for the entirety of his adult life, but generally preferred to be clean if the option to cleanse was available.

Gods, I smell of balls and ass, and I can feel the grime of the road crawling over my skin. I suppose a bath wouldn’t hurt...as much as I could curl up and sleep I’ll be better for it. Besides, I’m in no condition to greet my brother and sister-wife like this, they’ll think some vagabond has wandered in from the gutter.

With a growl of protest Tiberius was once more on his feet, shuffling about and grumbling beneath his breath as he rummaged through his pack for a clean tunic.

I’ve been here a few times, I think I can find the bath without bothering Mikkos for directions. Well, best be about it, then...no rest for the weary…

Without further delay Tiberius exited his room, bound for the baths with clean tunic clutched in hand.


*~*~*~*~*~*~*


IUNIUS XXII 716 AUC - Somewhere outside Siscia, Pannonia - Morning


Tiberius cleared his throat, his hands clutched behind his back as he stood before the desk of the Tribune near the back of his tent, having answered the summons that had been sent. Tribune Valerius seemed distracted by whatever news the length of velium he held clutched in hand had brought, having failed to acknowledge the junior man’s presence even after he had been standing before him a few silent moments.

“Sir...you called for me?”

The Tribune’s eyes moved before the rest of him, flicking up to consider Tiberius, his brow knit as he examined him a moment before the spark of recognition came to him. “Ahh…” He began rolling up the length of parchment, binding it shut with a length of tied cord before setting it down atop his desk. Tribune Valerius leaned back in his sturdy chair, a hand absentmindedly scratching at his chin as he looked up at Tiberius from across the desk. “...our intrepid board carrier, now blooded. Centurion Manius tells me that you proved yourself in battle admirably. Was it all that you dreamt it would be, fighting on the frontlines?”

Tiberius shifted his weight between feet, nodding briskly. “More, sir...already I hunger for my next opportunity to prove my worth…”

The Tribune grinned then, a lazy half-smile that occupied only the right side of his mouth. Quite charming and roguish. “That’s just the sort of attitude you’ll need to succeed as part of the 2nd Cohort…”

Tiberius frowned, his eyes falling to the floor for a moment, carting about as he considered the meaning behind those words. “Sir...I don’t understand...traditionally recruits are…”

It was the Tribune’s turn to clear his throat, then, cutting the younger man short. “Traditions are meant for more common men. If you ever hope to rise above the meagre station of your birth you must consider such things but a set of guidelines, marks to rise above, not barriers to be stuck behind. Centurion Manius leads the IInd Cohort, and it is the unit I most often move amongst. They are elites, men who follow orders and would fight to the death for the Eagle, for their Commander, and most of all, for Caesar. It is no place for those who have questions about their purpose...Centurian Manius thinks you are fit to serve under him, and I am inclined to agree based on my observations. What say you, then, soldier? Are you ready to seize the bull by the horns and meet the ferryman having no complaints or regrets?”

Tiberius swallowed, hard. This was everything he had ever dreamed of. An opportunity, the sort that came seldom in a lowborn commoner's life. Blood and glory, wine and women, men and money...all at his fingertips, but the swipe of a gladius away from realization.

Tiberius straightened, puffing out his chest, head held high as his fist slapped his chest over his heart. “It would be my life’s honor to serve, sir.”

Tribune Valerius nodded, his grin fading away slowly as he scratched at his chin. “Gather your things and report to Centurian Manius for further instructions. Your transfer is effective immediately, I will notify Centurian Publius of the change.”

Tiberius nodded, turning on his heel and striding forth from the tent with a renewed sense of purpose, a self-satisfied grin beaming out from the lower half of his face.

Tribune Valerius sighed as he eyed the rolled missive on his desk, reaching out to brush a finger across it. “May the gods watch over us all in the coming days…”


*~*~*~*~*~*~*


Present day


Tiberius’ bare feet plod along the marble flooring of the seaside villa’s hallways as he stifled a yawn with the clean tunic he held in hand.

While I’m at it, I wonder how Marcus would feel about me availing myself to one of his slaves? Surely he would understand...he knows how I can get when I go too long without it. After all, I dropped everything to answer his summons, would he not allow me that one privilege in return?

Tiberius finally reached his destination, and stepping into the small room that preceded the bath proper, lined with benches for setting dirty clothing before entering, he made quick work of stripping bare and folding his dirty clothes into a neat pile. He hummed a soldier's tune lightly under his breath as he worked, tossing his clean tunic on top of the pile before pausing a moment to roll his shoulder and stretch out his leg muscles against the bench. He frowned then as he took note of his surroundings. The air was moist, a light hit of steam wafting in from the bathing chambers beyond. Was it occupied? Mikkos had told him that Marcus was still at rest, not to be disturbed on account of his injury. Besides, if he was truly injured, would he not have a servant simply bring bowl and cloth to his bedchambers in order to be cleansed?

Tiberius crept towards the doorway as silently as he could manage, a secretive hunch to his back, his perception cast out, listening, looking and sniffing. As he drew nearer to the doorway he could hear the gentle sloshing of water, the occasional drip, could smell the hint of fragrance on the tendrils of steam that rose up from the ground just beyond the open portal. He wasn’t quite sure why he was bothering to sneak, he wasn’t about some nefarious purpose, had no ill intentions nor harbored any bad will towards whoever occupied the bath ahead of him. It was as if he were acting upon some deep instinct, some precognitive message that promised him reward if could manage to remain undetected long enough.

First a mess of blonde hair crept past the door frame, followed closely by curious eyes, widening as they took in the scene laid out before him.

A figure stood at the center of the bathing pool, their upper body bathed in steam, lower almost entirely submerged beneath the water, a singular ray of light from the dawn beaming through the room to illuminate them, almost perfectly as if by design, as if Sol himself offered praise to this wondrous creature. Steam kissed the curvature at their hips, made hazy the richly dark brown tone of their skin, roiled up their back to tickle at well formed shoulders, dissipated around the figure's long, slender neck, atop which sat a distinctly formed head, unusual and exotic in its shape, scalp as smooth as silk, light glinting off the expanse of bare flesh there.

Tiberius’ lungs grew hot as his body urged him to release the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, and careful to remain silent and therefore undetected, he did as bidden. His eyes, however, would not obey his command, for they remained spellbound by the figure before him. Who was this…? The darkness of their skin tone would lead one to guess the young wife of Marcus, but if that were the case, why was her scalp suddenly bare? A member of her family, perhaps, or a servant of their household? Surely no simple servant would dare intrude on the formal baths. It must be family...perhaps they rode to catch up with them after I left, or traveled with the caravan from the start? Maybe an aunt or cousin...too curvy to be the mother or sisters...too soft and feminine to be her brothers. Tiberius grew frustrated as he wracked his brain trying to recall all the people he had met at the wedding ceremony. So many faces, too many to clearly recall.

Tiberius stopped suddenly as he realized he had been drawn closer towards the figure as his mind had worked. He was but a meter from the edge of the bath now, close enough that more detail was made clear.

Definitively female...He thought as he could see the swell of her breasts beside her ribs, sizable enough to swell past the obfuscation of her arm if she turned just so. That ‘v’ shape above her rump, that curve at her back...am I dreaming? Maybe I’m not in the baths at all, but back on the bed, having fallen asleep where I fell...it’s as if fantasy made flesh, if not for the bare scalp this would be the spitting image of the woman who occupied my thoughts the past few nights…Tiberius could feel the elevated rhythm of his pulse at his temple, the warmth at his loins, the knot of desire clawing at his gut...this is her, she is the one who could quell the flame...no simple rut with a servant will do, it must be with her, no matter who she is…

Forgive me Marcus, and doubly forgive me for intruding upon your family sister-wife, but it cannot be helped...I hope you will see fit to forgive my transgressions...

Tiberius stood there a moment in silent reflection, urging himself to be calm, assuming the outward persona he had refined through the years while attempting to court potential bedmates before stepping forward to close the remaining distance to the edge of the bath.

Come to me, my creature of fantasy…




There along the edge of the bathing pool stood a figure that initially might have been mistaken for a servant at passing glance in light of the circumstances, appearing there as if it materialized from within the fog of steam. Who else but a servant would attempt to creep so close undetected, would dare draw so near to the lady of the house without having been invited to do so? One word could be used to succinctly describe the mountain of a figure that stood silently watching Gaia; big.

This was most certainly one of the largest humans that she had ever come across. Atop his head was a disheveled mess of naturally curly, golden blond hair, kept shorn on the sides and short on the top in the style of a soldier. Wearing a craggy boulder for a face; thick eyebrows on a low set brow, what once was a prominent nose now flattened at the uppermost part of the bridge in the telltale sign of prior blunt force injury, modest cheekbones, a thick, powerfully squared jaw that gave one the impression the man could chew iron and spit nails, slim lips marked with a scar beneath his right nostril. Despite the roughness of his features there was a rugged quality to them that some might find appealing, and although he looked the sort you wouldn’t want to encounter in a dark alleyway, there was something about his expression, intense but also somehow aloof. There was a cool confidence in his gaze, a jovial quirk to his left eyebrow, a cockiness to the upturned right corner of his lips. The trapezius muscles that flowed from the brutes shoulder back towards his spine were thick and prominent, flanking either side of his neck, lending the appearance that it was shorter than it actually was. A day or two’s growth of rough beard stubble marked his neck, cheeks and jawline. As a whole his features seemed out of place for an Italian, making it seem likely that this mysterious figure carried within him at least some measure of Northerner blood.

He was tall, not quite the cloud-scraping equal of a specimen like her brother, Lucius, but not far off the mark. While this would be hard to judge from their unequal heights, with her down in the pool, what was not hard to gauge was the span of his shoulders. Broad and thickly muscled, marked through by striations and thick veins, the musculature of his upper body developed well beyond the scope of someone merely born physically gifted, this was a man whose body had been forged by long hours and numerous years of strenuous physical activity. Beneath the rounded curvature of his pectorals was a thick midsection, definition giving ground here to some measure of padding, a visual sign that perhaps this particular brute enjoyed the pleasures of food and the fruit of the vine as much or more than the lifting of heavy objects.

If further proof of this uninvited guest’s sex was desired by potential observers he made no attempt to discourage the verification of his manhood. In keeping with the overall theme of his form, framed between two bulky thighs and rooted amongst a bushy thatch of dark pubic hair dangled perhaps the man’s most noteworthy feature. It was the sort of oddity one would find hard to look away from no matter how they might try, like seeing a man with an extra finger on each hand or a person with webbing between their toes. While there was nothing out of place there, and even accounting for a lack of experience on the part of potential viewers, it was without a doubt extraordinary in its physical dimensions. Everywhere the eye moved, from the vast length of shaft dangling down heavily, slightly curved near the top where it emerged from the forest of hair around his pubis but otherwise as straight as an arrow, to the sheer girth of it, plump and fat as if it had just been fed to bursting, adorned with a network of sinuous veins of various sizes along the sides and across the top, it was met with abundance. The expanse of skin there was of a dusky light beige tone, what could be considered pale if not for the stark contrast of untanned skin a few shades lighter around his upper thighs and waist, with the bit of head that peeked out from under loose folds of excess foreskin at the tip being of a bloodless, barest hint-of-blue hued near translucent flesh tone.

If the modestly sized endowments of the heroically nude sculptures of the day were to be considered noble, then before her stood a true paragon of ignobility.

The figure moved then, a single brazen step forward and down into the pool, holding there on that first ledge. He stood there a moment, cool blue eyes a near reflection of the water into which he dared to wade, that cocky grin unwavering as his gaze held the form of his soon to be comrade-in-bathing. Another step down, drawing ever closer, no sign of danger in his posture or on his features beyond his imposing size, no sudden movements as if he might lunge towards her, only the self assured movements of a man who clearly felt no shame or bashfulness regarding his state of undress. His thighs were roughly level with her head now, his proud organ slapping against thigh as he moved, swaying pendulously with residual energy as he paused with each step, that cool, pale head peeking out from the loose folds of foreskin at the end, pointing down towards the water below as if it were heavy enough to drag the whole organ downward on account of its heft. As pectoral muscles popped in turn, one after the other, and biceps flexed, the man looked for all the world like a preening peacock attempting to attract a mate. If the intensity of his gaze, the boldness of his nudity and the forwardness with which he descended into the bath didn’t explicitly state his intentions, the palpable tension in the air, as if the already humid conditions had suddenly become even more stifling, might seem otherwise unnerving. Was his intent to kill, or to seduce? Was he merely some unannounced guest, who, perhaps by virtue of cultural differences or owing simply to a deprived mind, thought it was permissible to intrude on a married woman as she bathed, or worse still, thought it was acceptable behavior for strangers of the opposite sex to bathe together? Were those sizable hands intending to caress or constrict? Was there perhaps another explanation for his unannounced and overly presumptuous presence here in the master’s bath?

He broke the silence then, his voice a fit for his form, deep and booming, echoing off the high ceiling. “A thousand pardons for the interruption, my lady…”. His inflection changed near the end, as if he were unaware of how she should be addressed, as if her identity was a mystery to him. Although a bit gruff, his manner of speech failed to match his outward appearance. This was no barbarian accustomed to life along the boundaries of civilized society. “...but I’m afraid it couldn’t be helped. I smell more of horse than I do of man…” Another step forward. He was level with her now, but a spirited lunge from reaching her if he so desired, yet if that were his aim he gave no sign of intent to do so. The water level came up to just past his knees where he now stood, his body still on near full display, his proof of sex still hanging there at the bottom of her peripheral vision distractingly even if she tried her best to hold his gaze. His smile widened, surprisingly jovial for such a brutish man. “...I see you are without attendants…”. He made no attempt to mask his openly hungry gaze as he all but leered at her, a starving man eyeing a choice cut of meat being cooked on a spit that was not quite ready for consumption yet. It was quite clear from his demeanor that this was a man who trafficked frequently in the realm of lust, and as a result, cared little for how plainly he wore it upon his features. Beyond the fact he was present while she was in the nude, and that his eyes were so brazenly exploratory, there was no attempt made to cross the line further than that. Perhaps this was what a man as depraved as this one appeared to be considered a gesture of courtship?

“...if I wash your back, would you agree to wash mine in return?” An insufferably smug smile, lending boyish charm to an otherwise decidedly manly visage, broke out across Tiberius’ lips.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Consumed by her thoughts, the warmth of the water, the still fresh hum in her body from her morning ablutions, she hadn’t heard him. She would have been truly hard pressed to do so; bare feet on wet ground could be as silent as a cat’s. And she’d been too recently engaged in play to think, even humor, that someone may have intruded on her. She'd risen like a slave, in the early hours of the morning, so early that they could rightfully be called the final curtain of the night. She'd run into no one, but could hear them all around her, waking, starting their duties for the day. But how much time had she spent in her youth developing the fine skill of stealth? But something, perhaps a change in the air, a tickling of the fine hairs on the nape of her neck, caused her to turn around as he began to approach.

And she froze. Surprise glued her feet to the smooth plaster of the bathing pool, only her eyes moving. Comically slow, they took in the expanse of his shoulders, the broadness of his form. Her brother was taller, but she’d never seen a man this…large. A churning in her stomach, a mix of emotions that she couldn’t entirely process, too many swirling within her. Fear, a healthy dose of it, yes, marveling, too, at the size of the man in front of her. If Marcus was the work of an artist, molding marble into living, pliable flesh, the man before her now was something that Nature herself had borne, a creature that was stone cast directly from her womb, springing forth out of the molten core of a volcano.

Is this a mortal? Surely it cannot be. A god, come to visit me? A flicker of hope - then the slice of realization. Apollo would not take so base a form, and who would dare betray Venus, once she has bestowed her favor upon me?

Her eyes drifted downwards.

Whatever rational thought she could have had, all of the warring emotions rolling in her stomach, came to a sudden and absolute halt. So that's a man's sex. She hadn't spent much time with Marcus's; hadn't actually seen it beyond a few stolen moments. But that was different - Marcus had been in an excited state, and even in her limited knowledge, she knew that there was a difference. Men didn't walk around standing at attention at all times. If they did, they would be considered a degenerate, little more than a satyr. The member she was looking at now was a literally a sleeping giant, too large to lift his head. She’d thought Marcus sizeable; knew him to be so with how he stretched her sex beyond what she thought she could handle. That sweet edge of pain that he’d delivered to her - by feel alone, however. This, this man was a beast. And yet, she couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t stop heat from rushing to her cheeks, or the strange sensation that could be shame for staring so unashamedly at a naked man, one that not only was not her husband, but a stranger at that.

But wouldn’t it be interesting to experience that!

The thought caused her cheeks to burn with shame. How could she have gone from a woman who had no eyes for men at all to suddenly wanting to experience every one that she saw carnally?

Well, that’s unfair, she gently chided herself. You have no such lust for Mikkos.

By Venus, it’s like the phallus of a bull! What would it be like to touch it? Did it get even bigger? Could it even support itself? Her mind boggled. And when had her mouth gone dry and overly filled with saliva at the same time?

His moving forward did nothing to alleviate her thoughts - rather, her eyes followed the metronome swing of his sex. She did nothing to hide it, so mesmerized by it that thought beyond what she was looking at was completely beyond her. It was, perhaps, flattering, the way that her gaze was so fixed on him. Maybe childish, as once she’d laid eyes on his phallus, she hadn’t looked elsewhere. Maybe that would have been an invitation enough for him - it would seem so, as he continued forward.

The animalistic preening, the subconscious tensing and relaxing of muscles to draw attention to them, the heated gaze he gave her, were all signals that went completely unheeded. In more ways than one, Marcus had been her first, and though she would consider herself a “woman” now, more than she had been a week or two before, the subtleties, the finer points of the games that the sexes played were lost on her. She threw punches, not kisses, ran foot races, not set hearts running with passion. His voice was the breaking of the spell, the returning of senses if the water had suddenly turned to ice.

There was no drawing into herself, no trying to make to herself smaller. No bashfulness there or awareness of her nude form as an object of desire. If anything, she seemed to draw taller, from a naiad to a goddess enraged at being disturbed. Squared shoulders, a sudden deadly glint in those dark eyes, the tightening of her full lips as she continued to take him in. She put space between the two of them, backing off as careful as if suddenly happening upon a sleeping bear. Uncertainty was telegraphed clear, what would be the best way to handle this foolish man? Her posture steeled, cutting through the syrupy sexual tension that any sane human being would have picked up on. The water swirled around her, lapped at her thighs as she crouched lower, no protective hands to fly to protect pendulous breasts, the dark triangle between her thighs.

She was crouching now - not out of fear, but of that dangerous moment when a mountain cat spotted prey and laid in wait. Power curling into those legs, ready to be loosed at any moment. What had he said to her? Washing of her back? Like she was a common...slave? And not just that, but a bedroom slave? And he had the audacity not to move? What manner of man was this, intruding upon her bath like this? He’d walked in as if he owned the place, a familiarity that was beginning to sink in and rankle more with every passing moment. Though his tones were mannered enough, he could very well be one of the farm hands, a slave she’d yet to meet.

And where was this mountain when we were attacked?

He didn’t back out, nor did he seem to approach closer. Another careful surveying of his form. He was closer now than he had been before, and this close, his size was daunting. With his cock half-way beneath the water, it was easier to focus on the rest of him, assess him.

I can’t win wrestling him. There’s too much against me - it’s not just that he’s bigger; he’s the size of a barn. We’re in the water - my movements will be slower. But so will his.

Tension settled between the two of them again, wavering like the steam rising from the water. She hadn’t moved, those dark eyes summing him up.

There was no tell - one moment she was still; the next she was launched at him. A great splash as she shot out of the water, shoulder checking him as hard as she could against the massive target of his chest. What she didn’t have in size, she made up for in speed and a surprising amount of power from her frame, dampened by the effort to charge through the water. The force of her colliding into him wouldn’t have been enough to knock him entirely off his feet - the water had slowed her -, it would have been enough to knock him off balance, send him tottering back a bit. And in that moment, she was striking again, a right jab to the side of his neck. Alas, Gaia had always been a better wrestler than boxer, and her punch was clumsy as well as weak. Hardly more than a passing slap - and the shame of that burned her face hotter than the observation of that monster cock.

It’s all I’ve got.

She couldn’t wrestle him; couldn’t dream of getting any sort of grip on that waist of his, and any attempt to lift him would have snapped her back before his. But old habits died hard, and as she was coming down from the sloppy punch, her arms went round his waist to the best of her ability, and she began to squeeze as hard as she could, pressing the soles of her feet into the footing of the pool. She was moving on sheer adrenaline - and in the midst of it all, wished that she was still in bed, snuggled warm next to Marcus.

But by the Great Huntress, I gave my penance this morning, and this is where she has sought to put me. And I will do her proud and fight bravely. Her grip tightened. No power in her punches - she hadn’t leaned how to pivot with her waist with feet firmly grounded, thereby putting the weight of her entire body into her first - but there was some semblance of force there in that grasp. If not on the level of a man, then surprisingly more than would have been expected of someone of her station. Archery had its benefits.

No words were spoken - but a guttural growl left her now, hissing between clenched teeth as she scraped her feet against the bottom of the pool, squeezing, pushing, throwing her body weight into him to push him against the wall of the tub, trying to knock him off balance. From there, she could let go, hop out, and get help. One of the formative things that Lucian had taught her about fighting was to know when the odds were not in her favor, and when to call for help. It would have been shameful if she’d started the fight with a larger foe and then ran for help, (“And no exceptions should be made for that, regardless of your sex,” he’d pointed out), but this was different.

And what if this man is here to hurt Marcus?

Fear made her guts cold. This man had come into the bath unarmed - naked as the day he’d crawled from the depths of the earth, but perhaps he had comrades; the attackers from the journey hadn’t acted alone.

I’ve got to get away from him. Got to figure out how to keep him from getting to Marcus. Keep him as far away from where he sleeps as possible.

Where were her arrows? Her bow? Damnation; she’d stashed them in the stables with Tenebris, intending to go back and retrieve them once Marcus was distracted with something else. She’d wanted to move them so that they were always close by to her side, but beyond the detection of her husband. And she had no knife; no other means of weapons but what the gods had given her on the day of her birth.

If I can get him to the side of the tub, knock him against it, I can get out. And if I can get out, I can outrun. And with that single minded focus, a determined prayer, she was shoving him again, as if her life depended on it. There was her and this beast in male form that she had to keep away, even if it meant the loss of her own life.

 

[Talon]

A grin graced Marcus’ lips as he passed over the threshold of the entrance to his domus and into the atrium, his eyes settling on the form of his wife as she stood there to greet him, flanked to either side by servants with their hands clasped before them and their heads bowed. She was resplendent in her stola of the fairest blue silk the color of a clear spring sky, her hair wrapped up in a colorful cloth, the elegance of her neck highlighted by tasteful but elaborate finery, gifts of affection from an adoring and devoted husband. He moved towards her with naked longing, a desire to be near her he was long past attempting to mask, and as he drew close enough to press open hand to the swell at her middle, his lips pressing to her forehead in an affectionate kiss, he thought: To be near them...

Marcus slowly stirred as his consciousness rose from the depths of heavy slumber, leaving behind the vivid sensations of the dream realm as he resurfaced in reality. His body still held the same position he had assumed as he laid down beside her to sleep, on his side, his chest, midsection and upper thighs arranged in a shallow ‘v’ shape with his buttocks thrust out. His body looked like an incomplete puzzle missing it’s final piece, the bit that, once placed, made sense of the jumble of odd angles.

So real...like memory rather than a dream...a precognition, perhaps? A gift from the gods so that hope thought long lost might be given opportunity to renew, or cruel jest so that they might be amused as they watch happiness slip through fingers again?

Marcus’ eyelids cracked open, yet heavy with sleep, laden with fatigue from the previous day filled with anger and emotional strife, capped off by the exhaustive night of pleasuring his youthfully vibrant bride. He scanned the area of the bed beside him where his now unoccupied hand slid against empty sheets. The faintest hint of what he was coming to recognize as her scent met his nostrils as it was stirred from the sheet by his motion, some combination of her plus whatever oil or substances she used in her daily grooming routine, the scent soothing even as it evoked within him a sense of longing. To be near her, to touch, to kiss…

He felt his body respond, beyond merely the natural functionality of his manhood in the morning, a heat stirring in his loins as his hand stroked the sheet where she had been positioned beside him..

Mmm...where is she? I could use a bit more of what we had last night…

His head lifted fully from the mattress as he scanned the room through gaze squinted against the harshness of the early morning light.

“Gaia…?” Inquisitive, not elevated as if to carry out into the hall, as if instinctually uttered simply to see if she was within earshot.

Hmmm...I’ll bet she is still too bashful to use the chamber pot in front of her new husband and has gone elsewhere to answer nature’s call...Marcus’ head hit the mattress once more as his eyes slid fully closed, a knowing grin spreading gently across his lips. She can piss wherever she likes so long as she crawls back into bed after...just so long as it’s not on mother’s flower garden. An amused scoff at the silliness of his thoughts as he drifted once more to rest, his arm now stretched out in front of him as if in his mind he imagined he was wrapping it around her middle, one final thought passing across his consciousness before it faded out once more.

I wonder if Tiberius will be arriving today. I should like his opinion on how I might better my relations outside of the bed chambers...say what you will about him, but the man certainly has a way with women...


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Tiberius smirked as he watched her watching him, the abundance of his form leaving her awestruck in the manner it had many lovers and fellow bathers over the years. This was not a man unaccustomed to debauchery nor one oblivious to the effect his gifts could have on first time observers. Even if one took his braggadocious jesting as overcompensation, staying within close proximity long enough all but ensured an eyeful of what dangled between his legs. Some might call it ego, others voyeurism, either way he enjoyed the shock value it produced. And in situations such as the current one, where his nudity was meant to entice more than humor, he used it much like one would a fine piece of jewelry. It was a conversation starter, a focus of attention to entice the desired audience, an ice-breaker. He failed to see how it was any different than the way a voluptuous woman would use their body to draw in the attention of a man. Turnabout is fair play, so far as he was concerned. Nevermind that this particular woman had done nothing of the sort, had only been enjoying the pleasures of a hot bath before he saw fit to disturb her. He wouldn’t cross the line into forcefulness, though, wouldn’t scoop her up and carry her back to his room to ravage like some barbarian, no matter how vociferously the voice at the back of his mind offered arguments as to the benefit of doing so. He put bait on the end of the hook and cast it out into the water...the decision to nibble would be all her own.

At least she’s still upright...he thought with a smirk. Clearly she approves, she’s frozen deep in thought, thinking of what it would feel like inside of her, perplexed by the notion of what pleasure it might bring...she’s eating right out of the palm of my hand.

He watched in silence as she straightened, his eyes now mostly locked with hers, tempted only momentarily to dip below her visage by the pendulous shapes of her breasts as they swayed with her movement.

Gods...if I were any less experienced I would be just as entranced as she. Such delightful abundance everywhere the eye is drawn, a bounty of pleasure fit for a king. I wonder if she has a husband or a lover, someone I should worry about seeking my demise after I…

Just like that she was upon him, her poor form and telegraphed movement as unobserved by him as his lustful intent was by her. Her shoulder met his sternum as she launched herself at him, whether by good fortune or careful aim, knocking the wind from him in addition to knocking him off balance. That cocky grin left his lips as he careened back a step, arms out to the sides as if to attempt to balance himself, feet shifting beneath the water awkwardly as they sought purchase against the slippery surface beneath them. The water around them roiled, waves along the surface imitating their larger cousins that provided the calming sounds of the ocean on a clear day some few hundred meters beyond the walls of this place. Calm there, perhaps, but not here, as the big man attempted to recover both his footing and his composure, a look of shock plain across his features. “Hold, woman, I can’t swim!”

If she heard him she gave no sign, for as soon as her feet were back on solid ground she launched her second attack, one he couldn’t have possibly had time to attempt to block or counter even if he had the inclination. Luckily for him it was modest in its force, still, impacting against the vulnerable flesh around his jugular he felt the sting of it clearly. He’d left himself open for attack then, and in an effort to correct that mistake, he brought his hands up, the massive trunks of his muscular forearms shielding his face and eyes from further attack as he attempted to collect himself to try and regain his composure.

As quickly as his arms were raised up she launched her followup, nimble and quick as a jungle cat, her arms wrapping about the slendermost portion of his waist, slender enough to allow her to fully wrap them about him until her hands met and locked in behind his back. He dropped his arms, shaking his head to clear his befuddlement at this most recent development as he looked down at the smooth, hairless expanse of skin atop her head.

By Pluto, who in the seven hells is this woman? Maybe she’s not family at all, but some sort of bodyguard? How boldly and fearlessly she attacks...what even is this attack, she can’t hope to overpower me in this manner, surely?

She squeezed then, flexing the not-insignificant musculature of her arms and shoulders as they bit into the flesh around his middle. Using the weight of her lower body to anchor herself she began to push against him, steering him towards the edge of the bath as if she were a bouncer attempting to eject a rowdy customer from her establishment. He could feel the softness of her breasts against him, nubs that could only be the dark nipples that crowned them dragging across his upper thighs, their bodies intimately close now, if not nearly in the manner he had envisioned only moments prior.

Violence of action was usually his tactic of choice, and here he was, this mountain of a man, this career soldier, victor of by now countless battles, bested in the opening moments by this strange Amazon of a woman. Odd then, that it wasn’t shame or anger that colored his thoughts or quickened his pulse as he considered the reality of that fact. It was intrigue, a desire to know more, to engage with her further, to lie her down beneath him once he was proven the victor, to see the impassioned defense she put up crumble beneath him as he slid between her thighs...

She could feel the rumble in his stomach, the reverberations from their source before his laughter met her ears. It was booming, full of mirth, obnoxiously and inappropriately playful. “Well done, tiger cub! You’ve managed to push the bear from your lair...but can you keep him out?” His feet found purchase then as he leaned forward into her, his arms held elevated and out to his sides as he looked down at her. His backward progress stopped, and for a moment, they stood still amongst the commotion of the water generated by their conflict, locked in a physical struggle much akin to his analogy, like two predators clashing over territory.

“What if the bear will not leave until he gets what he’s after…” His arms shifted, hands folding together behind her head, pushing forward with his mass only with enough force to combat her attempt to wrestle him backwards. “...hmmm? What will you do then? As strong and determined as you are...surely even someone such as you will tire…” The points of his elbows pressed down against the uppermost part of her biceps, biting into the budding head of what muscle lay there, pushing down as his upper body leaned backwards, applying pressure at the fulcrum of her hold where her hands clasped together.

I must be careful not to hurt her...beyond the fact that I imagine that would sour her to further relations, she is innocent and has done nothing to deserve it. Carefully, now…perhaps words can perform the task more gently than fists. I’d rather she have to nurse a wounded ego than a shattered bone or busted eye...

“Bravely fought...but isn’t that energy best spent elsewhere, hmmm?” His tone was full of condescension and insufferable smugness, as if he had now collected himself after her surprise opening volley and was well aware of her inability to move him from this spot by sheer strength and will alone. “Wouldn’t it be preferable to come together in peace...if it were your legs wrapped around my waist instead?” Elbows bit into flesh as if to emphasize his point. “Come now, little tiger cub, I mean you no harm. Let us instead find a quiet corner of this villa to make our own, one where we can spend the morning mating like a pair of wild dogs where none will be the wiser. I won’t tell the Lord and Lady of the house if you don’t...”

As glorious as that notion was, it seemed far fetched to Tiberius. It was unlikely things would go that way so easily, not now that the tensions had flared to the point of violence. What was more important is that it met it's mark and illicited outrage enough that he could extricate himself from this tricky situation without having to get more physical than they already were. Still, he hoped whatever damage would be done could be remedied, and although his proposition was bawdy and overly forward, he had still refrained from saying or doing anything truly extreme. She could emerge from this altercation with her honor intact, perhaps a bit tarnished but certainly not broken, and hopefully both parties could come to a consensus and be friendly after having resolved...whatever this situation would end up being.

Hells, maybe I’ll even ask brother-wife for her permission to court her...wouldn’t that be interesting, eh?

Tiberius smirked as he redoubled his efforts to dissuade her from her clinch, elbows biting, the mass of his upper body pulling back, the stirring of something there between his thighs beneath where their bodies met.

“What do you say, cub?”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Her worst fear was realized: she’d reached the limits of what she could do. No matter how hard she squeezed, how firmly she tried to ground herself against the bathing pool, he was just too big. And in more ways than one. In the midst of their tussling, she could feel his sex awaken, and her cheeks absolutely flamed. If she stopped and thought too much on it, she would lose her desire to fight.

If Venus would stop teasing me, she thought, teeth gritted. Bad enough that she was nude; the adrenaline had been enough to wipe that from her mind, temporarily at least. This close, with his mocking laughter in her ears, she was all too aware of the solid feel of his body. How, in different circumstances, it may have been nice to be sinking into those arms.

He is like a shield; those arms, this chest…It would all be enough, more than enough, to protect her from any injuries, real or imagined. What if this man, if he was a slave, had been there? Would he have protected her, second only to Marcus? Would he had been as devoted to her as her brother was? And would she be to him, having found something close to a friend? A brother when her own could not be found? How can I be thinking of this, at such a moment? This man could very well be my enemy; likely he is. And I’m getting dewy thinking of him as a soldier! Foolish, foolish girl - the coupling between Marcus and myself must have addled my mind. Venus, as sweet as your touch is, I need the guiding hand of Diana to get me through this and the collected mind of Minerva to figure it out.

The press of his elbows into her biceps, the change of pressure as he leaned against her spurred warmth from her face, sparked the fire of panic. She’d wrestled enough with Magnus to know the familiar tactic of a larger brother toying with a smaller sister, assured of his victory. The difference being was that Magnus acted in good nature, in warmth, if not just a bit of pettiness that was common among siblings, regardless of gender. And even the hardest of Magnus’s press was the touch of a feather compared to this. Dread blazed in her gut, her eyes, as she began to comprehend what she was truly up against.

If I could knock him off his feet - he said he can’t swim - hardly enough to swim in here. But I could sit on him, trap his head beneath the water. Oh. Oh. She thought about sitting on his head all right - her thighs on either side of his cheeks, straddling his face, his tongue busily working between her folds. The intrusive thought worked its damage, and her grip loosened. Releasing this hold made it all too clear that he was still a step ahead of her; his arms locked behind her head. It didn’t help that in the moment that she released her grip, she’d looked down, and caught another eyeful of the monster between his legs as it slowly wakened. A weak sputtering sound from her, and her grip went completely lax, her vision swimming in darkness.

“You’re a girl, so you’re allowed a certain amount of dishonorable combat, should you find yourself in that position.” It was Lucius’s voice, crossing the ocean of memory. She had to have been in single digit ages, for in this memory, she was looking up at him, his head blocking the sun as he looked down at her, only his bright smile visible. “If you ever find yourself without a weapon, and if you are unable to break a hold, a swift kick between the legs will be enough to bring any man to his knees. Do be careful and exert the appropriate amount of force - too little, too weak, and he will be enraged and likely to hurt you more. If you can fell him from this blow, follow up with a strike to the throat. Do not stay to look at your handiwork; use the opportunity to flee.”

By the Huntress, his phallus was enough to send me through memories. Focus snapped back. Dropping her head to rest against his chest, it would send the impression that she was tiring. It would make sense; a lot of exertion against the additional force of water - and water that was hot to begin with, readily sapping strength. She drew in one deep breath then another, her shoulders visibly rising and falling with the effort.

I’m going to have to compensate for the water. Strike harder than I would have ever wanted to. The thought filled her with dread; what if it wasn’t strong enough?

If he just drops his hold on my head, I can get to his throat. Marcus is in danger. You do not have time to vacillate over this.

She swung her right leg up as hard as she could, slicing through the water with a great flourish of water, between his legs, her outstretched shin coming square into contact with the fleshy sack of his testicles.

 

[Talon]

Tiberius relaxed his pressure against her grip as she showed signs of tiring, satisfied in the moment that the fight had passed from her. And who could blame her for tiring out, afterall? He had to have at least ten stone on her, likely half the men in his Legion would have put their back out trying to wrestle him about as she had. He eased back on the tension in his arms and let forearms rest against her, supporting his own weight through the rise and fall of her shoulders so as not to add to her burden, hands still clasped behind her head, ready for action at the first sign of conflict renewed but for now content to begrudge her a moment's respite. Perhaps Tiberius was getting soft as he matured, maybe it was the heat he felt where their skin touched, or the innate instinct to protect and provide succor that was activated deep within as her head sought refuge against the bulwark his chest offered. He was her port in the storm, perhaps not the one she’d preferred to have anchored at, but nonetheless, the only option she had available. Irregardless that the flag her ship flew might be opposite of and set against the one flying above the harbor, she found safe passage there. Maybe even comfort, in some odd way. The looked an odd pair standing amidst the calming waters of the bath, stilled long enough that tendrils of steam began to rise up once more. More like lovers sharing an intimate moment than combatants that had clenched up in the middle of a match to regain their wind.

Gods...what have you done? You’ve scared this poor creature half to death, set upon her in the bath, and for what? For the sake of your libido? Because your balls were a bit backed up? Fancy that will work as an excuse? What will Marcus say when he hears of the whole ordeal, that you set yourself upon a guest of his house, possibly a member of his wife’s family or at the very least a member of her retinue? ‘...deepest apologies Senator. I didn’t think she’d mind, you know. Besides...I was so gods damned horny…’

Even now, as he looked down at her, saw how her upper body was bent forward, the side of her face pressed against his chest, her breath hot against his flesh, he couldn’t stop his wandering gaze. He’d been instilled with discipline in the Legion, had it beaten into him, his spirit crushed until the will to rebel was dust, until his instinct to survive had been replaced by a desire to fight, to obey, to die if called upon to do so. Perhaps it spoke to the power of carnal desire, then, that such a man, little more at his core than a weapon forged for battle, was helpless in the face of it. He didn’t even try to fight it, not now, not when he’d already been made it’s servant. Here she was, huffing and puffing through her recovery, all the while his eyes were drawn down towards her backside. Curvature his eyes could perceive even from his odd vantage, homing in on that cleft where cheeks met, her skin as smooth as carefully polished marble - sensual features lustfully caressed through admiring gaze.

Tiberius could feel the heat at his loins intensify as blood gathered there in response, plaint flesh awakening, gradually pulsing to life in time with his heartbeat as the giant stirred from its slumber, expanding with each pulse until it had achieved something near its fully rigid state. Its potential no longer hidden in repose, proudly rising up between his thighs as it grew, his phallus seemed eager to take its turn at preening for her. Length enough to span from clit to sternum and girth enough to rival an Amazon’s wrist, at first glance the appendage seemed more suitable for womb breaking than love making. After becoming accustomed to the initial novelty of its lofty dimensions, however, one could begin to note details that lent its design a more pleasurable promise; it was thickest at its root and tapered off at the head, not enough to seem disproportionate but still notable. The bloodless, cool blueish-purple coloring of the fleshy part at the tip complimented the pale shading of the length of formerly loose skin it emerged from, now smooth and stretched thin as it engaged in covering what new length it’s expansive growth had supplied. There was little in the way of a curvature to be found along its vast length, at least not when viewed from above, but seeing as it currently hung free and settled at a downward angle on account of its weight, there was little hope for proper assessment without putting hands on it for a more thorough examination. Multiple hands, for which the proud phallus offered ample room to accommodate. Along that ample space crept a complex network of starkly blue veins that stood out against the paleness of his skin, features that seemingly would take hours of effort to properly map out, distinguished here or there by more notable examples, particularly along the sides where they bulged out angrily as they worked to sustain the organs still increasing rigidity. Along the top slithered another such example, a sinuous vein that ran nearly half the length before resolving into smooth flesh, beside which sat the organ's only noteworthy blemish, far enough to the left that it seemed imperceptible from the front when his phallus was flaccid. A discoloration there, a darker shade of brown, not sickly looking or bulbous but likely a small mole or a big freckle, little more than a unique feature along the vast landscape, like some darkly colored boulder left by unseen forces along a stretch of arid desert.

That sleeping giant had teased the promise of great size upon its entry into her world and had now delivered. Hanging there on display beneath her, close enough to feel the heat of her exhalation upon it as her head fell, was the masculine counterpart to the fertility promised by the width at her hips, the key paired with that lock, the stamen to her pistil. Rivaling forearm more closely than finger, the size of that monstrous organ evoked a promise of pain well beyond the obvious, beyond the mere stretching and filling and spearing of innards. It wordlessly signaled to her its solemn desire to be the source of the seed that would result in the gradual swelling of her belly, the filling of her teats with nourishment and the eventual pains of childbirth should she choose to welcome it’s entry between her folds. There was little doubt it could deliver, and while the rest was up to the Gods and left to the mercy of nature, if ever there was a phallus more perfectly fit to the task then surely it belonged between the thighs of a deity like Priapus.

A stray thought played across Tiberius’ mind then as his phallus performed its portion of the pre-mating ritual. He couldn’t help but imagine that their bodies complimented each other in some fundamental way, as if feminine and masculine versions of the same ideal. If he was among the favored of Mars, she too must similarly be blessed by Venus. For despite her rough edges this was all woman standing before him, exuding femininity as naturally and easily as she drew breath. Nevermind that she’d just brawled with him, that she had not a scrap of hair atop her head, that he’d felt the latent power in those muscles, rendered ineffectual only by virtue of having been at contest with his, a man at the very apex of peak physicality. And it wasn’t entirely owed to her softer features, either; those shapely breasts, those birthing hips, that massive backside. While it didn’t hurt to bear the characteristics of a fertile female, it wasn’t down to those things alone. Even if she were as scrawny and featureless as a fence post there was still that aura, that almost imperceptible pull that drew him in, that spoke to something deep within, something instinctual, primal almost, that triggered within him an irresistible urge to mate.

You can’t keep from ogling her like some animal in rut, even for a moment? Patience...you’ve planted the seed in her mind, now is the time to play the remorseful dullard. Give that seed a chance to sprout. Tell her something, anything, that will soothe her...

With his eyes upon her and his cock nearing full mast he could hardly form a coherent line of thought, at least not one that didn’t involve them in some form of carnal act, and so forcefully, with near-Herculean effort, he finally tore his gaze away, his eyes rolling up to consider the ceiling above them. Fine work, that, but insignificant in comparison to what lie before him. As is the nature of such things, the temptation to look only increased the more he fought it, but resist he did, calling upon the discipline of his profession, fingers biting into the backs of his hands where they met behind her neck, his mouth finally opening to offer his conciliatory gesture of peace, shattering the moment of silence that hung heavily in the air about them along the tendrils of steam.

“Listen…”

Before the word passed fully from his lips her surprise attack had been launched. She had masterfully pulled off a feint, and with so little effort it seemed the title ‘the Great’ belonged at the end of her name. And with her name and title still being a mystery, for all he knew it had already found a home there and he was but her latest victim..

“Oommph!” The sound expelled from his lungs by the force of her kick was clumsy and inelegant, a guttural expression that sounded of equal parts shock and pain, each warring with the other for dominance as the commotion reverberated amongst the columns where they rose to meet with the ceiling. Whatever force had been lost by virtue of her leg traveling through water was more than made up by the vulnerability of her intended target, a bullseye her strike met right on the mark. Much like the Greek hero Achilles and his tragically famous vulnerability, even a battle forged titan such as the behemoth before her was not without his point of weakness. Tiberius would likely respond with “tits and ass” if outright questioned about his, but having not been asked, her shin answered the unspoken question on his behalf, all while leaving little room for doubts as to its validity.

Even while taking into account the loss of force as her leg traveled through the water, it was what one could consider in most situations a coup de grace, the sort of hit few recover from gracefully, if ever. Particularly so given her chosen target, the fleshy sack encasing those ovoid shaped jewels that were amongst every man’s most prized of worldly possessions. And what a pair her target made, formerly cocky in their bold abundance as they hung heavy and full in their hairy pouch of flesh, vulnerable beyond measure but seemingly in denial of their prey status if judged by size alone, a size that only served to help ensure her kick would at least graze one of them if launched with any measure of aim. For her part, such an advantage proved unneeded, as it was as if the Gods themselves guided her leg on it’s path between his thighs. Diana perhaps, for her governance over the hunt, for what bigger game could a huntress hope to fell? A wolf violently disabused of his notions of making dinner of a member of the shepherd's flock with a well placed shot from a sling...the eagle who dared to attempt to swoop down and steal the game of a hunter whose arrows would henceforth be fletched with their tail feathers...even Tiberius could appreciate the irony in the moment. Once the swelling in his balls had subsided, of course.


Like the top of a mountain suddenly eroding away in a catastrophic landslide the sheer mass of his bulk dropped suddenly, the big man stumbling forward and against her as the systems that governed his movement failed to keep him fully upright, the sensuality that hung in the air around them thickly revoked, replaced once more by tension, by rage, only now it was his turn to indulge in it.


Tiberius growled then, the thoughtful bulwark now a battering ram, his still clasped hands pulling at her neck as they shuffled and swayed, the places where their bodies met no longer noteworthy to him, no longer savored, instead only serving to capture her there as he pulled her face into his chest and held.

“Fucking fuck! Cunt!”

Just expletives, expressive of the urgent signals of pain and distress that turned his vision red. Somewhere between them his now unheeded sex brushed against her, against top of thigh and stomach, the underside of hanging breasts, amidst that patch of dark hair there between her thighs. It was unnoticed, at least by him, as he kept the distance between them close, her head still clutched to him, her fists bouncing off the musculature at his arms as they flailed, felt but not acknowledged, in their attempt to keep him at bay.

“You take a cheap shot at me, hmm? Do you know who I am, woman? Whose balls you’ve seen fit to crush?”

He growled then, walking forward awkwardly, due in part to the notable limp to his step as much as the effort of prodding her backwards while holding her head against his chest. Whatever force she thought she had gauged those arms capable of, what feats she imagined those thighs could perform, were proven as he pushed against her, the immovable and unstoppable object in one as he went against an opponent woefully unprepared to reckon with the behemoth now that he was prepared to truly fight back.

“I’m a Praetor of Rome, and battle brother to the Lord of this house! I don’t care if you were spat forth from the loins of Juno herself, or if you think your cunt is lined with gold and fit only for Kings, you need taught a lesson, woman, and I'm happy to be the one to do it!”

Tiberius suddenly released his grip on her neck, throwing his arms back and away as he thrust out with his hips, the incidental contact of his sex with her flesh once more insignificant in light of the energy the impact of his body conveyed to her, pushing her back with enough force to cause a disoriented stumble, a handful of warm water splashed at her from cupped hand skipping along the surface of the bath before she even had the opportunity to recover. In that moment of confusion Tiberius pounced, bending forward as he moved towards her, the ridge of his shoulder hitting her hips, his arm wrapping around the back of her thighs, lifting up...within the span of a few heartbeats she was relegated to the role of captive as the world turned upside down, his backside now faced her front and the warm air of the chambers swirled about her backside, rapidly cooling droplets of warm water that formed along the expanse of her upturned and presented rump as she lay astride his shoulder.

“It will be worse for you if you fight me...take what you’ve got coming, cub, lest your punishment end up outweighing the crime.”

Much like the water droplets that formed, slid and fell from her now brute-borne body, Tiberius’ mood seemed to have cooled a bit since his initial explosion. Perhaps the pain and shame of his injury had passed enough to take the edge off or perhaps it was the sweet taste of assumed victory, or some mixture of both, but either way she could once more detect that air of arrogance mixed with a cut of mirth as he spoke.

“Not exactly how I imagined our little meeting would end…”. He was walking, now, those powerful thighs churning the water beneath them, her belly jostling against his shoulder, his arm clutched across the backs of her knees as if to bar her from raising her legs back enough to generate the power to effectively knee him. As they reached the steps up and out of the bath he unceremoniously clapped her on the backside with his free hand, more the gesture of a scolding parent than a randy lover, and more along the outside closer to her thigh than venturing inward towards what lie between those cheeks, but still, the echoes of the smack reverberating off the columns around them offered little in the way of solace. An unwelcome slap on the ass by a stranger was hardly made dignified by virtue of them not attempting to cop a feel of their target in the process.

He began stepping up out of the bath, one after the other, a slight hiss of pain each time he raised foot, seemingly owed to the injury more than any burden he might have felt on account of her added weight. “I like you, cub...I don’t know why, perhaps I’m just the sort of fool who thinks a kick in the balls is your funny way of trying to break the ice between us…” Another step. “Nnnghh...either way, even though I like you, you do know I mean to take my pound of flesh, right?” Another. “An eye for an eye...surely you’re familiar with the concept…” Another, this time up onto solid ground. “Well...I thought long and hard on it, which is to say, it just came to me...”. He seemed to be walking around the front of the pool and now turning to walk down the side, staying near to the edge, the pronounced limp to his gait a not so gentle reminder of her handiwork. “Since you’ve given me something between my legs to remember you by...I thought it only fitting that your repayment be made in kind.” He stopped then, somewhere near the middle of the bath, turning to face it.

He paused, letting silence sink in, letting her brain work a moment. “Care to guess what I mean by that, hmmm? And no, I’ll not be kicking you between your legs. Too boring...besides, you’d likely split right up the middle like a cord of firewood to a woodsman's axe if I did…” He laughed then, a booming chuckle at the expense of his own joke that she felt reverberated through the shaking of his shoulder. “Ahh...no, nothing quite so crude. I thought what might be fair is if I took something to remember the space between your legs, though...doesn’t that seem fair, like some sort of justice the Gods themselves would mete out in one of those bawdy Greek plays, hmmm?” He put on the affectation of what he apparently thought a god sounded like, an already deep voice deepened. “‘You struck him in the space between his thighs, now gift to him something that will forever make him struck by the space between yours.’” He laughed again, the echoes even more hearty and boisterous, perhaps a bit cruel given the context. “Now what might that be, hmm? Perhaps a loc of that hair you have down there, maybe? I mean, with that clutched in hand, surely I would never forget such a treasure for all my days…no, still too cruel, to make a proud tiger cub trim what little remains of her mane…”. Chuckle. “No, I think I’ll take something else. I think I’ll take your subligaculum instead.” His tone had turned serious then. Clearly this was not a part of his taunts, only a statement of his intent. “You know, the thing you keep pressed up against that gold lined cunt all day, the thing that surely offers a hint of her scent. I want it if only because I know you wouldn’t want me to have it, but can you imagine what a cretin like me would do with such a treasure, hmm?” Another round of mocking laughter. “Should you decide you would like to earn the right to have it back, feel free to find me. I’ll warn you in advance, though; the effort will likely result in a sore jaw for you after…”. Another playfully cruel chuckle, that particular bit of innuendo left for her mind to ponder, punctuated by another smack on the rump. “I’ll be staying for a while, if you have trouble finding my room just ask the head servant for Tiberius, he’ll point you my way…”

That name hit like a ton of stone, a revelation he himself was unaware he was delivering.

“And now for the lesson…you’re upset I’ve whipped you silly and stolen your underpants from you, right? Perhaps you think it unfair or judge me as overly harsh? Remember this, then, cub; woe to the vanquished.”

As suddenly as she had been scooped up she was launched, his hands about her waist powering the force necessary to propel her up and over the bath as the motion of his body assisted in the task, her pathway heading well near the middle, safe from risk of cracking skull against ledge or stair as she traveled through the air like she was a missile from some great siege weapon. Only the wall being assaulted was her own, the casualty her pride, the spoils her subligaculum, that most intimate of garments that the retreating, limping, form of Tiberius made off with due haste to collect before she even impacted the surface of the water.