Caveat Emptor (Closed for Apollo Wilde)

[Apollo Wilde]

Inexplicably, she realized too late, staring down at the bared ass of this Hercules hauling her over his shoulder, that she hadn’t had the same clearness of thought as when it came to the attack on the carpentum. There was that fire in her belly that told her what to do, that urged her to move - rationality in the heat of panic. That survival mode, the desire to protect Marcus at the cost of her own life, she attributed to the Goddess of the Hunt. By her sacrifice, she had made tangible the intangible, sought to shape the relationship between herself and her new husband, the man who owned her heart. The man whom she would do anything for, had he but asked. It had become a part of her, the same as breathing, this devotion. A devotion whose wholeness disturbed her, if she put any thought behind it short of how her heart moved her.

Was it the yelping defeat of a cowed dog that stilled her now beyond breathing, or the outburst of foul language that echoed and bounced off of the walls, louder than the water, that had prompted her to give a half-hearted struggle as he lifted her bodily? A small sense of self-preservation, if only to form a new plan that caused her to go dead weight against him, or the pettiness of a baby sister, trying to make a victorious brother’s life hell by willing herself to be as heavy as humanly possible?

Or, better still, that faint whisper from Venus that stirred her treacherous cunt, when he lifted her and she caught full sight of the beast between his legs? It was enough to make her eyes water - how could this be man? The sheer size of him was a primal challenge, one that tightened her stomach and her sex, both in defiance and in a call to battle. He was far too large for her, but that tickling whisper, laughter that undercut the severity of this bath time rumble, challenged her to take it anyway. Not for just for herself, mind you, but to truly subdue this creature. She had a way with wild animals, did she not? And that phallus was something out of an erotic fever dream, giggles and arms held out to exaggerated proportions to suggest the virile benefits of a man.

I’m going to subdue this man and make him cry for the merest taste at my temple. He’s going to lie awake at night, cursing the day that he met me. He’s going to burn with a desire he’s never felt before in his miserable little life for this mockery!

A threat that was playful, still fueled by anger, by the longing to see him broken. Wholly unlike her - there was no murderous intent there, though there should have been. What was wrong with her, what was with this undertow in her own body, pulling her away from a clear and obvious threat? Too much that filtered through her subconscious; too little making it to her mind. Just as she had the thought that she wasn’t thinking clearly, there was no space for anything else but a strange sense of physical…comfort as he lifted her. A strange familiarity.

The resounding “pop!” of his cupped hand against her rear brought her out of the haze she was in, her arrival to the present marked with an undignified squawk, more of surprise than of true injury. He was talking, a nickname in there - tiger cub - an instant bond of affinity. Her life had been dominated by nicknames; it had only been recently that her given name, Gaia, graced the mouths of others more than “Little Fig,” or “Fig dumpling,” or some diminutive or the other. Too much the treasured last child, even if she was a girl, even if she was strange, even if her family was supposed to be chill to her. But more than that, Tiberius had entered the sacred ground of Lucius, the originator of nicknames, the cornucopia from which spilled all good -

I should have hit him in the neck.

The last cry of a defeated beast, that thought, as she now gave herself entirely over to being carried. She was at an extreme disadvantage now. Her half-hearted strikes at his back had been little more than rain against the side of the mountain, and if she tried to kick him now, if she even could, that would end in dire injury for her, there was no second-guessing that much. For as easily as he lifted her, he very well could slam her against the ground, hold her head under the water.

Look at his ass. Those thighs are like tree trunks! Idly, it came to her that she was somewhat thankful that she was facing this way - were she turned round, she knew she’d be face to face with that cock that was less of a man’s member and more of an additional limb.

I don’t think that I could fit in my mouth to even bite it. And bite it she would; his sheer arrogance in her words tipping that unknown fondness into anger, into wounded pride. When I get out of this, I’m going to find out where this man is and beat him to death in his sleep with a pillowcase full of bricks and horse dung. We’ll see how smug he is then!

….Wait. Did he say his name was Tiberius?

Too little, too late - a moment of clarity as she sailed through the air, impacting the water with a forceful splash, sending tidal waves of water cascading over the sides of the bath. With impact came the realization of not just who this creature was, but the indignity of being thrown like she was a child. It was in a red rage that she surfaced with an absolute roar, only to discover that he had, despite his injury, wisely departed the baths as quickly as he could. It was no matter, for she was pulling herself with a single-mindedness born of wounded pride to get out of the pool.

I don’t care who he said he was. I’m going to get out of this bath and I am going to kill him. I am going to kill him with my bare hands. Who does he think he is? Have I thought too fondly on Marcus, for this beast, this…satyr, this cyclops, to be his battle brother? Lucius would never! Great swaths of water were cut alongside her body as she finally emerged with a displacement of water that was near as much as her being thrown in it. If I’m fast enough, I can find his room before Marcus even awakens, and I can murder him and say he never made it. Oh no, I haven’t seen this Tiberius, she practiced in her mind with fluttering eyelashes to pronounce her innocence, how terrible, he must’ve been waylaid by bandits along the way! All the more reason for you to stay here with me, Marcus. Right here in bed.

A dark chuckle as she angrily dried herself, rubbing her skin to raw redness. Yes, stay here in bed with me, Marcus. Soothe my wounded pride with that silver tongue of yours. Take me until all I can feel are your hands, your mouth, your breath against me. The sting of your teeth against my nipples -

A pause as she started to fluff the dense curls between her legs. They shone with the remnants of water, but there was heat there. Heat more than from exertion. Almost as if she was scared by the results, she slipped a hand between her legs, parted her folds. When she withdrew them, they were coated in thick, glistening arousal, just the graze of her fingers against her swollen labia enough to cause her nipples to tighten.

____


When she returned to the room that she shared with Marcus, habit alone made her creep as quietly as she could. He was still injured; she’d had an encounter that was the thing of bawdy barrack talk, nothing that a proper Roman wife could admit to. She had to keep it secret; another to add to the pile. But what to do about her arousal, her frustration? And better yet, her stolen subligaculum?

What was he doing with it now? Some foul creature - nothing honorable. Her thoughts were wind rushing through an opened barn, full of new possibilities. Things that had never crossed her mind before. He said ‘a sore jaw’ - he could only mean…Surely…A man’s sex grew to standing when he was aroused; she now knew that much. Was he inferring that she put her mouth on it? The horror of the realization was only muted by the impotent rage that he would suggest such a thing, when she hadn’t even tried it with Marcus! He must think me some whore, and think my subligaculum as belonging to one! He’s too much a monster to fit into it himself, maybe he’d pin it to his wall as some trophy, no, like some deviant, he presses his nose, his mouth to it, hoping to smell what he feels that I wrongfully denied him. Licking it like some jackal -

She was removing her robe now, not as subtly as she would have wished. Less than dignified tugging at fabric to get it off of her, to step out and kick it aside as she approached the bed. Marcus was slumbering; at least, his eyes were closed. And he was still nude - too blinded by her own thoughts to contemplate, to truly take in the sight before her, she was creeping onto the bed, careful to move as quietly as she could. His sex was in front of her, dozing, as it would seem, the rest of him was. There was no thought given to how it looked, the natural curiosity to observe, to study, wiped away by the maelstrom of her thoughts.

Let him see Marcus, be envious of the delights that my husband so rightfully enjoys. Let his mind run wild at all possibilities, that wretch -

The laughable irrationality of her thoughts was of no matter. Not as she leaned forward, on all fours, nude as she was in the bath, her rear raised high, and, without the slightest hint of trepidation, caressed the length of Marcus’s cock with her tongue. Less sensual than an attack of the flesh with her tongue used as a broadsword, her nose wrinkled involuntary. Not out of disgust, but of the new - of inexperience. He had used his tongue on her to bring her pleasure, surely she could do the same?

Ha! Wile away in your deviant desires while I do this - she shifted, rolling to her side. The fact that the lower portion of her body was now hanging off of the bed made no matter. She was comfortable on her arms and elbows, pressing closer. He smelled of musk and dark places, alien, but for the faint familiar streak of her own sex that still clung to his curls. She’d bathed him here too last night, little more than idle strokes, so consumed by her thoughts then that it hadn’t fully occurred to her that she was stroking his sex. Had he not said that he gave what what was his freely to her? Why should this be no different? I’ve no need to be shy, the pulsing in her stomach, her sex, too hot for her to ignore. Leaning in again, she took a second stroke with her tongue. His skin was so soft, so smooth here, not unlike the inside of her thighs. It felt good to her tongue, the way the flesh was warm, how it seemed to fit so neatly in the middle of her tongue. It was easy for her to mold her flesh to his here as well, something that filled her with a sense of joy as she probed lower, trailing from the fleshy protection of his foreskin down to the base of his shaft, where phallus met sack, but even here, through the hair, the skin was soft, wrinkles like folded linen. Instinctively, she moved her right hand to cup those weighty things, so different from what lay between her own legs. Rolled them between her fingers, shifting the weight between the digits, still as she licked up and down, clumsy motions giving way to more natural ones as the “work” became easier, as the fire stoked higher within her.

I want him to get hard, to point to the sky, and I want to impale myself on him. I want to end this morning screaming devotions to Venus, to feel him fill my cunt to overflowing.

Anger, wounded pride, hidden and confused desire all merged together into one singular thought - for Marcus to take her, to re-assert his claim on his bride. For him to push her over the cliff of pleasure and into the waters of bliss until she drowned, until she forgot all else, even her name, and was little more than a puddle of flesh resembling the woman that was Gaia.

Licks turned to feather light kisses, here, there, playfully exploring. Here is the vein I remember from touching, this must be where the head hides, as her lips found his foreskin, and gently tugged the loose skin into her mouth. It took her a few tries, but soon, she was able to slip her tongue between the head and the foreskin, probing at first, then continuing to explore with long swipes, around the fluted edge of the head, tasting, soothing, memorizing.

 

[Talon]

Marcus’ body responded to her affections well before the passenger behind those sealed eyelids had returned fully from his journey to the realm of sleep, his hips opening up as he shifted onto his back, his middle gyrating then as one would when settling back into the comfort of a favorite chair, his aura warm and welcoming, every bit the image of the fabled prince who but awaited a kiss from his destined princess-to-be to rouse him from the depths of an unnatural slumber. Such stories often spoke of a kiss quite unlike the ones his suitor bestowed upon him then, the kind that sought to wake not the prince but instead his royal scepter, that rod of flesh between his thighs that, until moments ago, had been at peace in its repose. If it opposed her efforts to rouse it it offered no sign, quite to the contrary, it all but leapt up from his crotch as if possessed of a will all its own, responding to her touch as eagerly as the phallus of a man half its owner's age.

Marcus sighed, his right leg folding up and back in on itself slowly, dragging his heel across the sheet a few times as his head turned to the side, his manhood slowly coaxed to full tumescence by her lustful ministrations, thickening and lengthening bit by bit, filling her fist until it tested the sureness of her grip, bucking against it with all the energy of an unbroken stallion. The head swelled as if intending to present a more suitable target for that wondrous tongue as it slithered about, throbbing in time with his heartbeat, a slow and steady thump, lazily plodding through its natural growth process to assume it’s aroused state as if grumbling at being prodded from sleep too early. It was all for show, clearly, like a man a little too plump around the middle who turned down the initial offering of honeyed treats, only to ravenously consume the entire plate after the baker insisted he at least nibble at a crumb. For if it truly begrudged her the interruption, why did the hips of its owner rise up off the bed so? If it thought the hour was too early to rise, why did it stand so tall, showing no sign of slouch?

The now proudly erect organ knew exactly what she was about, even if the still unconscious Marcus hadn’t come to fully realize it yet himself, and like some conspiracy plot shared between them, was eager to help her carry out her goal. She aimed to breed, or at least play out the motions of doing so, and for this purpose it would rise to the occasion no matter the hour.

The sounds of Marcus’ breathing grew heavy, not the gentle snore of a man at rest but the erotic panting of a partner well pleased. His arms raised up over his head, stretching, muscles flexing, a low moan escaping his lips, dragged out and finished off with a grunt as his eyes began to flutter open. Lying there, illuminated by the sun save where her body shielded its warmth from him, he seemed the image of what he must have been in a bygone era; musculature at his middle starkly defined by the lengthening of his torso in stretch, the lightness of his skin flushed a healthy beige, the dusky rod between his thighs rigid and tall and unashamed, the hours of rest and the reconciliation of love thought lost having done much to heal him of his previous fatigue. Involuntary morning stretch now completed, his left arm fell to extend out to the mattress at his side, his right arm folding up at the elbow, scratching idly at the mess of bedraggled hair at there at the back of his head, the silver and grey marking the sides and top in sharp contrast to the youthful vibrance of his form. Dark eyes considered her from beneath lids heavy with lust as his head was lifted by the hand that now rubbed at the nape of his neck.

“Mmmm...and a pleasant morning to you too, my love…”. His voice was raspy with the remnants of sleep not yet cleared from throat. “I dreamed of you, of us...and here you are...nngh”. His eyes squeezed shut as his head fell back suddenly, an involuntary moan summoned forth from deep within by her efforts, his left hand clawing at the sheet and closing to seize a fistful of it between fingers. “By the gods, woman, that tongue…”

He lay there a few moments, not stilled, for how could he be when the heat of her mouth, and the silky wetness of the afore praised tongue, worked its spell upon him. She was amateur in her efforts, perhaps, but as with all things, pleasurable fellatio was for him more about the effort put in than it was the skill exhibited during. In response to that effort she now had a more substantial length of prick upon which to practice and hone her technique. More modest than the one that had awakened and inflamed her desire but by no means meager, it seemed eager to display its virility to her with how firmly it stood up from the nest of soft, dark fur that trailed down across his belly. Similar in makeup, just as every fully formed male is made up of the same distinguishable parts, yet also starkly distinct at the same time, just as two breeds of canine have unique and notable differences. Sleek and curved versus rough and linear, satisfying stoutness versus confounding corpulence, the gnawing of lip versus the balling of sheets in fist, elegant civility versus primitive barbarism. No one clear winner, there, just as the man who brings the largest sword to the battle is not automatically declared the victor. War must be still waged, where, as the Romans themselves had often proven as they rolled over their opposition, a gladius thrust from behind scutum was often just as or more effective than the great sword swung from over shoulder. Speculative comparisons the likes of which any great General spent much mental energy solving for, but in this instance, without manual to consult or wise counsel to seek, such matters were relegated to the realm of fantasy until more definitive evidence could be gathered. And for his part, even without the knowing of its deeper purpose, Marcus was fully up to the task of helping her form a more fact based opinion regarding his own offering.

His shoulders pressed back into the mattress as his hips lifted, not forcefully, not with the energy of a proper thrust that would trigger a fit of gagging or choking, but noticeably, unconsciously, non-verbal feedback offered from him to her as if to say ‘yes...more...right there.’ in the shorthand language of love their bodies shared. Shifting then, carefully, his upper body lifted to be propped upright by elbow, fingertips brushing across the curiosity that was the musculature of her well formed shoulders. How exactly did a young lady of her station come to develop this...fingers trailing up and over, hard calluses against smooth, blemishless, richly brown skin, all but glowing in the sun as it warmed her back. The thought flashed across the front of his mind, his brow furrowing as he began to consider it, only to be banished in an instant as the sensation of an inspired flourish of her tongue overwhelmed his senses.

Another groan was pulled from him forcefully by her efforts, his eyes rolling back, his gaze shifting to consider her face once the dark circles returned, taking in the sight of those delightfully plump lips as they lashed against his most sensitive of erogenous zones. “...if you meant to inspire me, my love, I think you’ve performed your task admirably. Why don’t you bring that big rump up here…” His fingers trailed down her back as far as they would reach. “...and bounce it off my thighs until you’ve properly wet them. I want to see the look on that beautiful face as you cum…”

Marcus leaned forward and down as far as he was able, puckering his lips as if seeking a kiss, seemingly unphased by the fact that her’s had just been wrapped around his cock.


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


Tiberius sat atop his bed in the guest quarters he’d commandeered, legs stretched out before him, his back propped up against the wall behind him, cushioned against its hardness by a few rearranged pillows. He still wore the simple, clean white tunic he’d changed into after exiting the bath, sans loincloth, both for reasons of potential ease of access and due to the fact that any attempt to corral himself in fabric, no matter how soft, would only chafe like mad in his current state of unresolved arousal. His hands rested in his lap, currently engaged in displaying, stretched out between opposing forefingers, his stolen prize; the Amazon’s dirty subligaculum. Not dirty as in soiled or fouled, dirty as in used, no longer fresh from the wash basin, having been already engaged in fulfilling their designed function. This particular pair seemed as if they had seen their fair share of usage, the leather well worn as if it had been freshened and scrubbed clean many times. Fanciful neither in design nor material, like a garment made to titillate potential viewers, no, this was an everyday garment for ordinary usage, to protect and keep hidden that which the wearer bore between their legs. Clearly made to fit a woman’s frame, given the dimensions, but even then, they were far from dainty. Perhaps they might have snugly fit someone of his size even, with but one point of necessary and drastic alteration; he would need to cut away the front panel to allow a window for his trunk to hang out and swing free. Tiberius snickered at the thought.

Jupiter’s cock, the size of the ass on this woman...

Tiberius turned the garment over this way and that as if scrutinizing the mundane details of it, his memory working to temper the fantastical image of her that his flourishing imagination summoned forth by enforcing upon it more realistic proportions. His thumb brushed against the front around where that dark triangle of hair would normally be situated, feeling the smoothness of the finely worn and tanned leather against his skin. He flipped the garment over then, inside out, and similarly brushed his thumb against it there, imagining some deeper connection made by virtue of the shared experience of having felt that particular patch of material.

Her sex was here, pressed up against it, locked up tight, kept away from prying eyes and probing cocks…

His eyes lifted and wandered the four corners of the room, his head moving about, seemingly overly paranoid that he might be caught, sitting there, hunched over a strange woman’s undergarment, obsessing over the details as thoroughly as a tradesman tasked with creating for her a duplicate every bit it’s equal. Reassured then that he was truly alone, welcoming judgement only from the Gods, he lifted the Amazon’s subligaculum up towards his nose, pressing the harshly angular feature against the material that covered the most intimate of areas, his nostrils flaring as he drew long and deep of its scent.

Faint, but present...earthy and distinct, strong enough to register in his memory and be recognizable should he encounter it again...was that scent of her, of her sex, her vagina, her cleft, her slit, her cunt, his obsession...whatever one chose to call it, crude or distinguished, there was the distinctive musk of it there, relaying pheromones upon which his instincts reacted, triggering the hair to stand up along his arms and the back of his neck, his prick stirring despite the lingering tenderness of recent injury present around his crotch. Tiberius’ grunted his approval as he pulled another deep breath in through his nose, filtered through and by the crotch of her undergarment.

Fuck, that’s good cunt...I should have carried her all the way back here. I saw that look in her eye, she could have been reasoned with, bargained with...whatever it took.

Tiberius growled as he sat up, balling the undergarment up in his fist before slamming it down against the mattress beside him.

She’s got me sitting here like some pussyfootin’ virgin, sniffing at the crotch of her undergarments...fuck that, I want it straight from the gods damned source!

Tiberius stood then, beating a furious path back and forth as he paced beside the bed, his limp now a long forgotten limitation against his speed of movement.

Fuck...Tiberius stopped and turned back to face the bed he’d just lept up out of, his eyes fixed on the Amazon’s subligaculum, lying there atop the bed, taunting, teasing, beckoning. Fuck it, I was a fool to think this was ever going to end any other kind of way...

Tiberius turned and stormed across the room and out into the hallway, a man dispatched on a mission of the highest import, one more pressing than the need for rest or sustenance.

I’ll find her, she can’t have gone far...

 

[Apollo Wilde]

If there was any area that Gaia would prove herself to be a quick pupil, learning his body was it. It was a playground of flesh, all beautiful, all completely his, all that stoked excitement. Had her mouth not been so occupied with savoring the feel of his cock, she would had stopped at his stretch, overwhelmed by him, not sure where to start because it was all too appealing. Good luck within bad that her mouth was otherwise occupied. But not so much with her hand - an ungainly switch from her predominant right to her left to caress and weigh the large sack. Her right now freed, she reached up as much as she could, her palm small against the expanse of his chest. Fingers dragged between the pectorals, curving ever so slightly so that he could feel the bite of short nails, then, another caressing stroke.

I wonder…

A flicker of a hypothesis, the answer given without her having to ask. His hips bucked into her mouth - her mouth went slack, to better accommodate, to experiment. Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked, the first time she’d done so, her lips forming a tight seal around the mid-point of his shaft, already aching with the effort to close around such girth. Without looking up at him, too focused on what was in her mouth, she lowered her head slowly, bit by bit, coaxing her untried throat to swallow, pull him down into her waiting throat. It was an admirable effort, but too much too soon - two thirds of his shaft had vanished into her mouth, stroked the back of her throat, before she was coughing, pulling her head away to gasp for air, to rub at the hollow of her throat. Even as she rubbed, coughing still, she was laughing at her own folly, her own impatience that could have ended poorly.

“Not yet,” was his answer, though her sex throbbed. She hadn’t forgotten her own needs - the madness that had brought her here. As a child, she was distracted with a new toy, her own wants easily set aside for the time being. “I want to hear more sounds from you.” Innocent sex, that - he’d moaned in desire, so different from the commanding grunts that he gave when he was taking her. Now, it came as a sudden realization: he was at her mercy, and…she liked it. She liked the way he’d writhed beneath her, how his hips moved up to her lips. The fact that his bulbous head, flushed dark with blood, had easily pulled free of the loose skin and stood proudly, glistening, waiting. “I want to see you - all of you.”

Shifting on the bed, she clambered on it further, making sure that she wasn’t hanging off the edge of it anymore. She didn’t ask for him to move, but gently pressed against the inside of his thighs, leaving his sex free of her touch as she positioned him just so: moved further up, parting his legs so that she could more easily lay between them. When her “work” was done, she leaned back, nodding sagely, playfully, before she leaned over him, pressing her lips to his. Pouring fire into his mouth was that kiss, warming, teasing - ending with a flick of her tongue against his lips. “You are a magnificent man,” she said, her voice a soft rumble, not unlike a purr, a throaty call back to her tones from the night before. “So beautifully made.” Resting on her heels between his legs, both hands would run up and down his chest, carding through the salt and pepper hair of his chest, tracing the small circles of his nipples, until a new urge struck her. As he’d done to her, her lips closed round the right nipple, followed by the ghost of teeth. It was a new sensation, this little firm bump in her mouth, but one she found herself eager to explore. Hard to keep her hands still - lifting her left hand to her mouth, her fingers stroked against her tongue before closing in on his left nipple, mimicking with soft pinches the movements of her mouth on his right. Rolling slowly between her forefinger and thumb, she gently ground the soft swell of her stomach into his lower abdomen, the coarse curls of her sex so close to his own, but an inch too high, or an inch too low, given entirely to her unknowable whims. A slow, gyrating dance atop him, keeping her sex, her ass, all that he would want to touch just out of the reach of his hands. His erect cock was a hot pillar between the two of them, burning her flesh, chipping away at her own patience.

Lifting her head from his nipple, she flicked her tongue against it in a parting play, kissing, biting, as she moved her head lower. Tongue explored the faint remembered lines of the definition of his stomach, barely buried by the sands of time as he laid there, hands questing further than her face, her mouth, to run down the musculature of his thighs, slipping from the tops to caress inside of them, still avoiding his shaft, though she would shift, press her stomach firmly into him, grinding still, stimulating but not giving in. Lower still were those kisses, the firmer clench of her teeth as she traveled below his navel, nose tickled by the dusting of hair that lead to the proud phallus she was near ready to take again into her mouth. Knowing, feeling, the slight tensing of his body as he inevitably prepared himself, she stopped. Looked up at him. All he would need to do was raise his hips just a hair to press that heavy head against her lips, lips that were smiling, holding a secret there, but beneath all of the coyness, the graceless seduction, there was love, devotion, desire - and brightest of all, the thrill that all that she touched was hers - hers to continue to explore, hers to continue to find out new ways to let him know how she felt, how she wanted him. Even with the pale, giant figure of Tiberius in her mind, this, this was her home. Hard to want to cause jealousy when she looked up into that face, lust drunk, smitten, and felt his fingers round her heart simply squeeze tighter.

“Mmm…” Again, that low, throaty purr, vibrating against the sensitive head. A dipping of her face as she pressed her cheek, then lips, to the side of his erect cock. Slowly, liberally, drooling on him as she went, she ran her tongue from the base of his shaft to the straining head, right hand covering what her mouth could not, stroking, this too, was new, fumbling, before smoothing out, urged by the pulsing of the music of his heartbeat, the hesitation in his breath, all she let guide her. Lips over the head of his cock, she took him in slower this time, lesson learned. Swallowing again, bit by bit, she pressed her head lower, lower still, letting her throat go slack - trying to swallow him before hadn’t worked. Opposite would work here, yes, let him slip down, further, further, until her nose bumped into his pelvis, pubic hair a musky cloud against her nostrils. She held him in her mouth, her throat - until she could hold her breath no longer. With more control, she sucked as she withdrew, her mouth finally releasing him with an audible pop as she gasped for breath, cheeks flushed with effort and with pride. Wiping the heavy traces of spittle from her lips, she shifted again, straddling either side of his legs. She could wait no longer - but even as she prepared to mount him, she was struck with another idea.

Reaching between them, she parted the soaked lips of her labia, and, with the fussiness of a hen trying to get comfortable on her eggs, she shifted this way and that, not content until his cock fit neatly between her lips, sandwiched between them. “Oh…!” A rocking of her hips forward, dragging her wet heat across him, rubbing against the taunt pearl of her clit, up until now ignored. “Gods,” it was dragged out of her, hissed between clenched teeth, as she ground back and forth on him, his cock gliding easily between her lips as with each pass, she grew wetter. There was the occasional pause as she had to collect herself, her head dropping on her neck, her chest heaving, “I could cum like this,” the word was weird, new to her, but he’d said it, and it seemed to fit, defining how it felt to fall off of that peak, to arrive at the gates of heaven. Another grind, slower, this time, allowing herself to feel every ridge, bulge, of his shaft. A canting higher of her hips, pressing down so that his head was seated at her entrance. It would take a bit more pressure from either one of them for him to enter, but maddeningly so - even more to herself- she seemed content to continue light movements of her hips, using his cock to trace round her entrance, to tease him by taking in the smallest bit, just enough for him to feel the hot and wet furnace of her, but never enough to fully bathe him.

Her body felt like it would burst into flames; she was surprised, vaguely, that she wasn’t burning him from her touch. He’d feel the bite of her nails, the effort of her concentration not to fully impale herself on him, to continue to stoke her own fire, to find what worked for her, to indulge in every stroke that was new, that was proof of magic. Even her patience couldn’t hold forever - and, finally, at the end of an eternity, she pushed back onto him, rocking back on those heels and engulfed his cock in one long, slow push. She hadn’t realized that her low growl had ended in a high sigh of relief, her head canted back, lips parted, eyes closed, as it echoed in the chamber, a single ecstatic cry of “Yes!” given to the altar of Venus herself.

 

[Talon]

Marcus writhed atop the bed as she explored his body, as parts of him explored parts of her, as he watched the sweet, shy and reserved young woman that had so captured his heart once more blossom into the sexual creature that only he knew her capable of being. In reality there was little for him to do at the moment but be present and stay tumescent, and with neither task being all that demanding, he was left the opportunity to truly feel, to open himself to the world of pleasurable sensations she created, to be served and serviced, stroked and sucked as he was sheparded along the pathways of carnal delight she lead him up and down and back and forth. No ground was left uncovered, no stone unturned as she urged him on, ever her seemingly confident hand upon the reins, never faltering nor stopping, only guiding him forward with the sure and steady hand of an experienced traveler if he slipped or fell behind.

The dynamic of their relationship had clearly changed, if only here, only for a few precious moments, the pair secluded in their chambers, well beyond the prying eyes of others, beyond the cares and concerns of life among the greater society. No longer was she the virginal bride, wide-eyed with fear and the trepidation built over years of celibacy, worry compounding upon worry, question upon question, until she was nearly paralyzed with fear upon even the hint of intimate contact with a man’s body. Those fundamental questions had been answered, most or all of those fears allayed, and it showed in her demeanor. Her body flowed with all the confidence and elegance of a sexually mature woman, one unbothered by concerns that she might unjustly be judged for actions she took in pursuit of her own pleasure, that the passionate flame of her desire would be rebuked as improper, that she would be judged a whore or a harlot or a pervert. She could be comfortable inhabiting her own body, that her husband appreciated it for all that it was and would be, and that comfort manifested in the way she carried herself, unafraid of where his eyes might look or his fingers might touch.

And for his part, no longer was he the cautious husband, so concerned with the thought of offending her that, once they had finally initiated intercourse, his built up lust simply exploded from deep within with violent force. He was able to be still, well, at least mostly still, to be present in the moment, secure in the knowledge that this wasn’t but a one time encounter to be discarded like the tunic he’d worn the day before. They were building a life together, a wall forming brick by brick, not between them but behind them, blocking all the pain and misery and uncertainty of the past. He was still learning about her, about what made her who she was, what forces shaped her along the path of her life to the point where their lives had become forever intertwined. There was much yet for him to learn, about what she liked, what she disliked, and he vowed to take interest and be present, to be an actual partner instead of just the man she’d been married off to in search of political power. Perhaps their marriage had been one of convenience, for both parties involved, but that didn’t mean it had to be only that. It wasn’t convenience that kept him hanging off her every action, that fueled the passions that led her to explore his body as if she sought to know it like her own.

Yes, there is much I would like to know of her...but for now, my wife calls me to our bed to perform my husbandly duties. How rough life is, to be married to a beautiful young woman just discovering her sexual appetite...

Fearing his hands might interfere with her movements, Marcus lifted his arms up over his head once she had repositioned both herself and him to grip the railing of the bed frame above him with both hands, his elbows pointed up, hovering just above his head, the soft hair marking the pit of his arms wispy and dark against the lighter tone of his skin there beneath his arms. The upper half of his chest arced up ever so slightly as shoulders rolled back, a thick bulge of muscle along the backs of each arm as grip activated, his buttocks clenching together, lifting that stiff rod between his thighs, the one glistening from her efforts, as she climbed between this legs. His smile was easy, his eyes warm, his cheeks flushed, the shock of hair atop his head messy and bedraggled, as he silently waited for her to approach closer as she leaned forward and over him. His lips met hers with an undisguised eagerness, opening to her as easily as his thighs had, his tongue swirling about hers, taking from her all she had to give, resigning to end earlier than he had hoped as she pulled away, his only sign of complaint a sharp but playful quirk of his brow, as if to say ‘Parting so soon?’.

“You are a magnificent man, so beautifully made.”

Marcus nearly blushed at the unexpected warmth of her compliment, being a man unused to such things being said of him, or at least to him, accustomed lately only to praise for victories long past or the sickly sweet adulations of those who sought favor or sponsorship. His smile deepened reflexively as his chest expanded, pressing up and against her roaming hands, his eyes closing as his head laid back, rolling to the side to press his chin into his bicep, his only reply a deep, throaty, rumbling purr of satisfaction that mirrored her own, not unlike a housecat being scratched between its ears. “Mmmmm…”

A sharp hiss, then, as her lips closed around his nipple, his hips lifting up instinctually as if they expected the motion would sink the length of his prick into her, the line of muscle connecting shoulder to chest tightening as the wood frame behind them creaked in protest, his mouth opening wordlessly against the firm flesh of his arm. A forceful huff of breath then as her fingers joined mouth, a grunt as they worked in concert, tweaking and lashing and sucking and pinching, his hips thrusting up again with frustrated urgency, the droplets of viscous dew that formed at the tip of his cock leaving the evidence of it’s passing in a wet trail where it brushed across the softness of her flesh near her middle, trapped there between their bodies impotently, throbbing, it’s hardness refusing to subside despite the lack of direct stimulation upon it.

His head rolled again, now pressing open mouth to opposite arm, his buttocks flexing to thrust pelvis up as her head trailed down his chest leaving soft kisses in its wake. Sensing her pause for a moment his head lifted, a hint of perspiration now at his brow, his cheeks flushed with warmth, his eyes full of fire. If it wasn’t already made clear to her, the look on his face spoke more than a thousand words could, offering her proof of his devotion, confidence in his desire for her and her body, and that, even after having already claimed the prize of her maidenhood, his interest had not waned, only heightened. He seemed then not like a submissive lover who lay still to allow their master to do with them as they will, but a lion, a predator who had rolled over onto his back to allow his mate access to nuzzle at his vulnerable underbelly. There was trust there, an unspoken trust deeper than mere bond of friendship or business. She was in such close proximity to his vital areas that he couldn’t hope to stop her in time should she decide to visit violence upon him. And yet still his hands remained in their self imposed position of restraint, his eyes locked with hers, amplifying and reflecting back to her all the emotion her gaze bestowed upon him.

Marcus was a lion perhaps, but then again, so was his mate. His roar might be louder, his mane more grandiose, but her teeth and claws were just as sharp. Teeth and claws she figuratively sunk deeper into him as she descended upon his length, seemingly taking the lessons learned from her first attempt at orally pleasuring him and expounding upon them. It was his turn to moan and wriggle from the efforts of her mouth, much as she had when the positions had been reversed. A sharply harsh sigh as she pressed his cock to her cheek, a deep pant aimed at the ceiling above them, his mouth falling open as his head pressed back into the mattress, as tongue and hand worked in tandem, the creaking of the headboard once more as his arms flexed, a deep intake of breath held overly long as her lips encaptured that thickly swollen knob at the tip. Whereas her vocalizations had evoked the beauty of devotional hymns, his evoked those of battle, of a man engaged in struggle. What exactly he was struggling against was left unseen, what was clear though was that it wasn’t escaping from her grasp. His hips pressed up, his chest heaving, his legs shifting against hers as they moved about in their own way of expressing the erotic energy surging through his body.

It wasn’t just her current oral efforts that had set him aflame, it was a combination of many factors; some underlying increase in libido still present as a result of the passion they shared from the night before, his dreams, her foreplay, her exploration of his body, her praise, her adulation...it had all come together, stirred by the same hand that now worked it’s way up and down his cock. That ember that burned deep within for her had been stoked and fed until it roared, until all his senses seemed overwhelmed, every sensation seemed almost too much; the silky feel of the sheet beneath him, the faint hint of her arousal on the air, the wet staccato sounds of her suction as her mouth worked, the feel of the undulating grip of her fingers as she stroked him.

Finally he spoke then, his head raising up, his eyes flaring open, as she pushed her head down to slowly work the entire length of his cock deep into her throat. “ngggh...Gods!” The hiss of the ‘s’ hung in the air as breath was held, his eyes watching those plump lips as they traveled down, consuming him as they went, sucking him ever deeper into the warm wetness of her throat, those dark pillows but a portal into a hidden realm of pleasure, its walls constricting about him as the girth of his prick tested their capacity to accommodate it, a challenge she embraced and excelled at, conquering him with all the skill and ease of a veteran practitioner of the oral arts, her nose brushing against the hair at his pubis a landmark of sorts, a notch for her belt, that there could be no doubt that she had taken all that he had to offer. His breath stilled, almost as if in competition with her to see who would relent first, his gaze finally passing as his head once more fell back, the competition lost as she held him there still and yet she could hear his exhalation, could see the rise and fall of his chest as he drew in another shallow breath.

“Argggh...please...ngggh...Gaia...” It was all he could muster, all his pleasure-addled mind could summon forth to function as a request for her to continue as he lay there, fully under her spell, putty in her hands, the puppet whose strings she held firmly in her grip.



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


Tiberius grumbled as he leaned against the doorway to the changing rooms before the baths, hulking arms crossed in front of his chest, his shoulders sulking.

Where in the hells did this woman go? It’s like she up and walked off into the ocean...I should have brought along her undergarment, maybe I could have used it to track her scent like a hound…

Tiberius laughed, shaking his head at the thought of himself running about the long hallways of the villa on all fours, her subligaculum between clenched teeth, his nose up in the air.

Fucking idiot...maybe I really did hallucinate the whole damn thing, eh? I mean, the underwear aside...those could belong to anyone, maybe overlooked from when Marcus’ mother last visited, right? Tiberius smirked. Right...they’d fall right off the old bag’s bony little hips, gods love her. Nah, that fat bottomed little bathhouse ball-buster is around here somewhere, I’d wager my left nut on it. The real question is, what will prove more steadfast, her ability to hide or my ability to withstand that itch at the back of my balls? Maybe I should go and greet Marcus afterall, perhaps he can offer some insight into who this strange woman truly is.


Tiberius was lost in thought as he turned down the hallway leading to the master’s chambers, a frown on his face, eyes downcast.

...I wonder if she prefers to be fucked like a dog, or maybe like a horse then, standing but bent over. Not my favorite but I wouldn’t mind, I can get nice and deep from that angle…

The sound of voices caused his ears to perk up, stopping him in his tracks a few meters away from the door to the main bedchambers. It was clearly feminine, and judging by tone alone, as he couldn’t make out the words, there was something going on in that room, something more than a simple morning’s greetings. He crept closer, oddly silent for a man his size, not strange for a trained soldier though, one used to the occasional scout near enemy lines. Given the smooth flooring of the marble and his lack of gear or equipment to jingle jangle, all he really needed to be concerned with was his footfalls. Closer..he could hear her voice again, a bit clearer...Tiberius drew up flat against the wall just outside the door, and noting it open just a sliver, his head craned closer towards the opening, cocked to the side, his ear close now, close enough to hear the shifting of bodies atop sheets.

“I could cum like this.”

Tiberius pressed the back of a wrist to his mouth to stifle a sputter, his eyebrows raising, back pressing up against the wall behind him as he cast a cautious look around him to ensure he was still alone.

Woah, now...that must be her, brother-wife. Lucky bastard, I would have never guessed she had it in her...well, sounds like she’s about to have it in her, at any rate. A snicker stifled again by wrist. She seemed too much of a chip off the old block, all ice queen like that mother of hers, walking around with too big a stick up her ass to so easily seek out her own pleasure. I’ll be damned, never judge a scroll by the label on it’s casing, I suppose.

He could hear them shifting as he returned his ear to the gap at the door. I didn’t really have the chance to get to know her...shit, I can hardly recall what she looked like even, what, with all that formal wear draped around her. Nice pair of tits though, if I recall correctly, the kind that makes you want to jam your head right between them. I wonder what her nipples look like, long and skinny, short and stubby? Hmmm...I’ll have to prod Marcus for all the details, at least one of us is getting some action around here...

He heard the bed frame creak, someone repositioning.

Go on then, you old dog, give it to her! If not for you, then for me...fuck her until she begs you to let up, let her know you’ve still got a bit of fire in your belly…

“Yes!”

The sudden cry was loud enough to give him a start, his hearing having been strained and attuned to pick up the sounds of movement. Go on then old man, get her! Tiberius’ free hand moved to his waist, stroking along the length of the prominent bulge that formed there below his middle as he listened for any sound, his imagination working to fill in the details of what actions might accompany them.


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


It was lucky for Marcus that she paused of her own accord, for if she had started bouncing away atop him right away, this coupling would have been over as soon as it started. She was too tight, still, even with the lubrication provided by her saliva and by the natural wetness of her cunt. Her grip was like a glove, but one just a hair too snug, the kind you would return for a larger size because wearing it for too long would cut off your circulation. In a glove that was an undesirable quality, perhaps, but here? It was maddening in the best of ways. No matter how hard he’d pounded her, how savagely he had rammed the entire length of his cock into her, still it had returned back to its original state. So tight that it’s grip loosened his lips to let praise of it flow freely from them.

“By the gods, woman...what did they ask in return for this gift, hmmm? The gift of this cunt...it’s fucking magical, is what it is…”

Even as he spoke his hips started to move, undulating up and down slowly but firmly, working with as much depth of motion as the weight of her body down against his pelvis would allow, jostling and lifting her up with each upward motion. His hands finally left the headboard, then, touching her body for the first time since being self-banished there, pressing the heels of his palms against the inside of her hips as his fingers pressed into the flesh there. Marcus grunted then, thrusting his hips up powerfully, his words a growl. “She’s greedy though, can never seem to get enough…” His hands slid up the softness of her belly, caressing the curvature there a moment before moving up, cupping her breasts from underneath, thumbs pressed into the soft skin of the underside, his fingers pressing into their sides, their size just a bit too much for his grip to fully encompass, soft flesh spilling over where hand fell short of the task. Marcus flashed a toothy grin up at her. “...Come on then, wife...you can take my cock down your throat, but can you properly make me cum?” The motion of his hips ceased, then, as his hands squeezed at her breasts playfully, thumbs rubbing at them, passing over the firm buds of her nipples, tracing the bumps around the tight circles of her aureola. “Not just, can you take my seed, while I’m pounding into you...I mean, can you ride me until you make me cum, against my will if I have decided otherwise. I’m not sure that you can…” His hips thrust up then, stilled after falling back to the mattress. “...if you want to admit defeat now, perhaps I should be the one on top, hmmm?”

The playful energy in his hands extended to his gaze as he stared up at her, his face still flushed with color, that confident half-smile once more twisting one side of his lips up as if to say, ‘Your move.’

 

[Apollo Wilde]

How to describe the moment when he was fully seated inside of her? Her bitten off cry had been only the first line in the epic of their coupling. With her eyes shut, he hadn’t been able to see how they’d rolled back, her mouth going slightly slack as she gasped, lost in him. It felt that every pulse, every feather light movement of his was magnified ten-fold, two separate bodies joined at one point, his transmitting into hers. Perhaps he was right, perhaps her cunt was greedy, too greedy, as she could feel her muscles welcoming him, fluttering, sucking deeper, to swallow him so that he couldn’t move; couldn’t remove his treasure from her. She’d wanted a moment, an eternity, to simply sit astride him, to savor how he felt, to let the hot tears that had gathered behind her closed lids spill forth - one, then two, did, though, as the first time she had, she wasn’t sure why she was crying. How to explain how overwhelmed, overfull, her heart felt, that there was simply nowhere else for her emotions to go but out?

She returned back to the here, the now, from being adrift in the clouds with a soft chuckle, shaky, touched by her tears. What would she know of how good her sex was, save for what he told her? A momentary thought back to the beast of the bath - that Tiberius. He’d merely seen her naked; supposed some men were just that easily lead by their cocks to imagine sexual congress of mythic proportions without any base in reality. Marcus's praise, filthy as it was, caused heat to billow behind her cheeks, and for a glimmering, the shy bride had returned: she ducked her head in bashfulness. When she managed to fight down the butterflies in her chest to look back at him, it was with the face of a girl trying her best to be an adult, a bit of that cockiness of his reflected back. “ ‘Greedy’? You wound me - and her,” a sly wiggle of those hips, the suggestion that if his hands hadn’t been on her hips, she would had taken her insatiable cunt elsewhere. An empty threat - though it would have been lovely to hear him walk back his “insult,” to beg for her to come back. A compromise was quickly found under that sly smile of his: he’d walked into it. Her hands drifted over to his, holding them against her breasts. And as she held them there, she canted forward, lifting her hips so high as to pull him out of her with a deep schlick, his cock glistening in her juices.

Holding herself up over him, relying on the strength of those thighs, steel under the silk of her skin, she kept his hands squeezed on her breasts. “You call her greedy, then issue me a challenge? What a monster of a man you are - I take back everything nice I’ve ever said or thought about you.” Without abandon, she wiggled her hips, lowering her sex over his. Sucked his head in-between lust plumped labia. Then sat down fully on him, his phallus sliding with ease deep inside of her as she grunted softly. There was a part of him, the widest part, that still gave her a bit of a sting, no matter how wet she was - a testament to his girth - that was a challenge for her sex to accept. To stretch around, but oh, the relief when he was fully buried, when she could squeeze him with newly discovered kegels, clench and lighten, playing with him, with the possibilities of her body. To roll her hips back and forth, mimicking the racier dances from the festival of their wedding. It had been a flash of inspiration, thinking to imitate them here, and sunlight through clouds, the realization of where those dance movements had originated, the deeper flush on her face that was still the tissue paper of her modesty stretched over the eagerness of her now, the woman who wanted to know every way that her husband could bring her pleasure. The woman who was past shame, what did it matter, as long as it felt good to her, as long as it brought that look to his face -

“You’re a beast.”

Words dragged out as she lifted herself off of him, a sliding forward, then up, then off. His head barely dipping into her cunt.

“A brute.”

Ungraceful drop back onto his hips with a hearty fleshly slap, that full ass, dampened by the juices of her cunt, slamming back onto his firm thighs.

“The worst.”

"Savage.”

“Ungrateful.”

“Ungracious.”

“Complainer.”

"Barbarian."

Each insult, punctuated by the hard falling of her hips, her flexing, her taking him in and sliding off of him. Rising and falling, her hands keeping his in one place, an unspoken response to his challenge. She was on top, her rules. And she wasn’t going to relinquish that position. There was little more than the eager meeting of flesh against flesh as she rode him rapidly, losing count of how many times she’d dropped down, of how many times she’d lifted up. Only the burn in her thighs, the dull ache of having taken him too deep, too hard in her still newly opened sex would make her slow down. Slow - then stop, with him buried deeply inside of her, a hard press of her hips down into his making sure that he was as deep as he could be, so deep that it hurt, caused her to grit her teeth. He was touching something far, too far inside of her - past where the bit of pain could be pleasurable. But she had a point to make now, and she wasn’t going to show any weakness.

With one eye open, she grinned at him - taking his left hand from her breast, trailing his pointer finger round her damp lips, before sucking it in between them, flicking her tongue against the digit. He tasted of salt, dirt - him, the pads of his finger rough against the smooth pink. Slipping his finger out with a pop, she gyrated - a slow, cautious figure 8, working him within her, but not pulling him out. “It seems to me, dear husband,” mocking, but sweet, as she pressed open mouthed kisses to the palm of his hand, “That while I’m on top, I’m the one that makes the rules. And I think,” a suck of his thumb, pulling it from her lips with a nip to the tip, “that I and my cunt have been gravely insulted. And I think your punishment is for her to eat her fill. Isn’t that right?” She flexed the muscles in her sex around him, as if making her body agree. “What man, in his right mind, complains about a magical cunt that wants, thinks, dreams, of nothing else but him?” A harder bite to his thumb, though not enough to hurt. The pace of her hips had picked up, the tempo of the unheard song moving faster. “She wants what she lacks, as surely as your sword wants his scabbard.” A laugh there, a breaking of character as she realized what she’d said and how terrible it was.

“By Venus, if sex always makes me say such stupid things,” she was leaning over, laughing, her face against his chest, “You have my permission to gag me in the future.” As she’d folded over him, she let go of his hands, enjoying, for the moment, the feel of his chest against hers, her face pressed to his throat, before she craned her head upwards, kissing him deeply. As their lips broke, she smiled, before lifting herself up again, pressing her hands to his chest to help anchor her. “A soldier such as yourself should know there’s more than one way to ride a horse. We’re in no hurry, my heart,” right hand caressed his face, her emotions clear in her eyes, the adoration, the love, “And I intend to enjoy this ride to the fullest - and to my own pleasure.” Before she finished speaking, she was moving her hips back and forth, not lifting, but a slow, steady grind, her fluids leaking from him, further turning his pubic hair into a sodden mess. “But you don’t need to be idle…” But how to work what she wanted, without him using his injured arm? And without her having to ask directly - she was still a bit too shy for that? “Touch me…where you used your tongue,” she had some trouble with the words, yes, partially out of being shy, of fear that she’d overstepped, but also a plain of a lack of vocabulary for the finer points of her own sex. “The little…round part above my cunt,” she gestured, quickly, as if she lingered too long, he’d tease her, or worse, call her a whore, “Could you touch it…? Rub it while I move on you like this…?”

 

[Talon]

“By Venus, if sex always makes me say such stupid things, you have my permission to gag me in the future.”

Marcus shared her laugh as she laid down atop his chest, his arms to his sides, hands brushing across the soft area at her sides around her hips. His tone was light and airy, the moment of playful bickering past. “Awwww...I rather enjoyed your bawdy banter. Perhaps that is how I should introduce you at dinner parties…’Meet my lovely wife, Gaia, the scabbard for my sword’...” He chuckled, leaning up to kiss her forehead as her face pressed against his neck, then again meeting her lips eagerly as she leaned up to kiss him. Marcus smiled up at her as she clumsily fumbled around requesting that he pleasure her with his fingers, his expression warm and comforting, not derisive or mocking. She was demure, cute even, a stark juxtaposition there between her demeanor and the body she inhabited, the shyness of a young girl just getting her footing in the realm of things erotic and pleasurable, the body of a fully grown and sexually mature woman in her prime.

“Could you touch it…? Rub it while I move on you like this…?”

“Of course I will. It would be my pleasure...to give you pleasure…” Marcus waggled his eyebrows at her suggestively, his hand pressing against her belly. “Lean back a little, maybe brace your arms against my legs behind you, give us some room to explore together for a moment before we start again…” His right hand pulled back then, pressing thumb to lips he wet the inside along the tip with his tongue. “Have I told you lately…” His hand reached out, raising, backs of his fingers brushing across the undersides of her breasts as his knuckles brushed across the upper part of her belly. “...just how sexy you are?...How I love your breasts…” His hand travelled down, knuckles brushing past her navel, “...your belly…” down further into the patch of thick, dark hair above her sex. “...mmm...your hair…” His fingers lingered there a moment, combing through the thick curls, puffing them up as they passed gently through his fingers. “...and of course…” Finally his hand moved down, his fingers still nestled amongst the dark forest of curls as his thumb brushed down the ridge of her clitoral hood where it peeked out from between the puffy lips of her labia. “..here...we’ll have to decide on a name for her, don’t you think?...”

His thumb stroked her idly, brushing directly against the nub of her clit, up and back down again. “...most call it a ‘clitoris’, or clit…” His thumb paused it’s stroking, pressing and rubbing in a circular motion over the area he spoke of directly. “...perhaps ‘button’ or ‘nub’...” His thumb pulled back for a moment as he raised his head, looking down between her thighs where their bodies met. “Look at her, though...isn’t she lovely? Just peeking out, begging to be touched, to be licked. She’s quite sociable...” He smiled again, his eyes lifting back to her face. “But enough of my silliness...let's take a moment to get you warmed up.” His thumb pressed again against her clit, this time with an aim to pleasure, starting with that circular motion as if there was a stubborn stain there he sought to rub off. “Don’t be afraid to tell me what feels best...every woman’s body is unique, and I want to know of yours.”

“Now, close your eyes for a moment and just feel, let everything else just melt away…” His thumb continued it’s stimulating rubbing motion, pressing just a touch more firmly. “...think of something that excites you...that stimulates you...that makes your nipples harden and your cunt dampen. Not just us, here...anything, perhaps something that feels shameful, or wrong.” The intensity of his rubbing motion increased. “I won’t make you say it out loud...just think it, let it grow as you begin to move your hips...slowly...let that tension build.”


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


Wow...I couldn’t have been more wrong about her…

Tiberius smirked. It sounds like he has a courtesan in there with him. Already the man wants for nothing, and yet still he is given everything...Lucky fuck. I’m the one who is supposed to do the telling of debaucherous tales, and here I am, back from campaign for a week already and still my dick is as dry as the desert.

Tiberius grumbled as he pulled himself off of the wall, turning to head back down the hallway from whence he came, unconcerned about the potential for making noise in the process, thoughts of finding the mysterious Amazon sidelined for the moment as he wallowed in the misery of sexual frustration.

I mean...good for him, he deserves happiness, but can I not at least enjoy a bit of the scraps? I wonder if he’d be adverse to letting me have a go when he’s done...just a quick romp, just to take the edge off. Tiberius grinned. Listen to me...me, having to beg for table scraps from the most prim and proper man in all of Rome. Gods, I know he’d go to war for me, die for me even, but this might be too big of an ask…

Tiberius rounded the corner and stopped, hands on his hips, as he considered his next move.

Argh...let him have his fun. I suppose I’ll have a look at what the kitchen has prepared for the morning meal, have Mikkos bring out one of the stronger casks of wine...it’s not cunt, but for the moment, it’ll have to do…


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


The motion of Marcus’ thumb was continuous, his other hand, of his injured arm, stroked the outside of her thigh. “Come now, love...do you have something there, in your mind’s eye...something devious, something debaucherous? Good, now, you set the pace, I’ll not stop rubbing her even if you beg me to...I want to watch you cum, hear you scream out your pleasure for all to hear. Go on, then, Gaia...whenever you are ready.”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“If you so much as breathe a hint of what I say here outside of these sacred walls, I will strangle you with my strophium. And not a single jury of your countrymen would find me at fault.” Joking, of course, though the flare of deep maroon on her cheeks made her mortification at the possibility clear. Embarrassment and jealousy? Was that the right feeling for it? It was a shuffle in her stomach, a lurching. Like being shaken awake. He was so different here, when they were like this. Would he do anything to despoil it? She wanted to keep this place sacred - not just to Venus, but to Juno, to Vesta - the womb of her home, where new life would be created. The breast of their relationship, where the heart dwelled, safe, protected, warm, from all outside forces, where everything could be laid bare and cradled. His kisses unknown signatures, further strengthening her desire not just for him, but to be near him, to cast her further into the madness that had started when he first touched her - not the kiss, but the playful nature in which he’d pinned her thumb.

Maybe I fell in love with him there. A thought, unbidden, but filled her heart once more, a pressed, muffled giggle against his chest before she rose up again, looking for a more corporal pleasure. I suppose I’ll never grow out of being ‘Silly Gaia’, if all it took to win my heart was a thumb against my own. Well, that, and a bracelet born from the sea. A glance down at her wrist to where the bracelet still sat, luckily undamaged by the tussle in the baths. Had it broken there, all of the playful, strange sexually loaded battle between her and Tiberius would have turned to true rage and murderous intent. I am still such a child.

A gentle slap at his chest when he waggled his eyebrows at her, laughing. Not the deep belly laugh of unrestrained humor, but a brief, girlish thing at having been teased. But luckily I will not be a child alone - look at how he shines like this, free from worry. What will I give, continue to give, to be the source of such comfort to him? Her thoughts were plain on her face in the affectionate cant of her smile, her own worries melted away. A smile, though, that began to melt like honey in hot water. Not out of fear, or shame, or worry - but out of incredulousness, out of being put on the spot with his compliments. Her face was afire, the brief maroon of her blush returning with a vengeance, sunburn in early morning light. She was so tongue-tied that, for once in her life, she had not a smart comment, a deflection, ready at hand to bat away his well-meaning words. Her hands, on sheer instinct, flew to her face to cover her cheeks, her eyes, doing her best to take herself away from his words.

What it ended up doing was knocking her off balance, and gracelessly, she tumbled backwards - would have nearly fallen off of the bed if not for the instinct in her thighs. They tightened their hold on him, almost painful with the sharpness of their response, to keep her upright. Odd reflex from a noblewoman. One that had been born of years of play-fighting, of learning how to pin foes bigger than her. Another realization that fluttered through her: one she was a bit more resistant to heed, however. But the wanton inside of her won out. The wrinkled smile of embarrassment turned into the sly grin of a woman who knew that she had the upper hand, but would never divulge how she got it, or what it was.

Farewell, my youth! It would be difficult to see pins in a chaste manner again, not when those skills learned would be utilized here, to keep him right where she wanted him, and to allow herself greater flexibility in what she wanted as well. Atop him, still confident, she shifted, her arms moving behind her as she leaned back. A parting of those thighs, rippling of musculature beneath the smooth skin, shifting weight from the heels and soles of her feet to the balls to allow for pivoting. At this angle, leaning back, her cunt was spread wide to his eyes, should he shift up a bit. A dance in contrasts, her sex - the firm pale pink pearl of her clit, hardened and eager to join in, exposed from the darker brown purple flesh of her sex, the deep silken pink of her opening proper, speared by the shining shaft of his cock flushed with blood, still lighter than the skin that surrounded it, than the lips that parted to accept him.

“A name,” another laugh. “Seeing as you’ve been the first to discover her, I believe it’s your right to name her.” Lively in her response, but with truth behind it. Though she supposed it had always been a part of her body, and not instantly springing forth when she was married, he had been the first to find it, really and truly. All pleasure that she sought from it afterwards was because of his pioneering work. “Not just in flesh alone,” she added, musing mockingly thoughtful, “But in purpose.” Her unspoken statement was clear: she had been a virgin in all ways. No ghostly memory of a first love for him to compete against, no fumbling explorations of her own. No thoughts of Venus given until their marriage - a chasteness that was something out of myth. Inexperience that would falter, shrink, in the face of his overwhelming life - if she thought too long on it, she knew she would feel inadequate in all ways, that the novelty of her newness to all things carnal would fade, and fade quickly. Perhaps a bit slower if she attempted to read erotic scrolls, if she tried to be inventive - but what if she overdid it, and he thought her to be a debased creature?

For a second, all of her worries, her concern, surfaced on her face. The agony of the unknown, of the assumptions to fill the gaps in her knowledge.

I don’t want to think of such things, a pained cry deep within her. Let me be here in this moment, with him right now, to enjoy what I have. Not to be trapped into the wastelands of the thoughts of the things that I don’t.

It would take a monumental effort to tear her thoughts away. Being the last child, the strange girl, she had a lifetime of being left alone to explore and deepen the labyrinth of her mind, the worst assumptions of herself created by mischief, but verified by her interactions with others. Had it been any other man, had she not been so strongly attracted, attached to him, he would have lost her then and there. He would have still had her body, true, but not her mind. The press of his thumb against her, rubbing, though she was wet, his thumb moreso, caused her to flinch a bit.

“Softer, like you’re barely touching it,” she’d said, before she realized she’d spoken out loud, corrected him. Panic in those eyes, before his next words attempting to soothe her. She would have to take a leap of faith. She was at the edge already, her toes over the rocky ledge. Peering down, she could see nothing, but within, she could feel it - that warmth again, not just of having her body caressed and brought to full wakefulness, but of the thing she called ‘love’ for him. She closed her eyes, took in a deep breath. Like pulling an arrow, that moment where the string goes taunt, and you can feel it, the touch of the Huntress, her hand over yours, the arrow launching from your heart…

Visions, clouded, nebulous, struggling for birth behind closed eyelids. He wanted her to think of things that would increase her pleasure, but there was nothing there - a mind untried for erotic possibility, for erotic futures: only able to think of what was there in the moment. Lips parted, wanting to admit her defeat, lured by the safety of his embrace.

“I know not what to think of, save for here, in this moment,” she confessed, a small voice nearly broken from shame. Had she let him down? “There’s…nothing…nothing more than I feel, that I know of, but how full you make me. It hurts, a little, still,” a careful shift of those hips as she put more weight on her hands, allowing her to lift her hips a bit off of him, “Because you’re so thick…here,” and she lowered herself, taking him in, one third, then two, stopping, with the lower half of him glistening, with her own juices running down him, her voice breaking into a soft moan, “Right here, thickest part, stings, until this…” She lowered fully onto him, sucking him in, with a loud groan that she didn’t try to hide, “Until you’re all the way in, and then…you’re all inside, and nowhere, no matter how I move, can I escape you.” Further illustrating her point, she shifted forward, closing her legs, to be a bit more upright, shifting him inside of her. It was with soft pants that she gyrated atop him, twisting this way and that, burying him, releasing him, sending torrents of her arousal down him. The combination of her movements and his thumb, now lighter against her clit, was making it hard for her to speak, to focus past what was happening, “It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt, before this. My fingers…when I tried,” shyness, but she had to tell him, “they were nothing like this. An insult, really,” a shuddering breath as she clenched on him, the pleasure flaring deeply within her - a new spot that the thickness of him pressed against, “Couldn’t come close. I don’t want to try it again.” Not out of pain, no - but out of sheer frustration. Now that she had this, how could she want anything else? The next words were out of her before she could stop them, the flash of that beast Tiberius behind her eyes, “If anything, I would want bigger. Longer, thicker, to feel more like I’m being torn apart, only for you to remake me…” It was gibberish, part of her knew that, but gods, the idea of it. Her breathing was faster now as those hips worked, the slow pace dissolving as she began to eagerly chase after her orgasm. Lifting a bit off of him now and sliding back down, without letting him pop out of her, her cunt fighting every attempt to let him slip out entirely, the sound of flesh on flesh picking up. “So big that you stick inside of me, that you can’t move, that all I feel is you, holding me, buried inside of me, filling every hole I have,” faster and faster still her words, “I want to be so full that I cannot move, oh, gods,” her words were turning song-like, the meaning lost as she plunged harder, faster. “I like that it hurts, I like that you can barely fit, it makes me want to take more, making me feel alive, this thick, fat cock of yours, mine, all mine now, and I want to make it so you never look at another, never think of another, that you smell of me as much as I long to smell of you, to always be reminded of you, your warmth, your seed,” her head was tossed back now, hands leaving the safety of the mattress to press against him, her toes curling into the sheets as she rode him harder. Her brows knit, her breasts red across the tops from their vigorous, unrestrained jiggling as she bounced atop him. “I’m your whore, Marcus - I think of nothing else of how you please me, fuck, fuck, fuck…!” A litany of foul language, learned from him, before her voice stuttered, shook, her cunt closing impossibly tight on him. It could have been his name, it could have been a swear, it could have been a prayer - or some combination of all three as she orgasmed, screaming without abandon, overwhelmed by the thickness of him, of this new position, of new knowledge. Her nails bit into his chest fiercely, nearly enough to draw blood as she clung to him, the only steady port in the storm of her orgasm. Her thighs, too, clenched on him, even as her body trembled from the effort of holding her up.

 

[Talon]

Marcus’ eyes hungrily drank in the sight of his wife as she sat astride him; how the residual energy from the force of her lower half continually colliding with his midsection traveled up through her body to resolve in the tantalizing jiggle of her breasts, a weighty pair that sat high and proud atop her chest, the natural light of their environment illuminating and highlighting the outline of her head, neck and shoulders, backlighting her form, blazing about her like an aura, like an external manifestation of the heat he felt where their bodies met, where his manhood delved deep into her core with each downward thrust, held captive there by the strength of her grip, to be both embraced and strangled, caressed and stroked by the muscles of her inner passage, to be bathed in the warmth of her insides at the very source of the heat that all but emanated from her loins. Just as she described feeling a particular portion of him most acutely, that spot where she perceived his girth truly tested her capacity to accommodate him, where it seemed enough to almost rip her apart at the seams, he too felt her there most intensely, so much so that her placing emphasis on it for the purpose of demonstration set his eyes rolling up into his head as his breath hitched, a husky groan summoned forth from his lips by the motion of her hips once she had lifted herself up off him again.

“Unghh…”

Rather than an attempt to interrupt her journey of sexual exploration it was clear that the sound was but unsolicited feedback, unbridled praise, a warm expression from a man so oft described as cold, seemingly, at least for the moment, thawed by the loving ministrations of his growing-ever-more-confident mate. It was not the only sound he would make as she rode him, and rightly so, for what man could lay silent while such an impassioned lover bounced her way to orgasm atop him?

The disparate elements of the scene that was playing out in their marital chambers coalesced to set the tone of the mood, that of pure, unrestrained and absolute lust, with something on offer to tempt and tease and pleasure every possible sense; the natural heat of the surrounding atmosphere, sourced from both the friction of bodies rubbing together as much or more than the background warmth generated by the rays of the dawn that filtered in through the open ports, beams of light through which minute particles of dust lazily fluttered as they warmed what surfaces they touched from where they had cooled throughout the night. The scent; the smell of sex, of undertones of clean, fresh sweat overlaid by the heady aroma of feminine arousal, both working in concert to mask the underlying scent of the sea that lie just beyond those ports through which the light of the dawn shone. The sounds; abundant rump clapping against muscular thigh, of grunts and groans both masculine and feminine, of arousal churned tacky and thick by friction as she relentlessly worked the length of his prick in and out of her sex, of smooth skin sliding across fine sheets, of wooden bed frame absorbing the energy of a woman passionately seeking pleasure atop her lover. The sights; the boldly bald-headed young bride, bare scalp gleaming with a hint of sweat, her expenditure of youthfully exuberant energy setting flesh a-jiggle, triggering muscular thighs to flex and ripple, shoulders too well-developed to belong to someone of her sex and station flexing.

As impressive and noteworthy as any and all those things might be at any other moment, it was the motion of her teats that currently stole his focus; as fine a pair as any young tavern wench aspiring to pull in an overabundance of tips could hope to possess, overly full and round and ripe and perky, the motion of her body ensured they moved in such a way, bouncing and swaying and jiggling energetically, that they all but demanded one sit up and take notice. Marcus couldn’t help but feel some measure of remorse in having failed to adequately express just how pleasing he found the sight of them. He was quite sure she knew he favored her backside, after all, he had been far from subtle in his praise and admiration, but the rest of her body deserved it’s fair share of his attention. He’d be sure to rectify his oversight and make known his opinion, that is, just as soon as he regained the ability to speak and express himself with some measure of coherence. As it were, the unrelenting warmth and grip of her cunt had done well to still his tongue, limiting his depth of expression to little more than reflexive vocalizations of passion or pleasure.

And so Marcus listened in relative silence as she narrated her journey of erotic self discovery. He had figuratively held her hand as he led her to the origin point of that path, sure, but the trail she currently blazed was all her own. These were not simply his own fantasies learned by rote being recited back to him with aim to please him or stroke his male ego, nor the fumblings of some acolyte who struggled to provide the solution for a problem their master presented them. No, he was bearing witness to the evolution of Gaia as a sexual being, one whose mind had been opened to this entirely new aspect of reality, of maturity, of occupying her space as a woman with carnal thoughts and desires and cravings and a lustfulness all her own. This was a part of what made her tick sexually, and Marcus wanted nothing more than to know all of the intricate details now that she’d broken down that wall and was willing to share with him a peek inside her sexual intricacies, to foster them and help her make them more than just unrealized fantasy.

Face facts, old man, if you dare hope to keep this burgeoning nymphomaniac satiated, you’d better take note. It’s becoming all too clear that she’s not going to be the sort of woman who will be content with the occasional peck on the cheek or a gift of finery or fashionable garment as demonstration of your affection for her. She desires this as much as you do...even more than you, most likely. She has an appetite for it, now that you’ve awoken this part of her, an appetite ample enough to impress even that dog Tiberius who thinks of nothing other...

There was something of a knot beginning to form deep in Marcus’ gut, there just beyond the intense sensations of pleasure and the satisfaction of once more coupling with his wife and lover. Would he be able to keep up? Not only on account of his advancing age, but that was chief among his causes for concern. As of yet he had staved off much of the more common effects of aging beyond the silvering of his hair and a few lines on his face, and with his active lifestyle and the resulting physique, he’d often been told he resembled and rivaled men a decade younger or more in appearance. Most of the men his peers in station by now showed at least one, if not several, of the telltale signs of growing older in a position of wealth and privilege; the soft thickness around the middle, the aching joints and bones that grew tired even when resting upon a cushion for most of the day, the inability to or loss of desire for pleasuring their wives or even lovers. None of those things could be attributed to him, at least at this very moment, so perhaps concerns of keeping up with her physically could safely be kept at bay for at least a decade or two. Even then, what about this outsized appetite of hers? What if it didn’t wane...what if he couldn’t keep up? Would that be him in a few years...five years...ten years? In ten years Gaia would yet be in her prime, albeit on the backside of the cruel and unrelenting curve of time, but still, he would imagine she had many more fruitful years ahead of her before she grew tired of engaging in her newfound favorite activity.

And what would he do when she discovered just how much power she could wield with this newfound sexuality of hers? She seemed oblivious to it before, to what lust she was capable of inspiring in others, to just how far a body like hers could take her, how in certain situations curves like hers were a more valued tool of influence than either coin or blade. Wars had been fought over women like her...what would Gaia do with this power now that she was becoming aware of it, how would it change her, color her personality? Truth be told, for as much as he confessed his love for her, and truly meant it, they were scarcely more than acquaintances as it related to matters of character or morals or values. He would never know her as her father or brothers did, what she was like as a person without factoring in her sexuality and his physical attraction to her. Was she an honorable woman, or would she seek to influence him and lead him down a path of her own design as other women in his past had? From what he knew of her already that seemed unlikely, but then again, she’d only recently been exposed to a world that had been closed off to her for an abnormally long span of time, only an oracle could know how she would respond to her new reality and this extra dimension of it. What was more frightening than that, than the uncertainty of not knowing, was that he already knew he wouldn’t be able to resist her if she chose that path. For all his famed stubbornness and steadfastness, he knew he’d be like clay in the hands of an artist if she so chose to mold him to her will and went about it with subtlety, so strong and immutable was his attraction to her. And to make things even worse, he’d do so with pleasure if it meant he could expect to awaken to such pleasurable treatment every morning they awoke in bed together.

She has no need to use her feminine wiles to move me towards her cause, I will give unto her fully what she desires while yet I am able. Not only because I want to see her happy and healthy and content and well-sated, but because satisfying her is what I desire most deeply also. This beautiful creature, given unto me by chance if not by the will of the gods, pure and kind of spirit, this woman has chosen to freely share with me the fruits of her bountiful body, the warmth of her heart and the sharpness of her mind. Already she pledges to bear me, bear us, the gift I have yet to be given. For that alone I aim for nothing more than to please her, and to be pleased by her, until the very end of my days...to see the telltale signs of a smile upon those gentle features and curling those luscious lips, to hear the sounds of her laughter beneath our roof, even moreso those of that endearing but entirely unladylike guffaw that signals a tease or a limerick has truly hit the mark...to hear the sensual sound of her moans as we writhe atop the sheets, so intertwined that we cannot divine where Gaia ends and Marcus begins…

Marcus stared up at her as if spellbound, his eyes now gleaming wetly and expressively with with lust, his brow heavy with concentration, the occasional grunt or forceful exhale a testament to his focus, his gaze now fixed not on her breasts, for as tempting a visual target as they were, going so far as to occasionally dance their way into the bottom of his peripheral vision as if attempting to lure his eyes away, the picture of her visage in that moment was transfixing. The quiver in those soft, pillowy lips, the flash of the whites of her eyes as they roll back into her head, the occasional hitch to her breath, the flaring of her nostrils, that look of pure, uninhibited pleasure she wore plainly on her features. It was intoxicating to know that, despite the effort being hers almost exclusively, that the implement she used and heaped praise upon as she sought her orgasm was his alone. All men responded well to having that particular part of their anatomy praised, even when, or maybe particularly when, they suspected or otherwise were aware of how mundane it truly was. Although Marcus had known of his manhood’s exceptional girth from previous partners who had lain with enough men to know the difference, still that didn’t stop the flare of pride from forming in his chest when she so lovingly recounted her perception of how it felt inside her, how it challenged her, how it scratched that itch that developed deep inside her cunt when she went too long without experiencing it now that she’d grown to know of it, intimately. Perhaps it was a bit uncouth to be braggadocious about such things in polite company, but here, while alone together in the sanctity of their bed chambers, he felt pride in his body and the way it was formed, seemingly so as to be the compliment to hers as evidenced by how well they fit together, both in practice and in their deepest and most base of fantasies. He had no reason to feel ashamed for being so drawn to her physically, for she too was drawn towards him, particular parts of him, in ways that she wouldn’t want to describe in front of polite company.

For as much as Marcus sought to stave off his own orgasm, for reasons both selfish and selfless, Gaia certainly wasn’t keen on making his task an easy one. For the entire time she spoke as she rode him his thumb had continued its stimulative stroking of her clitoris, lightly as bidden, and by the time she had broken down into glowing praise for his manhood and proclaiming herself his whore, the proof of her arousal was well evident in the sheen of wetness worn not only on the tip of his thumb, but also gracing the back of it and streaming down across his wrist. If he objected to being so decorated he gave no sign, if anything it seemed to only spur him to increase the speed of his thumb’s movements, doing his best to mimic those of his tongue that had caught her favor when first he applied it there between her thighs. No more did he lie perfectly still either, his hips gyrating up and down with her movement, pushing up as she fell and pulling back as she rose, seeking to assist her in her attempts to mold herself to him, to wear her cunt in through frequent and passionate use, to temper the stubborn tightness that unerringly gripped his prick in that spot where it was the thickest. Their combined efforts would prove fruitless, however, for no matter how many times that bountiful backside rose and fell, how many times she gasped and he sighed as he once more filled her, still she gripped him like a vice, like the desperate grip of a hand that clutched the edge of a cliff from which the fall would prove fatal. Warm and slick and plush and tight, her cunt was to him what his prick was to her; a challenge. A challenge to his ability to hold his orgasm at bay, to resist the urge to simply flip her over, pin her down and ram his cock in and out of her until he came, to resist the animalistic urge to seed her with no regard as to her pleasure.

With as much will as the battle-hardened old veteran could muster Marcus resisted that animalistic side, for the moment at least content to pump his hips up as her arms shifted, her nails biting into his chest, acceptable and even desirable pain in the heat of the moment as it signaled she was drawing closer to her climax, her hips working instinctually, never letting his cock slip from her even as her higher faculties left her, her speech stuttering, his thumb working, fingers probing through that dense tangle of dark curls above her sex, his other hand slapping against the outside of her thigh, sliding up to grip her waist, his entire body flexing, muscles rippling as their bodies worked in concert towards a common goal, towards pleasing her, making her cum with his cock buried as deep inside her as their combined efforts could manage. His testicles, large and full and hanging loosely in their fleshy sack between his thighs, danced as the motion in his hips grew more forceful, jostling this way and that, the skin of that wrinkled pouch gleaming with the proof of her arousal where it had seeped out from her as those plump, dark labia of hers were seated around the root of his cock, fluid churned out from her depths by the efforts of that maddeningly thick knob that sat atop his prick, that throbbed deep within each time it was fully seated, that sought to delve ever deeper, to satisfy her urge to be filled, to be impaled upon the fleshy lance of her lover, to be shattered into a million pieces by a cock large enough to truly break her to the best of it’s capacity.

Marcus’ head was thrown back into the mattress by the sheer sonic force of her orgasmic wail as it shot from her like an arrow from a pulled string, the motions of his own body falling still as she seized up, his hand at her sex stopping it’s pleasurable motions as her cry reverberated throughout their surroundings, contenting itself with instead teasing out those curls above her sex, the grin that cracked his formally stoic facade warm and easy as he felt her insides convulsing around his prick, a grin so warm and earnest that it touched eyes that looked upon her face with wonderment and endearment bordering on worship, a light sweat forming at his brow even as he felt the warmth from her ample orgasmic discharge against the insides of his thighs, his chest rising and falling heavily as he just watched her for a few silent moments as the waves of pleasure wracked her body.

“I’m quite sure they heard that one all the way back in the Eternal City, my love…” A light scoff, playful, airy, breathless. “...let them hear it, I want all within the range of your voice to know my wife is a woman well pleased…” Marcus’ hands moved up his body, seizing her injured hand with both of his, gently, pulling it up towards his face to allow him to press his lips against the backs of her fingers before nuzzling them against his cheek, his gaze seeking hers, eyes sparkling with mirth. “...for not only is she the scabbard to my sword…” A callback to his earlier jest, his lips curling in his trademark half-smile, his gaze playful if not a bit devious. “...but she is also the Sun that lights my day and the Moon that illuminates my night…” The smile gone, the gyration of his hips returning, his cock still hardened, surging and pressing a hair’s breadth deeper inside her still overly sensitive sex, his motions gradual but insistent, his once more calmed breath again growing heavy. “...my whore, my wife, my friend and my lover, you are all things and everything to me…” His hands released hers, moving between them, gripping her about the waist where it began to draw in at her sides, holding her steady, elevated enough to give him some range of motion, a third of his cock still held inside her when his backside met the mattress, granting him some measure of space to thrust up and into her.

A slow, gradual thrust was first given to evaluate the effectiveness of his positioning, the remnants of her orgasm coating the thick shaft of his prick, granting a smooth, if not noisy, readmittance of the entirety of his prick up and into her with a wet, sticky ‘schlick’.

“Mmmm...I didn’t know you felt so strongly about him, or that he tested you so…” Just who ‘he’ was was quite evident, but just in case she had doubt about the intended reference, Marcus thrust his pelvis up with enough strength to clap against the back of her thighs and rump, his cock once more filling her to capacity. “And yet you took him up your backside with so little reservation…” A controlled fall of his hips, measured, leaving only that thick knob at the tip and a small measure of the shaft beneath inside her, to be followed quickly by another thrust, his legs shifting beneath her, knees bending up to grant him more leverage in order to enable him to generate more power through his hips. “One moment a bashful bride who blushes at the exchange of a chaste kiss…” Another retreat before another, more insistent, more forceful upward thrust. “...the next a wanton whore who shamelessly takes her husband’s fat cock up her ass at her own insistence...”

His hands shifted then, Marcus apparently confident in her ability to hold herself aloft through her own power, at least for a few moments, gliding up her body, calloused palms against silky smooth softness, devoid of blemish and absent the weathering effects of exposure to the sun, his palms cupping the underside of her breasts as they hung there between them, their shape only just altered on account of their weight in combination with the angle of her upper half, his eyes for a moment marking the contrast of sandy beige thumbs brushing across the expanse of richly dark, earthen brown flesh, each orb capped off by dainty, dark little nubs for nipples of a color that evoked comparison to a moonless night sky.

“Mmm...but it’s not simply the size of your ass or the tightness of your cunt that drive me mad with lust, you know…” A sharp, forceful thrust of his hips sent a jolt through her, shaking the abundance of flesh he was attempting to corral within his palms, her sex proving more up to the task of accommodating his own than his hands were of containing her breasts as their abundance spilled over and between his fingers. “You threatened to strangle me with your strophium before…” Thumbs brush against nipple in unison, tracing the outline of areola, flicking across the erect buds with as light a touch as he had exhibited when stimulating her clit. “...I fully trust that a garment made to keep confined this particular pair would be well suited to the task…” Another coy smile, another sparkling in his eyes, another warm and playful moment from the very paragon of stoicism, from the man whose life seemed lived without care for joy and fun and lightheartedness. Whether or not her personality was truly rubbing off on him, it was readily apparent that in these secretive moments shared only between the somewhat unlikely pair of lovers, he was a different Marcus altogether, unrecognizable from the man one would meet in the street or at the Forum.

“All the women of Rome would grow green with envy should they glimpse these magnificent orbs in the flesh…” Another thrust of his hips, his palms hefting her breasts, juggling them demonstratively. “...the men would turn a whole different shade entirely…” A smirk as his thumb and forefinger latched around those dark buds, squeezing, tweaking, pinching with what would be just enough force to elicit a gasp from her if not for the action of his hips that continued the task of working his cock steadily in and out of her cunt, each upward thrust shaking her just so, her captured breasts restrained by forceful fingers and cupping palms. “What do you think, wife? Maybe next time we’re at market you let them out for some air, let the market goers catch a peak…let them see how well the Senator’s wife is built below the neck…”

“And while we’re there, perhaps we’ll visit together the temple of Priapus, ask how much such a blessing would cost…”. His fingers worked at her nipples, tweaking them as his hips worked, his voice growing hoarse with lust. “To make him bigger, so outrageously big that he not only satisfies you, but also breaks you…” His fingers pinched then, twisting slightly, just enough to elicit a gasp, enough to raise the pressure to begin to trigger pain receptors, all the while his hips still pumping, his cock throbbing each time it was seated within her depths. “We’ll let you demonstrate to the Priest how big it should grow with your hands...can you imagine a cock like that, what it would look like, how it would taste, smell...feel?” His fingers pinched at her nipples again, roughly, as his thrusts were now made with enough force to be well audible throughout the room, the clapping of his thighs against the underside of her rump the backdrop for his take on her erotic scenario as he narrarated it for his benefit as much as hers. “Better yet, what would you look like as I used it on you, hmmm? How vociferous would your screams be then as I fucked you open with it, or bid you take it down your throat until you gagged on it, or up your tight little ass until you begged me to pull it out?” Marcus chuckled, an odd sound amidst the ‘claps’ and ‘schlicks’ that filled the air about them. “Well...maybe little is not a fitting description, but the hole between it is certainly tight. For the time being, at least, that is before I introduce my newly gifted horsecock to it…” His hands left her breasts then, releasing them suddenly, the twin orbs once more subject to motion and inertia and gravity, bouncing freely upon her chest as his hands fell to her hips, gripping her there, now pulling her down to meet his upward thrusts, a grunt passing his lips before next he spoke. “Is that what you want...hmmm? What you need?” The speed at which his hips pumped began to gradually increase as he spoke. “To be stretched open so wide that you’d never find satisfaction with a normal man after? To be fucked so full of seed that you’d never feel empty? All holes filled, remember?”

Marcus held his tongue a few moments as he gnawed at his lower lip, content to let his hips do the talking, to let the sounds of their coupling echo about the room without competing with the spoken word for purchase, the sounds of their by now sloppily wet sexual organs intermingling were far more erotic than any phrase could hope to be, no matter how crude or lascivious. “Fuck...nnghh...even as I say that, if I were to be granted this boon, I’m not sure how it would ever fit…”. She could hear the change in his voice, that faint hint of desperation that signaled his own finish was drawing nearer. His chest heaved, his thrusts growing more savage, less controlled, less measured, driven by little more than instinctual need, the powerful and overwhelming desire to seed his mate growing ever more urgent and overwhelming. “Fuck...I love this cunt…” She could feel his prick growing, swelling, throbbing within her, his hands gripping so tight about her waist that his knuckles whitened, pale, bloodless, even as blood rushed into other parts of his body, keenly felt by his partner as that pleasantly challenging girth grew ever more daunting, that fat head at the tip now a fist, an arm following behind it as he still somehow managed to ram it home. “Fuck...by the gods, woman...fuck!”

Though there was no scream to echo down the halls, still she could feel the force behind his orgasm as it ripped though his form, from the strength of his grip at her waist to the final collision of his midsection against hers. Nowhere more powerfully than inside, however, as heavy, successively weakening throbs of his cock tested the unrelenting grip of it’s captor with surprising strength, bucking as it fired off volley after volley of seed from that slit that split the uppermost part of the tip in voluminous measure, his breath broken by grunts that almost sounded pained as his upper body convulsed, overcome for the moment by pleasure.

The crown of his head rolled back against the mattress beneath him as he settled down off that wave, his desperate grunts turned to soft laughter of disbelief. “I cannot believe…”. Panting, he was still catching his breath as she could feel his manhood lessening within her, well satisfied by their vigorous coupling, the proof of which began to seep from her around it’s lessening form as he held it there inside her. “...that you are yet a novice in the realm of lovemaking…”. His gaze sought hers as his head once more lifted up, his hands loosening their grip, now stroking her sides lovingly, one roaming over towards her belly, pressing against the softness there, down nearer that dark triangle above her sex, near where he had only moments prior desposited his seed. “...never has a woman brought me to such heights…”. His grin was once more warm and wide, easy and unreserved. “...shall we not start every morning hereafter this same way? Somehow I feel I’m going to be a busy man for the next few weeks…”. He winked at her playfully, his hand still at her stomach, still lovingly caressing her.

“Now that you’ve so thoroughly roused me from slumber, how do you usually like to greet the day? To the baths, perhaps? While it would be a shame to wash away the result of all that effort, I imagine you’d enjoy a nice warm bath to soothe those well used thigh muscles...”


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


A pair of eyes passively followed the contingent of female kitchen servants as they went about their morning tasks, the beholder perched upon a stool behind a stout table the staff used to lay out dishes that were prepared for delivery, his face hovering over a wooden plate adorned with a healthy serving of bread and dates, one hand firmly grasping a goblet of tepid wine-enhanced water, the other sluggishly working a section of bread ripped off from the heel of the half-loaf he’d been served, idly scraping it across the the top of the plate and through what had formerly been a neat dollop of honey, now spread about the plate haphazardly by his absentminded attempt to coat the section of bread in his hand with it. Tiberius watched in silence as they buzzed about the kitchen in the course of carrying out their morning duties, the forlorn looking man resembling a hungry lion eyeing a nearby cackle of hyenas in the distance, capable of making any one individual his meal but lacking the confidence to take on the entire group without assistance. Innocent to a woman, he couldn’t help but feel their cheerful giggles and playful banter was aimed at him, as if they knew the source of his frustration and were mocking him for it, hyenas cackling teasingly at the lion as it looked on from afar. He was quite sure he could talk his way under at least one of their skirts, whether by gift of gab or pledge of payment, but he knew the score here. He wasn’t entitled to take liberty with their persons, he wasn’t the Domus of the house, afterall, and they seemed the sorts who would brandish their heavy wooden utensils at him if he tried to separate any one member of the pack away long enough to wile her with his charm or bedazzle with the promise of gold.

Fear of violent reprisal aside, he knew ultimately that bedding one of these servant women would do little more than take the immediate edge off. The physical sensations of the act of coitus would bring pleasure, surely, but it would do little to satisfy his appetite, like a man seeking wine being offered naught but water to quench his thirst. It wasn't the case that he found them objectionable physically, quite the contrary, from this group of servants, oft privileged enough to eat well from the kitchen’s leftovers with enough regularity that they retained somewhat healthy, curvaceous forms, there were a fair few that had caught his discerning eye. Like the one nearest him, across the table...a matronly woman well into her middle years, a decade or more of struggle and servitude clear in the lines on her plainly featured face and the grey beginning to color the mess of dark hair currently pulled into a thick knot atop her head. He could see the outline of generous hips beneath her gown, the promise of a plush form, a suitably sized backside that would offer a delightful natural cushion as he took her from behind. She turned around then, meeting his eyes for but a moment as her gaze slid past, her form briskly moving across the room to retrieve some unknown ingredient from a shelf containing many rows of containers against the wall opposite her former position. A sharp beak of a nose, a bit overly harsh, but there was also a softness to her eyes, currently brought out by the light smirk that played across her lips. Somewhat plain, perhaps, but certainly not ugly. She looked a bit haughty for a slave, but even that could be overlooked given the situation. She wasn’t aware of his rank or station, afterall, and he was a strange man in her domain. Maybe she was also detecting a hint of desperation from him, too, which never sat well with women, at least any that he'd heard from. They’ll accept downtrodden, dejected even, but desperate was a step too far. Nothing sealed a woman’s legs shut tighter than a man who needed it so bad he was willing to beg for it.

I had her there, in my arms, and could have taken her right there against the side of the pool if I so desired. She did little to resist, then, at the end… almost as if she wanted it as badly as I did...

He watched as one of the servants turned away from him to slap and knead at a ball of dough on the counter before her, powder rising up and hanging in the air around her, shrouding her momentarily as it settled about her. The servant had the look of a well-fed woman, as well fed as a slave could be, he thought, with plumpness in her hips and thighs rounding out the bottom half of her plain servant's garment. Tiberius finally raised the chuck of bread up to his lips, biting off a piece and chewing deliberately, his gaze instinctually lingering on the servants backside a moment as she worked, subconsciously assessing her desirability even as his conscious thoughts remained focused on the dark stranger from the bath, that Amazon of a woman whose force of foot was the source of the lingering ache between his thighs.

A fine bit of fabric to spin for myself, that...to make me feel somehow justified in my actions, to feel less like I set upon her whilst she was at her most vulnerable...

Tiberius lazily chewed, his eyes flickering about the rest of the kitchen staff as if to determine if his leering had caught the attention of any of her cohorts. It’s not that he feared the risk of being chastised by them directly, more that he didn’t want to have to hear from Mikkos that they’d complained about him or voiced fear. The last thing he needed was for Marcus to hear of another incident involving him and women under his roof, even if these in particular were slaves. For their part they seemed unbothered by his presence, for all they knew he was but a member of the guard recently arrived. They’d fed him, and shown proper deference, but they had duties to fulfill, and so long as he didn’t interfere in the performance of them he was for the moment beneath their notice. He likely wasn’t the first stray dog to enter their kitchen seeking to satisfy an appetite that their bodies could satiatiate more readily than their culinary skills, the type they would hope a cold shoulder would warn off before resorting to a makeshift cudgel across the skullcap. Satisfied then that the presence of a rooster in the henhouse hadn’t set them off, he resumed leering at the matronly cook as he took another bite of his breakfast.

I wonder if this one could be talked into a roll in the sack after she’s done with her chores…

Tiberious scoffed beneath his breath, shaking his head as he imagined the scene; the plump cook on her back atop the counter there, plain gown pulled up around her waist, her ankles locked behind his back, soft thighs wrapped about his waist, eyes widened, powdery hands alternatively clutching and slapping at his forearms as his own gripped around her waist, her lips formed in a comical ‘o’ shape as she squealed with an erotic mixture of pain and pleasure each time he thrust his hips forward...

She has a perfectly adequate form for a woman her age...besides, she’s no spring chicken. A woman like that knows what she wants, knows what a man wants.


And then, as if his libido had hired representation to present it’s arguments in the meeting of the inner mind, another voice manifested there, raising and registering the objection of it’s client.

Yes, that’s all well and good, her potential level of experience. But she doesn’t quite measure up to the Amazon, now does she?

Tiberius frowned, his mouth going slack for a moment as the Libido Lawyer presented it’s first bit of evidence; a mental picture of the Amazon, standing as she was when he first entered the bath, enraptured by the sight of him, the gleam in those dark, slightly widened eyes, soft features exuding femininity, the smoothness of her richly dark, blemishless brown skin moist from the water of the bath, breasts the size of ripe melons that sat high and proud upon her chest, openly displayed with no effort made to inhibit his observation of their majesty, of the two little nubs at the center of each that were the color of a starless night sky, a shade echoed in the thick patch of fur above that resided above her sex…

Tiberius shook his head, grumbling beneath his breath as he snatched the remainder of his serving of bread off the plate, raising it to his mouth to rip a chunk off between clenched teeth with annoyedly exaggerated ferocity.

I want her...right now, right this moment, there is nothing I want more in this earthly realm than to lie between her thighs and ravage her until I collapse from fatigue. Alas, it appears she has gone to ground. Had she felt the same way she could have found me by now...it’s clear the desire is unrequited.

Tiberius could have been great at any one thing he put his mind to, possessing the type of mind and character that easily grasped and applied the concepts of dedication and discipline. Had art been his chosen field, he would have been the type who neglected food, drink and the pleasures of both the fruit of the vine and of the flesh, instead choosing to toil away at a masterpiece he would never quite consider finished. A seasoned and capable warrior he was, surely, but he could have risen near to the level of Achilles or Herakles if he spent half as much time in the practice yard as he did the tavern rooms. He didn’t quite have the temperament for subterfuge or the patience required to be a tactician, oh, but if he had, he would have been a force to be reckoned with in the field of politics. His natural charisma and confidence, paired with a desire for position or glory or power...as it were, these things were but a means to an end for a man of his appetites.

After all, little in this realm parted thighs and spread them wide more readily than lofty titles or prestigious appointments and the coin that followed with them.

Tiberius looked down at the plate that sat before him, his eyes sliding closed, an attempt to still his yet rapidly beating heart, to hold back the near overwhelming force of his libido as it pushed and prodded at him in an attempt to stir him towards taking action, any action, that would further the goal of satisfying its needs. He was reminded then of something his training Centurion had often said, words materializing through the mist, through the red haze of unresolved lust that clouded his thoughts.

“The victor is not victorious if the enemy does not consider himself defeated.”

“What, sir...you want more bread?”

Tiberius looked up from beneath thick, sandy blonde eyebrows, considering the plump, matronly servant with the sharp nose with his ice blue orbs for a moment. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken that last bit aloud, he likely sounded a loon spouting off some nonsense about victors and enemies and defeat from out of nowhere.

“That all depends, good woman...was it you who baked it?”

A knowing grin illuminated the lower half of Tiberius’ visage with a flash of white, his left brow quirking ever so slightly, the ice in his gaze melting away as readily as late winter storms turn to early spring runoff.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

So, I’m here again.

Dishonesty wasn’t Gaia’s strong suit. Lucius had often said that it would be easier for the rain to rise from the earth back to the clouds than for Gaia to lie. With that being said, there was no harm in simply not broaching the subject. So she didn’t feel the need to say anything in particular - simply agree to Marcus’s suggestion of a bath. She was a bit better prepared this time, coming with a change of clothing and her favorite perfume. True, it would be her second bath for the day, but one sniff of her body, and she knew she couldn’t disagree.

The walk to the baths had been a quiet one: the only sign of affection that she was willing to show him was a holding of his hand. On the occasion that he would look at her, every time her eyes caught his, she would flush and look away, the picture of modesty. If they were seen by any slaves on their way, they would present the clear picture of a young woman who had recently been deflowered: no need to doubt that the marriage had been promptly consummated without a hitch.

In the mid-morning hush of the baths, the two of them alone, she seemed to blossom just a bit. Sinking into the warm water, the careful walls, the image she tried to convey, simply melted away, adrift on wisps of steam. She sighed, long, contented, as she settled into the water. Rather than getting straight to bathing, her actions would be a clear tell: everything was practiced, slow, measured. Entering into the water, every inch a queen, she waded in to mid-thigh, before kneeling to dunk herself all the way under. The water ran in clear streams down her arms, her back, caressing the musculature of her shoulders. In these rare moments, washed clear of anything else, of thoughts, of only listening to the fatigue of her body, Gaia was less the shy, stumbling girl and more of an ancient creature returning home.

Well, this time should be much more peaceful, I would hope. She looked to Marcus with a contented, close mouthed smile. There was no bashfulness there, more a shared moment between equals, passing nature gods acknowledging one another. Standing, walking, had been no problem, though she had been loathe to yet again rise from the warmth of the bed. No - it was her sex that throbbed. The moment he’d pulled out of her before, she had gasped, not just from the torrent of heat that rushed from her, but how empty she’d felt. Her inner walls had pulsed, once, twice, relaxing after being taxed so. She thought for certain that she’d leave a trail of milky white in the water behind her; there certainly had been enough on her thighs, drooling lazily down to her knees, to make it seem like a valid thought. Though there was no white, there were a few streaks of red - not unsurprising. Still, she dabbed at those quickest, eager to hide them from his eyes.

Oh.

He’s watching me.

She thought she was standing unattractively, with one foot up on the stairs to very unsensuously splash water between her thighs, cup it to rise between the plump lips of her labia. She looked over her shoulder, gave him a bit of a sheepish, then bashful smile with a shrug of her shoulders.

“I…I’m sorry - I haven’t bathed in front of a man before.” That much hadn’t been a lie. She hadn’t actually bathed in front of Tiberius. And now, going through those practiced motions that she knew all too well, she was all too aware of how awkward she must be moving, how unladylike.

But I’ve got to get clean all the same, she chided herself. But I hate doing this while he watches. It makes me uncomfortable - I cannot tell if he gets pleasure out of this or not. Why did I not feel this way when that brute of a friend of his charged in on me?

That was different! He was an intruder: you’ve come in with Marcus, and you’ve just had him inside of you, and oh, great Huntress, you said all of those filthy things! And he said them too - completely immoral. She felt her cheeks nearly burst into flame. I don’t know what’s worse: the fact that they were said, or the fact that I meant it! And now what do we talk about? I can’t speak of the attack, and there’s no livestock here for me to mention…

“This villa is lovely,” she said, feeling as clumsy as a new lamb as she stopped splashing herself and moved into the water. “I really do adore the view of the ocean…I think I may have gone once, when I was younger. It’s so big.”

Big. Just like his phallus.

She coughed, sputtered. “I mean, it’s massive!”

No.

“Enormous!”

Try again!

“Far as the eye can see - water! Yes, yes, lots of water!” She was babbling now, her face deep maroon, her blush showing no side of abating. “Never seen anything like it!”

And now you sound like a simpleton.

“Why don’t I wash your back?!” The words tumbled out of her so quickly that it was more of a hoarse command than a polite request. To make good on her word, she slipped out of the water, her body a lithe, supple expanse of brown, to retrieve a sponge. Slipping into the water like an otter, she waded over to him. “Here, turn your back to me…Maybe sit on the stairs?”





Up and down. Up and down. Side to side. Across shoulders, the side of his neck, down the column of his spine. Her nerves settled immensely once she was behind him, away from his dark eyes. Her touch was as soft as when she fondled him in bed, exploratory and soothing. “Your wound is healing well,” her voice was close to his ear, the slick swells of her breasts pressed against him as taper fingertips traced the wound in a wide berth. “There’s hardly any redness, though I’ll need to apply a poultice once we’re done here. And be careful when using it,” concern was heavy in her voice. “If you can, please try and rest more. Resting facilitates the healing.” She ran her fingertips from his arm to his shoulder, a gentle caress. It was much easier to speak to him like this, without looking directly at him, on something that she felt a bit more confident about than to try and engage him in her own interests.

He’ll not want to hear of my silly, girlish things - or rather, how poorly I do at them. Oh, yes, Marcus, did you like that terrible cake I made? Because as your wife, and the wife of a senator, no less, I have no domestic skills. But please, ask me to track deer, and I’ll prove worthy!

She scoffed, the sound a bit louder than she intended. “Oh, just a bit of water down the wrong pipe!” she quickly said, before he even had a chance to ask what ailed her.

Wait…didn’t that beast ask me to do this? Wash his back? For a moment, the sponge stilled on Marcus’s back. I bet he had something filthy in mind, no doubt. I bet this was what he meant.

A shift. Sponge giving way to something warmer, softer, more yielding. Muffled laughter. Come, look now, Cassia, at the ‘cow udders’ of your youngest sister; see how they can be put to good use! It had taken less effort than she imagined to slip the sponge between her breasts, using the pressure of her chest against his back to hold it there. Moving would prove to be an altogether different beast, though one that was rapidly proving itself to be as fun as it was silly in her head. Clumsy strokes gave way to gliding grinds against his back, his shoulders, a laugh against his ear as she lifted her breasts in her hands, pushing them against him. Cupping them, feeling their weight, saying nothing, but exhaling softly, hotly, against him. A nip to the lobe of his ear, the side of his neck.

Washing his back…playing with myself like this…The sponge fell in the water, the impact barely heard. Without the pretext of the sponge, she pressed the entirety of her front against him, her arms wrapping around his neck, trailing down his chest. Rested her forehead against the nape of his neck, still feeling a bit of embarassment. The heat in her body was chasing it away.

“Hey,” she breathed against his ear, “Can we do it here…?”







Not only could they couple in the water, but they could do it with her out of it and him inside, if she moved close enough to the edge. From her “soaping his back,” then asking if he could clean her filthy inner thighs, she’d taken him there, holding him in place with her heels buried into the small of his back. Attempts at leverage, pressing palms against the tile, were quickly abandoned to score fresh nail marks into his back, her cries echoing off the high ceilings, a cadence that lent itself simply to the sound of the waves, both inside and out.

Feeling the buzz of the cosmos in her bones, starting from her sex, it was hard not to have a wide smile on her face as she went about the task of actually cleaning herself - yet again. She was too giddy (and pleasantly tired) to really notice if he was looking at her.

“By the goddess, I never thought that I could be so sore,” a return to casual conversation, the thin skin of tension between them broken by mutual pleasure, “My poor sex. Even with you not inside, I can still feel you.” There had been a bit more blood; too newly opened muscles ravaged. She would need a break - but - a bit of ice in her stomach - what if he didn’t want one? Was a good wife supposed to be ready, eager, willing, at all times?

“Would you…” Creeping behind him again, her arms around his neck, “Want to try again?” The heat was in her voice, the feeling of his bare, wet body against his causing no small flicker of interest in her body. The throbbing in her cunt told her, screamed at her, that she was not ready, was not able, to handle such another rough coupling. Rough, fast, powerful - it seemed that would be describe how he took her. She was sure she would bear bruises at her waist, her thighs. Could feel the skin tender.

But this is what he’d want to hear, right? Never mind how I feel…I’ve got to show him that I desire him, right?

She wouldn’t have time to debate further. Discreetly behind the open door of the baths, Mikkos’s voice rang out. She didn’t loosen her grip, for fear of breaking the illusion of boundless desire, but again, with her face not directly close to Marcus’s, she could listen attentively.

“Dominus, the Praetor Tiberius and the guard have arrived. Would you want to delay the audience?”

Don’t delay: find out what happened. An unspoken desire - and one that she was able to mask as Marcus turned back to her, almost apologetically. She pouted, the picture perfect new, insatiable bride, and gently waved him on.

“I want to spend a bit longer in here - I’m still quite sore, and I think the warm water will help.” Capped with a kiss, tangle of tongues, praise and desire and the promise of more all wrapped up into a neat package, more fluids exchanged between the two of them. And she’d watch him as he got out, looking admiringly over his body, the strong back, thighs. A playful kiss blown to him on his way out, then, the quiet of her thoughts and the water again.

“I suppose there is too much of a good thing,” she groaned to herself as she finally exited the baths, her fingers and toes crumpled whirls of flesh. Her sex was beyond sore - she’d past that point half-way when he had her bent over the rim of the baths - and she wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed with something cool draped over the cleft of her sex. But how am I to tell him that? I’m sorry, beloved husband, but my cunt is far too beaten and abused to take you again, and my ass, oh, she’s on vacation. Yes; I’m sure that’ll go over quite well.

Taps of fragrant oil to the tops of her breasts, the dip of her collar bone. Beloved husband, I long to talk to you, but every time I do, it starts an argument. So we can make love, if that’s what you want to call it, so in-between those times where we aren’t thrusting madly at each other, we can be something like a pair. Other than that, I suppose we’re not to talk.

Dab to the hollow of her throat. The backs of her ears. The tender flesh across her wrists. But I want to talk to you. I want to know everything about you. I want to know all that you do, I want you to value me more than your scabbard. Though I wonder if I wouldn’t be happy like that, as long as you were happy to see me.

A pursing of her lips as she sat closer to the reflective, highly polished disk of her mirror. Dabs of red ochre to her lips. Deep breaths, in and out, as she leaned closer to line her eyes in kohl. It was a distinctly un-Roman thing to do, but her family had done it for generations - and she thought that it was the one application for makeup that actually made her worth looking at.

I would be happy for a little while. But not for a lifetime. I want to matter to him. Somewhere, I know that I do, but not as an equal. A bit more than a pretty bauble, I think, and one that he feels an unexplained attraction to, though we’ve never encountered each other before. And that I can understand, for I feel the same way. It is so easy to draw up pictures in our minds, based on those feelings.

Oil poured into her hands, massaged into the scalp.

I’ve thought ill things of him - ill things that very well could be true. And I’m sure he’s done the same. Will we be able to meet somewhere in the middle, to actually see each other and speak? Will, one day, I be able to tell him of the protection of the Huntress, how she helped me save him, of the devotion I have to her, to the bow?

A straightening of her palla; it kept wanting to slip off, without the volumes of hair that she had before. Both were a warm cream, cool in the heat of the day and flattering to her skin.

There’s only so much guessing that I can do. Surely things will come in time. But, for now, to give my cunt a well-deserved rest, and to find something inconspicuous to amuse myself with.

A flash of thought. “I suppose I should start by retrieving what was mine.”


_________

Having Cassia as a sister meant that Gaia had quickly learned the fine art of stealth - and it was with that supernatural skill that she not only sussed out Tiberius’s quarters, but entered them. It was a normal enough room - one it didn’t take her much time to go through. Lifting of decorative rugs and pottery, all set back as neatly undisturbed as if they’d never been touched. It wasn’t until she ran a careful hand beneath the mattress that she felt something familiar. With a triumphant grin to herself, she yanked it out.

Perfect. And since Marcus didn’t see me dress, he could be none the wiser if I put these back on.

She grimaced slightly, turning over her newly found subligaculum in her hands.

I’d better not. No telling what that creature did to it - though to her eyes, it looked the same as always, perhaps a bit more wrinkled than normal from being hastily shoved under the mattress.

Alll the same -

With all of the grace of a swan, she lifted up the voluminous folds of her stolla, holding them up with her teeth. Pulled against the edges of the subligaculum that she now wore, and slipped it down her thighs, letting them drop all the way to the floor. Stepping out of them, she let her stolla go, and knelt to retrieve them. Holding them up, she grinned. As she suspected, Marcus was a man of no little seed; her subligaculum had done the lion’s share in catching his spendings after their last coupling - though she was sure that what was left was only after her cunt had drunk beyond her fill.

“And here you are, you creature,” she muttered to herself, neatly folding her sperm sodden subligaculum and shoving it back under the mattress. “Enjoy, with the compliments of the Domina...”
_________

It hadn’t taken long to set the loom up out on the balcony - if anything, the suggestion was well-received. Fresh air and a wife that was already showing initiative? Why, she could’ve have started on a better foot (completely disregarding the fact that she’d left her very damp subligaculum in Tiberius’s room). Of course she would be alone, though - without Arethusa, and no neighboring ladies (that she was aware of; introductions would have to come at a later time), it wouldn’t be right for someone of her standing to weave with the slaves. So it was her, her nemesis the loom, and her thoughts.

As she went through the baskets of yarn brought out to her, she swept a light coating of dust from the tops of them. These haven’t been touched in ages. Maybe my second mother prefers needlepoint. It was all quite nice yarn; even her inexperienced (but ‘experienced’) hands could tell that. Finely dyed and sturdy - simple but well-made. As she stretched out a length of deep marine blue, she smiled a little. It seemed that Marcus favored blue. Might as well start with something that made her think of him.

And maybe that’s all I’ll ever really have: fond thoughts of him. Without thinking, she stretched the yarn across the loom in long arcs. I know that he is a senator, though I suppose I never quite thought of what it really meant until now - father always seemed to be at home, watching over the crops. I know that I will accompany him to Rome, once our time here is done….but then what? I know no one in the city. Can barely remember visiting it. And if his business is there, it will more than likely mean long days apart from him. And how am I to occupy my time?

She plucked one of the strands. Satisfied that it was taunt enough, she dug through the baskets again, looking for a color that would compliment the blue. There’s this, weaving and taking care of the home. I suppose that’s a thing I can do later: find Mikkos and begin to take all of this…seriously.

The thought gave her pause, and her hand stilled on an olive bundle. Her mother had run an impeccable household - or so it seemed. There wasn’t much else to compare it to. Her mother and sisters had been the true wraiths of the house, commanding unseen, though there had to have been some tasks given. Idleness wasn’t looked kindly upon, and it wasn’t out of the ordinary for Octavia to make up tasks just to give her daughters something to do. Gaia suppressed a mild shudder, remembering the one time her mother had forced her to pick wheat from rice - separating each into neat piles, for the crime of sleeping in. It hadn’t helped that Cassia waited round the corner to mess up the piles every time Gaia came close to completing the task.

But how much am I suspected to do now? Is this not my honeymoon, the time where I should be lavished by my husband and all of his home? A soft chuckle as she picked up a rust-colored bundle. Held it against the blue, and decided against it. Sat back, and looked at the dark blue strung up across the loom. I suppose a nice, crisp white would do well. Sort of like the vision in front of me. From here, the ocean was a lazy ribbon, capped with white lace foam. She smiled, thinking that it was a good combination, and winding the thread around her shuttle, let her thoughts wander.

So I can begin to learn about how Marcus likes his house to be run - that’s one thing I could do. But after that, then what? Back to more of this, longing for when I can hear Marcus’s voice, when I know he is all my own after a day wherever he might be? Am I to be a ghost in his home? Do I make attempts to make it my home as well? Or does he like things just so, without so much as a hint that I occupy the same space? Would he prefer not to be reminded that I am with him, that I must keep to one side of the home.

The clink of shells against the wooden frame of the loom made her look down. Another small smile. He asked me to be his sweetheart. Surely that means that he must enjoy my company as well? She ran her fingers across the dark blue yarn, savoring the feel of it. He can be funny, and boyish, even prankish. Those times are so precious - will he alway be free like that with me? Can I be his heart’s home? Or will I have to wait and beg and plead for the smallest scraps of his affection? Goddess Venus, I hope, no, I beseech you, that what he has shown me will always be mine. A lamp to lighten my darkness, as I hope to be for him. Though I wish to be with him at all times, perhaps there are things that I can do, like this bracelet, that will keep me in his heart and in his mind. To know that even though I am clumsy that I mean well.

As she began to start the first line, it was with a slightly easier heart.

It was when she got to about 60 lines in that her mind began to wander further, and slowly, but surely, her shuttle came to a stop, her gaze focusing more and more on the sea.

I’m to make a baby, I know this much.

But just what was a baby, really?

The answer seemed simple enough: a child meant an heir. It was the ultimate duty of all women, except those that were considered “exempt” by religious means. Babies became children, children became adults. And so on and so forth, reaching back into the darkness of the unknowable past and far past her into the indeterminate future. She was the product of her ancestors, fruit born to a tree that continued to branch out.

Babies were her duty as a wife now. In order to be proper, she had to go about the means of producing one. And, with a small smile that belied the heat that blossomed in her cheeks, she had to admit that the process of making them was shaping out to be far more fun than she had ever imagined. And surely, something that came out of that much pleasure could only mean joy, right? A symbol of her emotions at the time, so she must always take care to welcome her husband, her love, with all of the things that she still couldn’t find the words for, for the things that make her dizzy with how overwhelming they were.

But…people - no, not “people”, women - had babies without affection. They could be forced upon them, or unwanted. And even the women who had babies to be respectable, as a part of their duties, such as her sister Cassia, didn’t find happiness with them. Would that happen to her as well? Would she eventually grow apart from Marcus, his ardor chilled as her body succumbed to age, and her children be a reminder of what she no longer had or felt? Or, worse then that - what if she was barren?

She pressed her hands into the soft flesh of her stomach, felt the divot of her navel. She wasn’t sure of the details, if there were any beyond a man taking her as she’d seen the cattle, and then, 9 months later, if she were lucky, healthy, blessed, she would bear a child. A son, most ideally. But daughters were better than nothing. Surely he had spent enough inside of her, more than once: she had to be with child at any moment. The first time, surely, when she was moved to tears, wouldn’t that mean that a child would have been generated then, at the height of her emotions? Oh, she would love that: imagine, a child, with those dark eyes of his, but with a smile that nothing in the world could erase, a smile that came easily and filled her heart with joy? Imagine, a part of her husband and her, that would take great joy in seeing her? In finding comfort with her? Forever a mix of her and him, a connection to those distant memories and to the even further future, that she could look on with pride, but more than that, see as a testament of her love. But…would she love it for being a new life, or because it would be more hers than he, her husband, would ever be? And in time, surely, her child, regardless if it was a girl or a boy, would leave her as well. So in the end…it would still be her and Marcus, would it not?

It was all so strange. How had her life changed so, presented her with so many opportunities and new things to learn, and yet be so terrifying as it wrenched her away from the familiar? Hadn’t her life been easier before the wedding, the only awareness of her body was that once she started bleeding, she could no longer be around the boys, for fear of her maidenhead. And now, that thing, that only source of value, was broken. A seal that could never be returned. And with that, she was a used thing. A broken item that could easily be disposed of. She had crossed a threshold, and had been too consumed by desire to realize what it was that she’d truly lost in the process. And now, it stretched before her, a long road paved with uncertainties, only that she must now perform to a role she'd never considered, and deep down, wasn’t sure if she knew how. What if she still wanted more? What if, as much as she had changed, seen things she never thought she would in such a short amount of time, she would change more? The doors to the world had been blown open in the same moment that they were blown shut.

If she had a child, it would be the end of all she knew. No longer could she think of rising with the dawn to chase lovely Eos, to feel the air grow hot in her lungs and her legs shake. And of her practice with the bow?

Hot, heavy tears suddenly blurred her eyesight.

What if she didn’t like her child? What if it turned out to be like Cassia, or, if in bringing the child into the world, she left it? Never before had she thought about her own demise, and with the sudden pressure of a tidal wave, it crashed down upon her. She could die. The love she physically shared with Marcus could kill her. And then what? Would she continue to watch over him as a shade, watch him grow old and marry yet again?

Wives, daughters. We’re all disposable. It was a bitter thought, one that had crept round her mind for years. As the youngest, there had never been much expected from her. Agrippina had been the main bargaining chip, and had done well. Even Cassia. Her family had children to spare, and because of that, she had been lucky but unlucky. A spare piece could be useful; be slipped where it needed to be. But it also could go the rest of its life never being used.

Or, as I’m fast learning, shoved somewhere it doesn’t belong.

She looked at the mangled efforts of her weaving, all the more blurred by her tears. This was her duty - weaving. And mending. And maintaining the house. And bearing heirs. And as a good Roman daughter and wife, she was to find joy in these things. Not be frustrated that she had no eye for color for yarn and that she couldn’t weave a straight line, let along the intricate patterns that Agrippina seemed to just breathe into existence. A hot flash of rage cut through her tears, twisted her stomach. She gripped her shuttle, twisted the loose end of yarn round her opposite hand. How little force would it take for her to twist, twist, and twist yet again, to snap all of this yarn, kick the loom over the balcony to watch it shatter onto the rocks below? And how much effort, past that, would it take for her to fling herself after it, praying to Diana, and be turned into one of the gulls? She would no longer be human, but she could always have the memory of something sweet before it turned sour. Before it turned to ashes and became another thing that had to be endured.

Instead, she set the shuttle down to her right. Pivoted on her small stool to face the ocean. Let the line of her sight be blurred by her tears, until the ocean and the sky became one quivering blue mass, snapping into separate entities as her tears broke and spilled down her cheeks. For once, the solitude didn’t seem so vast. It gave her the space to drain her soul. To lean over that balcony and let her tears fall into the sea, individuals turning into a single, undulating line. From being special to being absolutely nothing.

_______________

“Of course, Domina, Rome is quite different than out here. There is the bustle of the city, the duties of the Dominus. Some of the slaves here will accompany you back, but for the most part, the slaves that will serve you here live here, and there is an overseer, Bubo, that maintains the property when the Dominus is not here.”

Gaia nodded, trying to look attentive and calm. The grounds, finally seen in depth, were far more beautiful than she had initially thought. Mikkos was, as she suspected, aware of everything and everyone, and easily pointed out the names of each slave and of each aspect of the villa. Unlike her own home, the industry here worked little on crops. More on wool from the great masses of grazing sheep, some cheese, some milk. Perishable items that were brought to market. Mikkos had told her how the villa essentially maintained itself, made more money to keep them in luxury, but it didn’t register.

Like the stars in the sky, this place runs on a mere suggestion. It seems that Marcus has a distinct way of wanting things done, and does not seem to care how they are done, as long as it is without too much trouble. Who am I to interfere with the things that he is comfortable with? I suppose I will get used to it, in time.

She did her best to follow - the stables, (feigning innocence), the flocks, a wave to neighbors out on a stroll. Conversation with Mikkos was easy. Too causal for their stations, she knew, but between the two of them, she felt no need to watch her tongue or be too formal with him.

Things run smoothly without me. What then, is my true task? Other to keep Marcus warm? Will I ever be able to speak with the man, without it turning into sex? Or will that be our lives? No hope of tenderness outside of it…

It was with a bit of an apologetic smile that she stopped Mikkos as they approached the gardens. Reassured him that she was fine, that she would be fine - with a knowing look given to him. He didn’t seem all too pleased about her stepping away, but another small smile from her, a weak explanation given about wanting to explore the splendor of the gardens. He was still troubled.

“Come now, Mikkos: I’m safe within the bosom of the villa - and not too far out of earshot. I wish to have a few moments to myself.” A gentle press of her hands in his, trying her best to keep her troubled thoughts from surfacing too apparently on her face. “I feel that tonight will be the cause for delayed celebration, and I would like a bit more rest before tonight. Please tell the kitchen staff to make all of the Dominus's favorites.”

A warm smile from Mikkos, though his eyes were still troubled. “As you wish, Domina. But what of you? You will be eating as well, surely, and as much as the kitchen will cater to the Dominus, you are here as well. And you are the Domina; that is of no small importance!"

She laughed, softly. “Well…” What could she say? “I…like pomegranates.” Why had that been so hard to say? Like the instant things started to change, it would cause Marcus displeasure. “If they’re in season, or available here.”

Mikkos nodded. “Of course, Domina. I will let them know.”




The shade of the myrtle painted her skin in diamond patches of light. Gaia looked up through the filtered light, admiring the golden pale green of the leaves. Shading her eyes against it, she could see the neatly gathered circle of a bird’s nest. This late in the spring, the young surely would have left. Still, all the same, it made her smile. It would seem that no matter how agonized her heart was, nature, the world, kept moving beneath her feet, and life was all around her. The scent of the sea, the distant call of the birds, the occasional murmur of the household slaves: all meant that she was here, she was alive yet, and she was still herself.

Could she be happy with stolen moments like this for the rest of her life? Was her being here, in the midst of the garden, proper? She’d already felt a twinge of guilt for abandoning her loom - already, she was setting a poor example: shirking work to daydream outside. What would her husband think, if he were to see her like this? They’d started poorly enough: the argument on their wedding night, their followed misunderstanding after he’d consummated the marriage. It would not take an exceptionally gifted person to come to the conclusion that the only time there was peace between them was when they were naked. Should she be thankful for even that?

And…

She lowered her hand, found a snippet of clear blue sky to focus on.

When our bodies come together, it is heat and desire. It becomes a race, fast, though long. Is he capable of tenderness? Will he always touch me, first here, then there, without knowing more of me? Does he wish to explore my body like I do his?

A heavy breath.

Of course he doesn’t. He says he likes your breasts, your rump, but how are they any different from his first wife, or the other women that he has been with? I can’t even say, with any certainty, that the color of my skin is a novelty for him. Why is it that every time that I think we are getting closer, that I might be breaking through to him, when I have time to myself and my heart and mind are clear, I can see it for what it is? A temporary madness on both of our parts. We come together so fast, want nothing more than each others bodies, because it’s easier than talking. It’s easier than bearing our souls. And once the moment has passed, when we are sweating and I am sore and tired, when the world has that soft glow around it, I can believe him, believe his words. But when his fingertips are no longer close to mine, he becomes someone else. Someone the world knows, but I do not.

Had all of his love, if he had any to begin with, been spent on his first wife? In her easy conversation with Mikkos, he had mentioned her - then, as if embarrassed, seemed to want to take back his words. Her natural curiosity had taken over, then - and she learned as much as Mikkos was willing to tell. That Ekaterini was kind, had known the Dominus since they were children. How long they’d been together. A love story she’d only heard about. The kind that gripped her heart, and pulled it down from her chest, into her feet and into the depths of the underworld. How could she ever expect, in the shadow of such wondrous love, to not even so much as compete, but to be acknowledged? And, out of the blue -

Oh, great Diana - that yarn. It was probably hers.

The thought made bile roll in her stomach, stumble over her own feet. Made Mikkos’s concerned voice sound miles away. When her senses returned, she could feel her face struggling to form a smile, spurred by the worried face of the older man.

What a fool I’ve been.

Why would Marcus be slow? The time for sweet words, of bearing his heart, had passed. The conversation stayed on Ekaterini, though there had been mention of a wife after that - Mikkos seemed not to want to talk about her, and Gaia was too heartsick to press further, her curiosity crushed.

Perhaps the second wife had felt this, too. This living in the shadow of a woman who was perfect. But maybe she was lucky enough to have experienced love before Marcus, so that perhaps it was not as hurtful as it is to me.

She could feel her eyes burning, and stubbornly, she wiped at them with the back of her hand.

No more tears, Gaia! You’ve added a cubit to the ocean as it is with the ones you’ve shed.

Somehow, weak laughter escaped her, laughing at her own childishness, at the tears that couldn’t stop. At the bleakness of the life that now stretched before her, only dotted with the occasional potential for joy.

But I should be grateful for even those, shouldn’t I, Venus? Some people never even get the crumbs from your mighty banquet.

Placing her hands squarely on the bench, she took in a deep breath, and let it out through her opened mouth. I wish for the strength to be able to take each moment as it is, and not to constantly look so much for the future. If I keep looking forward, I can’t savor what I have here. But I can’t constantly dwell on memories either. What am I to do?

She pushed herself off of the bench. Watched as one leaf, shaken loose by the mild breeze, fluttered past her face. Live, I suppose…though that’s always been a difficult undertaking.

Life in a cage. She wasn’t free to roam outside of the villa unattended - paranoia of the attack aside, it wouldn’t have been proper. And she felt she’d exhausted her ability to weave for the day. The house moved like a well-oiled machine: so well that she couldn’t dream of offering one suggestion to tonight’s dinner. Just a fumbling answer on what she liked, and to be kind to the Dominus by preparing all of his favorites. Though what they were, she didn’t know. That had been another twinge, another twist of the invisible knife in her heart. Why was that whenever she thought she’d found any kind of peace, it was so damnably fleeting?

He’ll never have all the time that I want with him. She heavily sat back down. Fished through the hidden folds of her stola for a bit of honey cake she’d squirreled away from her tour of the kitchen. Some habits died hard - and she was not above sneaking a sweet bite or two from the cooks if left unattended. At home, the cooks seemed to prepare for it, and were always ready to indulge her in some sweet or the other: bread smeared with fresh honey, or fig dumplings, or sweetened goat’s milk. Or her favorite - salted cheese with honey and flat bread.

As she nibbled the cake, she realized that she wasn’t really hungry. Not in a physical sense, like when her stomach cramped because she’d forced herself to have a third of what she usually ate to avoid her mother nagging about her stomach. It helped, though. Blunted the edges of the pain that laced through her heart, the familiar creep of loneliness that she thought, for just a split second, a moment, that she would no longer have to feel as acutely, because she was so wonderfully and deeply in love and Marcus had become everything to her. Before she knew it, the piece of cake was completely gone.

But she felt just as empty.




__________________




“How much longer on that peacock?” A heavy sigh, the well-earned reward from being on her feet for the last few hours.

“Probably half an hour. Just got the embers at the right color.” Soft plink of a goblet set down in front of the stout woman. “We haven’t made a feast like this in years.” Heavy sigh, caught between relief, excitement, resignation. Interested in the new festivities, but having lived through them twice before, interest that was muted. “I’m actually surprised that the Domina hasn’t been round.”

“What’s this about the Domina?” Masculine voice cutting through the murmur of women, greeted by a laugh of recognition.

“Come, join us and rest a moment with us, Mikkos. How’s your arm?”

A warm smile from the older man as he gently fingered the fresh dressing on his arm. “Well on the mend. I suppose being a stringy old man has its benefits.” As he sat at the long bar, he took in a deep breath of the kitchen. “My, does that smell good! Myrtis, Melissa - you two have outdone yourselves.”

A laugh. “Speak when everything’s been served. This is just the first of many courses.”

“Mmm,” murmured Melissa around her goblet. “With Dominus’s guard coming in, we thought it would be best to prepare enough for an army. By the way,” she set the goblet down on the table, “Where did you get that rabbit the other day?”

To his credit, Mikkos didn’t so much as stutter. “A gift from the goddess - one that doesn’t need full details explained.”

Melissa opened her mouth, poised to protest, but a soft elbow in the side from Myrtis as she sat down next to the other woman quickly silenced her. Melissa shot her a quick glare, but as soon as the sourness had spread on her face, it’d passed. There was no point in trying to get secrets out of the man - one had a better chance of turning back the sun in the sky.

“Something to drink?” Myrtis asked. She’d brought the vase of water on a small serving tray, complete with another goblet.

“That’d be wonderful, if you’ll allow an old man to sit with you.” He truly didn’t have to ask: the man was well liked among new and old slaves, and the two women here were the closest he had to contemporaries in time of service.

“Like you need to ask.” A goblet poured and set in front of him, companionable silence sat between the three of them, as each took long gulps, Myrtis dutifully filling each goblet as it began to run low.

“So,” Melissa started, with a twinkle in those child-like eyes, “I heard from Pithusa that a heir is imminent.”

“Oh?” Myrtis twisted in her seat, though she didn’t need to; she was sitting elbow to elbow with Melissa as it was. Mikkos’s brows rose.

“Oh yes,” Melissa continued, “Pithusa said that the sheets were well-soaked with spendings. And that’s not mentioning the mess in the baths.”

A snort of laughter from Myrtis, a bubbly giggle that washed the years from the woman. “Poor Pithusa. She hasn’t had to deal with that kind of mess in years, has she?”

“Nothing of this volume,” another pour of the vase, “She said that you could wring out enough seed and sweat from the sheets to produce an army.” A shrug, an impish wrinkle of that freckle-flecked nose. “I’ll say my prayers to Vesta and Juno this night that said seed is well sown. The sound of a little one around here would be music to my ears.”

“It’ll be a beautiful child, one way or the other,” Myrtis sighed, a bit of a daydream escaping into her voice. “The Domina is beautiful, even if she’s strange.”

Mikkos set his goblet down. Watched. Waited. Kept his face as neutral as possible.

“Oh, come off it, man,” Melissa scowled. “The Domina is strange.”

“Such talk will not be tolerated here,” Mikkos said, icily.

At his bristling, both of the women exchanged surprised glances. There was gossip, there was speaking of annoyances from the Dominus and the Domina, but all had typically been received by Mikkos with the utmost of professionalism. His response here appeared that he’d been personally attacked. In the chill quiet that followed, Myrtis was the first to break it.

“Please, Mikkos. The Domina is strange, but is as sweet as the honey from the bees.” A bit of annoyance in Myrtis’s voice now, as if she couldn’t believe that she had to explain Gaia’s good nature to Mikkos. “I’ve never seen a Domina interested in cooking beyond the simple things - seeing how the kitchen runs. Domina Ekaterini, Juno rest her good soul, was a wonderful matron; knew the kitchen as well as if she worked here herself. This one…She’s so filled with joy just to watch us work.” She trailed off, searching for the words. How to accurately describe her? “She has the eyes of a child,” she finally decided. “Like everything is new to her. She almost seems simple, really.” It could have been taken as insult heaped upon insult, were it not for the warmth that continued to rise in Myrtis’s voice, the tone of a grandmother describing her grandchild. “Doesn’t seem to have a malicious bone in her body. Quite different from that one.”

A brief pause. No further explanation was needed. It seemed that all three resisted the collective urge to spit, to banish the bitter taste and memories.

“Kind, too,” added Melissa, “Thinks of others before herself. Almost like she wants to vanish into the wall. Doesn’t want to get in the way. But,” a pointed look to Mikkos, “You should know this better than us. You’ve spent most of the day with her, have you not? Showing her the grounds and all?”

“Mmm,” now it was his turn to murmur as nonchalantly as he could. But things were different between the two of them in a manner that could not be easily explained. And true enough, mid-morning, earlier than he expected her, she’d found him, and asked him to show her around. Explained that as someone as close to Marcus, that she felt he would be the best person to start to explain to her how Marcus preferred his house to be run. Truth to tell, it felt that he did not need to show her much of the grounds: the adventurous spirit that he’d caught hints had served her well. She knew far more of the layout than he initially would have thought, though he was careful to mask his surprise. Their time together in the villa’s garden had been the highlight of the day for him: the joy on her face at the variety of plants, her deep reference for nature, made her seem less of a new bride and more of a visiting nymph, exclaiming her pleasure at how well her realm was kept.

“Well, she loves the gardens,” he offered matter of factly, “And has mentioned plans of making a medical garden. Seems that she has inherited her father’s nearly supernatural skill with crops. It really is quite uncanny - she seems to be able to merely sift soil between her fingers and tell the quality of it.”

“And you don’t find that strange?” Melissa prodded. Imagine: a noblewoman getting her hands dirty! Next he’d be telling her that the moon had fallen into the sea.

“Not at all.” So matter of fact was his response that the two women were shocked into silence again. “She’s as proper as someone of her standing could be expected to be, if not moreso than that. She was well-loved by the servants at her home.”

Hadn’t that been an interesting wedding night?

He’d been whisked into the festivities with the rest of the Africanus slaves, as if he’d lived there his entire life. Caught quite by surprise, it had taken him quite a few songs and several cups of wine before he felt entirely comfortable, and by the time all was said and done, he felt as if he’d been rolled into the servants there as naturally as if he’d been born there. Once on the outskirts of the festivities, he’d been lured by the loose-limbed Natta’s dancing; the spark in her eye and the wide smile with missing molars on the left side. The wine had loosened his tongue - though not enough to be embarrassed by - and conversation between the two of them had flowed freely. “Adoration” wasn’t the right word: “tenderness” might be closer to it. Gaia very much was the baby of the family, perhaps a too cosseted, too spoiled, to be a proper wife in the sense of running a household, but for actual affection? The potential of being an excellent mother? Well, there was no doubting that. Nor was there any doubt in the outward hostility at the merest suggestion that Gaia had been anything but the utmost in chasteness. Perhaps he’d accidentally stumbled across one word or the other - but the resulting chill from Natta and the resounding, silent glares from nearby slaves was enough to make him feel as if he’d plunged into a mountain stream in the midst of winter. It had taken some time to soothe that particular wound, to have conversation flow again. The last thing that the man had wanted was to make his Dominus look bad, and a faux-pas such as this would be long spoken of.

It was with a wan smile and a shake of his head as he cleared the memories of that night from the forefront of his mind. “The Domina was the youngest of the sisters - very close to her eldest brother and spent much time with him.” It would have been easy to let more slip, such as Natta’s surprise at the wedding itself, that many thought that Gaia would have spent the rest of her days with her family, if not going the Vestal Virgin route. But Natta had seemed confident that once Gaia was on her own, that she would shape up to be a fine wife, if allowed her rituals. Of course, it was only now that Mikkos could begin to see that there had been more to Natta’s words than he’d initially thought. At the time, he’d thought (quite wrongly), that she may have been vain: the beauty of her other two sisters and her mother certainly suggested that great care was given to appearances. “But they say that the Africanus family has always had a connection to the earth. So her father has it, as does one of her brothers. It does not seem too out of the question that a woman would inherit it as well. Think of the gardens here.”

Quiet, all too readily broken by the flurry of new voices and feet. “Are you talking about the Domina?” chirruped a surprisingly high voice. Terpusa, the woman with the voice of a peacock: high, whining, and grating, even when she wasn’t whining about the lack of some spice or the other, that if she had it, her millet would be absolutely perfect, and why were they always like this with her, making her seem like she was the worst cook in the kitchen?

“No one said anything of the sort,” snapped Myrtis as she stood. To be caught idle by Terpusa, no matter how well-deserved it was, would be inviting drama. “We were merely resting, as is our right - our preparations are done.” A pointed look. Terpusa pouted, sticking out thin lips in an unbecoming gesture that she swore was cute.

“Oh, fine,” she huffed, slipping past the three and heading deeper into the kitchen. The woman had a way with meat pies that was nothing less than supernatural, and oft was explained as the only reason why she hadn’t been sold off, “It doesn’t matter to me anyway. See if I care,” and she flounced deeper into the kitchen, her nose held high in the air. Melissa clucked her tongue; Myrtis shook her head.

“Is she normally that disagreeable?” Mikkos asked, brows slightly raised.

“On occasion. Mostly when she feels like she hasn’t been given enough to do that’s important.”

Melissa shook her head slowly. “It might be best to give her more tasks here, give her an opportunity to broaden her skills, so that she doesn’t have so much free time.”

“I pity poor Pithusa,” The next voice was sharp, smug. A laughably bad attempt to adopt the refined airs of those born way above her station, an afflictedness that naturally lent itself to mockery by all those that heard it, “She’s going to rub her hands to the bone trying to get out the black stains of the Domina’s skin from the linen. Hideously dark, that color of hers - Oh! Mikkos - I..I didn’t see you!” Her tone was instantly contrite, wavering, the aspiring posh accent dropped, eyes focused squarely on the ground.

“No excuse for speaking out of turn. Watch your tongue.” The implicit command being that he would report any untoward behavior towards the Dominus, and what then? Marcus was not a cruel man, bidden to excessive punishment, but it didn’t mean that punishments were unheard of. Several bows, nearly dragging her forehead to the ground, before the woman with the hooked nose was scrambling back to the kitchen.

Silence settled between the three again, with both Myrtis and Melissa watching after the other woman. A beat, then another.

“Thelomene’s got a nasty mouth on her.” A pointed look towards Mikkos, silently telling him to note what Myrtis was going to say next. “She thinks that she’s irreplaceable because of the lightness of her bread. She’s had a sour attitude since the Dominus brought home the Domina. I’d thought initially it was because of the…incident,” because of course the women would know: news traveled fast among the slave quarters, “But to be truthful, she’s always been a bit of an old hag with airs of grandeur since her previous owner sold her. ‘Did you know that I’ve baked bread for the royals of Egypt?’ and other such rot.”

“Made worse because the Praetor had her skirts above her waist not even three hours ago. Shameful. Could’ve heard her in the stables, screeching on like that,” Melissa wrinkled her nose. Such things were normally not for male ears, but with Mikkos, there had always been an unspoken understanding: their scuttlebutt was of the highest value in the household. Honest, unbiased (as could be), they were less spies and more like lares - looking after everyone that came and went in their sacred kitchen - and anything that could have threatened the harmony there was instantly reported. They were the gears in which kept the household running smoothly, with a reach that went far beyond the kitchen walls.

“Ha!” Myrtis snorted. “That didn’t take him long.”

“She probably welcomed it - I saw her shaking that rump of hers at him earlier. I suppose she’s still bitter that Aratus turned down her advances.”

“Aratus, the stable boy?” Mikkos interjected. ‘Boy’ was accurate; he couldn’t have been more than 14, his face still a constellation of weeping red pustules and a stutter. “She’s old enough to be his mother.”

“Grandmother, more like it. Don’t tell me you fell for that dye she uses in her hair,” scoffed Melissa. “There’s no hair in nature that’s that color red. Though I believe she’s fallen behind in the dyeing - she’s let quite a bit of that gray show.”

“Probably extra sour that she’s up here and away from the cosmetics of the city,” Myrtis added. “Vesta bless us; perhaps if the Domina keeps joining us in the kitchen, we can get her making bread better than Thelomene’s, and you can get the Dominus to sell her back to wherever she came from.”

“Probably ‘The Golden Hind,’” Melissa grumbled. It wouldn’t take much further conversation to recognize the name of one of the more notorious houses of ill-repute in Rome.

Mikkos knew that he shouldn’t have, but he chuckled all the same.

A careful sniff of the air, and Myrtis was on her feet. “That peacock smells just about done - I’m going to go take a look. Should be a few more minutes, if you want to let the Dominus and Domina know.”

“Sounds excellent,” Mikkos rose to leave.

“Before you go, though,” Myrtis stepped a bit closer, “You may want to tell Dominus about what Thelomene’s said. She’s likely got it into her head that by her lifting her skirts for the Praetor that she may rise above her station.”

“Not the first time she’s chased after something like that, quiet as it’s kept around here,” Melissa was standing as well, stretching her arms overhead. “But far be it from me to tell you how to do your job,” a careful grin.

“I’ll take it under advisement, my dear.” Mikkos returned the smile, feeling awash in contentment. True, his arm ached, but there had been much learned - and better yet, his assessment of the Domina had been proven so far to be accurate. A strange girl indeed. If only they knew the half of it! “I am continually amazed at your ability to know everything in the home as soon as it happens, if not before.”

Myrtis and Melissa looked at each other, before bursting into good natured laughter.

“The kitchen is the heart of the home, the bedroom, the stomach,” Myrtis said, wagging her finger. “The heart has to be full before the stomach!”

“Isn’t that all too true?” A quick shooing gesture. “Now, go get them before we end up serving a cold appetizer!”

 

[Talon]

Thud...thud...thud…

The sound of vigorous activity drifted out from the open doorway of the dry goods storage chamber nestled there at the rear of the villa, reverberating down the hallway that connected those chambers to the kitchen in one direction and the slave quarters in the other. If the makers of such a cacophonous racket cared to keep their involvement private they gave no outward sign, stopping neither for the sake of common decency nor in the interest of preserving their own modesty at risk of being lost by observation from random passerby, of which there had thus far been several. Mostly those who were of a mind to overlook it, passing by the doorway on whatever task they were about, head down and pace brisk. But then there were the curious ones, those whose curiosity overpowered their better judgement, for whom a peek was worth potential punishment should they see something better left unseen.

The discordant chorus of sounds filling the halls spun a tale all their own, painting the picture of a clear and obvious activity, one that only the most prudish of listeners would fail to recognize; the dull, rhythmic thudding of wooden table against plaster wall, the rattling together of ceramic jars upon shelves, sandaled foot scuffling across tile, the raspy intakes of air, forceful grunts and huffs of expended masculine energy, the quivering moan that gave gave way to wails, not soothing and seductive like the siren, but low and haunting like a banshee. If not for the occasional groan or grunt of pleasure, eavesdroppers might suspect the occupants engaged in some sort of torture or otherwise violent truth seeking endeavor. But bend ear long enough beside that open doorway and it was all too clear what the occupants of that room were about; here there be fucking.

Tiberius hissed as he felt the breadmaker’s short but sharp nails bite deeply into the flesh of his upper arms, her fingers clutching at them desperately, seeking not to pry them away but to keep them anchored there, there powering the two great paws that clamped about her sides, affixed where ample hip flowed from the softness at her middle, a softness formed by age and the bearing of multiple offspring, fortified over the years by the ample sampling a baker of her expertise and experience had engaged in throughout her time in service. A far cry from the waifish, hourglass figure of his last bedmate on one extreme of the spectrum...Versica?...Varscula?...Ver-is-ca!...and failing to measure up to the voluptuously shappen Dark Amazon of the Baths, oh, she of the bountiful bosom and backside, on the other, this mature woman’s form was not without an appeal all its own. This was the body of a woman who worked hard for her living, who had endured servitude and childbirth and all the trials and tribulations that went along with both. She was not kept for her physical appeal nor purchased by a scrutinizing eye with the aim to make her a bed slave, but still, there was one undeniable factor, she was a woman, with all her womanly parts intact and well formed and located exactly where they should be, and thus in Tiberius’ eye, at least, her form was more than desirable enough to suit his present purpose.

And what was his purpose, one might ask? To simply accrue another notch on the old belt? Perhaps...never one to feel shame about who he laid with irregardless of their age or appearance or even sex, Tiberius would surely recount the tale of this coupling over a goblet of grog in some seedy tavern at one point or another. But rather than simply being about conquest, this bawdy encounter, this time here in the dry goods cupboard, shared with the hooked nosed kitchen wench who’d served him bread, was about need. That most base of desire to rid one’s balls of pent up seed, agitated well beyond his ability to resist immediate gratification by his encounter with the Amazon in the bath. If he didn’t know better he’d swear that she put some sort of curse on him, wove some sort of spell of enchantment and frustration that would see his balls swell everfull, sealed by a powerful offering like an animal or a blood sacrifice. For, even as a man of nearly boundless sexual appetites, it wasn’t often that he hungered like this, this deeply, this powerfully. He’d been humping away at this woman for long enough to bear the evidence of his expended energy, both in the sweat at his brow and the signs of her orgasmic expenditure that ran in rivulets down the front of his thighs, yet still the sensation of sexual hunger had not even begun to wane in intensity.

“Master…” Gasp...wheeze...whine. “Gods, Master...you fornicate like a King...like an Emperor...like Priapus himself!” The woman’s shrill voice rang out, strained by the effort of accommodating him, of absorbing the force of those thrusts, Tiberius hammering into her there between her stoutly soft, sandy beige thighs as they wrapped around his middle, splayed open by the width of his form, thick ankles hooked around behind his back, heels digging into his tailbone as she spurned on his bucking motions even as her upper half writhed and wriggled about atop the table as if seeking escape from his grasp. The pair had engaged in little in the way of foreplay, her plain slave gown only just pulled up around her middle, bunched up around his wrists where hands gripped her side, granting only hints at the soft roll of belly beneath her navel. It was unusual for Tiberius, generally he would choose to look upon the entirety of his partner's body when able, but in this instance at least, the most vital part had already been made available to him. Who cared what her breasts looked like, whatever their shape they would pale in comparison to hers…

Well, not pale, no...dark. Dark and lucious, ripe and suckable...

A particularly rough thrust then, forceful enough to shift her up the table upon which she lay, enough to force from her a wince and a hissing grunt that resolved itself into a whine. “And you fuck like a well trained bed wench...I’d wager every young buck on the staff is trying to get under these skirts, eh?” Another thrust, deep, deep enough to send a wail cascading down the hall behind them. “If you weren’t so handy in the kitchens I’d wager some Patrician would have you in silks, lounging across his bed at all times…”. More than a slight exaggeration, for sure, but Tiberius knew her type, the type who likely desired the impossible, that classic story of the slave turned noblewoman after catching the eye of some rich sod who couldn’t resist her beauty and charm, who could see beyond her lowly station to the woman that lie beneath those plain servants garments, one who would gladly trade his good name and reputation for the mere opportunity to be with her, to shower her with gifts and affection and ...yeah, a fairy tale of a dream that a man like Tiberius was surely not looking to fulfill. Maybe for someone like the Dark Amazon...that one was a woman well worth the effort ...but in this instance? Just an offer of honeyed words intended to inflame lust and tighten cunt. And if it helped her feel good about this little tryst in the process, well, all the better. He wasn’t completely without empathy, afterall. “...and feel free to call me by my proper name, at least while I have my cock in you, you’ve earned that much…”

She looked at him with eyes glazed over with lust, her darkly grey mess of graying hair wet at her brow, strands pulled chaotically from the formerly neat bun that set atop her head, that beak of a nose turning her otherwise soft features harsh, her head thrashing side to side from shoulder to shoulder, her chin thrust up now as she sputtered and struggled to speak. “Yes...yes…Tiberius!”

Tiberius leaned down over her, her frame thick but yet dwarfed by his, the messy shock of blonde curls atop his head a shining corona, his square jaw set, thick brows drawn, an intensity in the icy blue gaze that sought hers. For a moment their lips met, wet and shallow, only a brief twirling of tongue, a passionate expression lacking any meaning deeper than the meeting of sensual body parts. His thrusts slowed, his motion now more methodical gallop than unrestrained sprint, his pelvis impacting hers each time with a fleshy slap, the occasional wet squelch of protest from where their bodies met as his more than ample prick filled every nook inside her, to capacity and well beyond, testing limits not oft approached, bringing sensations to her not felt since her earlier, less experienced days.

“Tell me you want it, woman…” Words heard by her but not truly meant for her ears. He knew she wanted it, if not from an abundance of physical desire for him then for a desire to satisfy him, in particular a man of his station. It was the Dark Amazon he truly spoke the command for, or at least, that is, the version of her that existed in his mind's eye.

“I want it...I want it, all of it...”. Her voice was ragged, worn down by all the yowling and howling and whimpering she’d done over the course of their encounter as she endured his rutting.

Tiberius’ next thrust was brutally aggressive, bordering on angry even, almost as if whatever she said had displeased him. She yelped in response, her head shooting up, eyes widened with shock, her lips quivering. Tiberius pressed his forehead against hers, kissing her briefly once more, a growl low in his throat, granting a rumble to the deep baritone quality of his voice. “Say it like you mean it, bread maker, we’re not talking about a second serving of breakfast, here…tell me what you want and where you want it…”

Tiberius pulled back then, measuredly, her eyes rolling to the back of her head as the entire length of his substantial prick was dragged from her depths with agonizing slowness, finally pulling free from her sex with an exhausted gasp from between the fleshy folds of her labia, Tiberius shifting up, laying that outrageous example of a male organ down across her pubis to stretch out over her belly, still slick with her recently churned arousal, stiff and heavy through the expression of his own. She leaned her head up off the table and looked down between them then, stammering as dark brown orbs drank in the sight, a visual confirmation of what she’d only felt, what she’d not properly been granted vantage of before he’d crammed it inside her previously.

“It’s...it’s...monstrous…”

Tiberius had long been made aware of how uniquely he was formed. Both in height and thickness of frame he stood out as exceptional amongst the native Greeks and Italians that made up the bulk of the free Roman population, but amongst his mother’s peoples, those who had traveled south with the Teutons and the Cimbris in the days of Gaius Marius, those the Romans considered Germanic, he might only be considered average of height and a bit heavy in the shoulders. It was his sister, Boudicca, three years his senior, that had been the first to take note of what truly set him apart from even his own people. They’d shared a small room in the hut where they lived with their mother, little more than a section cordoned off by an old rug, as much to keep out the cold as to preserve modesty, with space and privacy being luxuries their mother could not well afford. It was not an uncommon thing then for them to see each other in various states of undress, unavoidable, really, but by the time whiskers had begun to form on his chin and his body began to grow, that’s when it truly manifested, looking all the more ridiculous on his yet to be developed, somewhat gangely frame. She’d burst in on him one morning, carelessly throwing back the rug behind which young Tiberius was still dressing, and been confronted with the sight of him as bare as the day he was born. Initial shock and embarrassment over time evolved into sharp-tongued teasing and mockery. Apparently by that age his older sister had seen her fair share of men naked below the waist, and given her nature she wasn’t at all shy about letting her little brother know just how obscene and outrageous his own 'manhood' was in comparison. ‘Mule-kicked’ was her favorite moniker for a time, alluding to some fictional encounter where a mule had kicked him in his groin and caused him grievous injury, though over the years there would be many others. She’d largely kept the teasing to private moments between them, however, preferring to present a unified familial bond to outside parties, for as rough with him as she had been, should any of the older children of their village ever dare to try their hand at bullying him she had always been quick to intervene. It seemed less the act of a protective big sister and more the hoarding of targets by a monopolizing terrorizer, but still, protect him from others she certainly had.

Tiberius’ first sexual experience wouldn’t come until some time later, well after he’d accompanied his mother to Rome. Boudicca was by then grown enough to tread her own path, choosing instead to remain behind in their village, to seek fortune with a band of raiders she’d fallen in with who cared little that her more than capable sword arm was attached to a woman’s body. His mother had met a blacksmith who practiced his trade along the outskirts of the Eternal City, and estimating that being married to a tradesman, no matter how humble, was better than eking out a living in the village of her birth, she uprooted herself and sought the better life she hoped such a union would provide for her. The man was gruff, likely not thrilled that his new wife had brought along with her a giant of a young man that he now had to feed and house, but all things considered he was kind enough if not inattentive, and, so long as Tiberius respected the rules for his household, he treated him as fairly as one in his position could hope to expect. By that time Tiberius was almost old enough to strike out on his own, and thus, the smith had decreed that there would be no free room and board for his new wife’s son, he’d have to pitch in to earn his keep. It was through laboring at the man’s forge, hauling wood and coal and ore all day, that Tiberius first began to put proper muscle on his then somewhat gangly frame, all the while learning a vital early lesson about the importance of discipline and the amount of effort it took to earn an honest day's wage.

Back in those early days, with yet still a few winters to pass before he would be expected to forge out on his own in the world, Tiberius had spared little thought to the wider world of carnal desires. Sure, he felt the odd tightness in his chest and belly when he came across a particularly attractive woman, and as a matter of course he felt the natural function of his reproductive organ at seemingly odd and inappropriate times as all young men do, but outside of those times, he felt nothing that alluded to the magnitude of the urges he would experience later in life once the fog over that aspect of the human experience had truly been lifted to him.

That awakening would come after a few seasons had passed living with his mother’s new husband, the smith. An education of sorts that came courtesy of a miller’s daughter, a dark haired young waif a few years his senior that lived but a short walk down the road from the forge, one who knew all too well what she was doing even as she was all shy smiles and bashful blushing on the surface. She’d come around on occasion to bring odds and ends that needed forging or to collect a bundle of nails for her father, batting her golden brown eyes at the young man who assisted at the forge, the one with the disheveled blonde curls and the cool blue gaze, the one that often enough could be seen walking about shirtless as he went about his chores, his frame all sinew with but the burgeoning promise of future strength offered by newly developing muscles. At that time his people still lived at the border of civilization, at least as Romans deemed it, and seeing one so seemingly docile and ‘broken’ was a bit of a novelty. Yet to be domesticated in the same fashion as his cousins, the so-called short haired, toga wearing Gauls that would commonly enough be seen intermixing with society at the outskirts of the city, to them Tiberius looked every bit the part of a savage brought to heel, one who could break from the leash at any moment and rip flesh from throat with but a gnashing of his teeth. Nevermind that the boy was relatively shy in his own way, not meek or subservient but neither rebellious nor prone to the random outbursts of violence his mother’s people were often painted as engaging in.

Once the miller’s daughter had put down a solid foundation of flirting and buttered him up with much eye-batting it had been easy enough to lure him away one afternoon, for him the threat of rebuke paled in comparison to the foreign but instinctual promise of pleasure that the coquettish smile of the miller’s daughter but offered hints at. She led him then to one of her father’s empty grain silos, and there on the floor amongst the remnants of harvested grain, she guided young Tiberius along the final steps of his journey to manhood.

And what a journey it was. He’d been clumsy and shy, and quick, as most men were their first, but even then, it was the first time he’d been offered praise for what his body naturally had to offer his partners in pleasure. The miller’s daughter hadn’t teased or laughed at him, quite the opposite, she’d all but worshipped and extolled the virtues of his manhood as they’d somewhat clumsily coupled, and once finally finished, for the second time in a row, she’d begged him promise to return the next afternoon for more of the same. And return he did, for a second and third day following right after that first. As if that first encounter had been the breaking of a dam, awakening within him some hidden hunger that had always been lurking beneath the surface, by the end of the month he’d accrued a few regulars with whom he’d visit over the course of a week. The miller’s daughter came first, she’d earned that position, at least, but then soon enough he was off to call on a butcher’s daughter who he’d chatted up at market, then the next week adding to his list a shy girl whose father kept sheep who’d never much drawn the attention of boys or men, followed soon after by a fisherman’s wife whose husband was out to sea too often, then a drover’s daughter who’d heard the rumors about him, then a chimney sweep’s mother, a farmhand’s older sister...before too long he’d run out of hours in the week to keep up with both his work at the forge and his trips to meet with his newfound lady ‘friends’. He made due with a monthly routine then, diligently planned and scheduled, carefully managing to evade detection from watchful fathers and suspicious husbands and vengeful brothers all along the way.

It was a blessed life, for sure, to be so favored by so many. Given the fact he was but a meagre forgehand, with not even the promise of future coin inherent in a position more meaningful like an apprentice, none of the women whom he regularly visited showed even the slightest bit of interest in anything more deeper than what they had. Some of them wanted honeyed words whispered in their ears as he ravaged them, sure, but by the time they’d finished, such things were but meaningless whispers on an empty breeze. It was almost like he was something of a tradesman himself, offering a service he alone was uniquely equipped to offer on account of his ‘special gift’.

His phallus, a gift...

Tiberius smirked as he held his prick by the base, waving the fleshy scepter over the bread maker's belly as if it were a wand in the hands of a magus being used in some ceremony to bless her womb to henceforth be fruitful and prosperous. A wide-eyed gaze followed its rhythmic swaying as if transfixed by it’s movements.

“So I’ve been told...and where would you want me to cram this monster, then, good woman?”

Her breath hitched as she was stirred from her briefly hypnotic state by his words. “In...in...in my cunt!” the woman stammered, her previous haughtiness all but fucked out of her, the uncertain bashfulness that had replaced it well at odds with the matronly grey of her hair, seemingly brought forth by nerves or a hesitancy to use such a crude word to describe her sex or some mixture of both. Her gaze shot up to meet his, silently pleading with him not to make her repeat it, her hands once more squeezing the firm flesh of his upper arms, their short nails biting into him just as her teeth gnashed at a plump bottom lip. A far cry from the woman who had turned her chin up at him when he’d first suggested she give him a tour of the kitchens, who had put on her best affectation of a highborn lady, complete with an attempt at a distinctly noble accent, as she’d informed him that she wasn’t that sort of woman. A few compliments here, a bit of necking and groping there...in the end she turned out to be precisely that sort of woman once he’d properly got her fire going.

“Good choice…”

Tiberius flicked his wrist a few times, his cock crudely slapping against the softness at her middle, heavily, menacingly, a gasp drawn from her as he pulled back with his hips, his prick retreating with them, the angrily swollen knob at the tip leaving a wet trail in its wake, tracing its way down across her navel, down through the prominent dark triangle of downy hair above her sex, brushing past the swollen nub of her clit as it fell, corralled and held aloft in fist but a moment before it’s bearer took aim for the dusky lips of her sex and steered himself towards it. Her entrance was still somewhat agape from previously having taken him, he could make out the convulsing of colorful inner walls for a brief moment before the pale-hued head moved in to plug that open portal, pressing between her outer labia, stretching them thin around him with the effort of accommodating the formidable girth that felt almost beyond her capacity to accommodate, gliding inside more easily than the first time as if her insides yet retained some memory and measure of his prick’s shape from when it had filled her only moments prior. Her head was thrown back then, a guttural grunt ripped from her throat as her thighs clenched about his waist, a noise that evolved into a low, sustained groan that sounded as if sourced more from strained effort than felt ecstasy as he pressed ever deeper.

The banshee of the dry goods cupboard resumed her haunting call, then, an undulating, disharmonious wail that would be well remembered, recalled through snickers and jeers, by the kitchen staff for some time to come.



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


Marcus drew in a deep breath as he sat down upon the recently changed sheets of their bed, nude as he had been in the bath, preparing to dress himself before going to meet with Tiberius. Off to the side stood his attendant for the morning, a dark haired young man who held a fresh tunic and loincloth folded over arm, his eyes downcast respectfully. Marcus had always insisted on donning his own sandals, it being something of a ritual for him from his time as a soldier, an opportunity to consider those quiet moments before a battle, alone with one's thoughts. It held some deeply symbolic meaning that he wasn’t sure he could properly describe, if ever asked. Something about the sandal, being a conduit between earth and foot...something better left to the poets to describe, perhaps. He lifted his left foot up to rest against his right knee, then, preparing to don his sandal as his thoughts wondered. Not to battle, or victory, or struggle...

He recalled her, his wife, Gaia, as she had been in the baths, a voyeuristic moment before she realized he was watching her. Bent forward at an inelegant angle, washing herself, all the wonders of her feminine form bared before him as if purposefully presented, offered to eyes that looked upon them with wonder. She was for that brief moment then seen as nothing more than what she was; not a Senator’s wife, not a rich man’s daughter, not a lover, just a woman, washing herself as women had all the way back to the first days. She could as easily have been some savage barbarian, calf-deep in some stream, stopping for but a brief moment to refresh herself, as she was some pampered noblewoman who had lost herself in the moment. Unguarded and unreserved, this was truly her without careful pose or other pretense. He couldn’t quite say why the sight had struck him so queerly, but it had. He had seen his share of women in their natural form, intimately and in art, but he looked upon her then as if she had been the first, as if a boy who had seen his first grown, mature woman. The simple beauty of the moment was captivating, almost the sort of thing that inspired one to commission an artist to capture it for the ages.

Left sandal donned, he switched feet then, preparing it’s sibling for strapping, smirking as he scoffed, shaking his head.

Right...I’m quite sure she’d agree to that…”Wife, I’ve arranged to have someone immortalize your likeness. The man is here now, just setting up in the atrium. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, when he asks for you to pose, just remove your garments and bend at the waist as you did there in the baths...yes, yes, like that, but just a bit more forward...there, perfect. Now do be a dear and mimic washing yourself down there…”

Marcus scoffed at the thought as his hands worked the leather straps of his sandal to weave them around his lower calf. She’d surely be scandalized by the mere notion of being seen by another man in such a state, even if he were but an artist well accustomed to such sights. And rightly so, for she is a proper Roman woman of honor, no matter how I might have influenced her to think and speak so perversely when we are within the confines of our private chambers. Only two days wed and already we’ve coupled more times than I can ever recall rivaling in even the span of a week at any point prior. Am I corrupting her so, compelling her to act against her nature, or was this merely an unknown aspect that lurked beneath the surface, liberated only by the claiming of her maidenhead? Better yet, if this is not merely an obsession based on unfamiliarity and she does not grow tired of it, could I dare hope to keep up? Already my bones ache, and more than that, I’m quite sure if I were to seek from my manhood yet another erection before the sun rises on a new day he would refuse the request outright, perhaps his own form of righteous mutiny against tyrannical governance.

And yet, as I think of her there in the bath, he stirs. It’s unnatural for a woman to have such power over a man, such...control. Am I losing myself, then, that I cannot spare a thought for anything other than her body? The innocence of her face, those perfect breasts, that patch of hair above her sex, that curve at her lower back, flowing so gracefully down to...

Marcus stood up off the bed suddenly with a clearing of his throat, moving over towards where his attendant stood a few paces away. Handed first a clean length of simple white cloth, Marcus wrapped and belted the loincloth about his waist as he eyed the tunic his servant held to hand, likely chosen by Mikkos. A pale blue fabric embroidered with silvered thread, evoking the palate of his mother’s people, similar to but a departure from the darker, more somber blue of his wedding tunic. Markus smirked, thinking of that color choice, of wanting to present a most serious image of himself to his new and unfamiliar bride.

But a front, clearly, for here I am, a man of many seasons, the victor of many battles, the holder of many offices...thoughts consumed by nothing more than his wife’s prodigious rump.

Marcus couldn’t help but break into a smile as the tunic was pulled on over his head, the attendant smoothing the garment down with gentle and respectful brushes of an open hand.

I suppose there is nothing wrong with being so attracted to her, perhaps it should be flattering for her, at least, to be so deeply desired. But would she not have cause for concern if she understood the true depth of this feeling? Men should not...obsess...this strongly about anything outside of duty and glory and honor. Right? Is it not the realm of satyrs and nymphomaniacs to think of nothing but tits and arse and cunt all day? Even if she didn’t think so...would she want to be thought of as but a vehicle through which to carry these attributes through the world? She is not merely a pleasure slave to be lusted after, she is my wife, future bearer of my progeny, the administrator of my household, and beyond that, herself heir to a formidable legacy of greatness forged by generations of great men. Should my head be filled with naught but thoughts of her in the nude? Does she not want, and deserve, to be respected and thought of as a proper husband does his wife? Would she not be shamed if rumor of how womanish her husband had become of late took root beyond the walls of our domus?

The attendant wrapped a belt about his waist, linked metal discs with gems at their center, bearing the mark of fine craftsmanship, drawing the likeness of a line of linked shields. Marcus then offered his arms out one by one to allow the man to fasten finely burnished bracers at his wrists, simple in decoration but fashionable enough for the day, suitable for a man of his subtle tastes.

How blessed by the gods I have been, that this is the whole of my problems with this marriage. That I should lust too deeply...she could have just as easily been a woman who I could not stand the sight of...or someone evil of character, someone like...her.

Marcus brushed a hand down the front of his tunic, nodding satisfactorily before turning to address the servant who stood beside him. “Go and tell Mikkos that I would like to know what became of my sword, the one gifted to me by Tiberius before we left for the villa. Should the Domina have orders for him they take precedence, it is not an emergency, but I should like to have knowledge of its location before the day’s end.”

“Yes, Dominus.”


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


Tiberius nodded at no one in particular as he casually strolled his way through the system of hallways that led from the kitchens to the guest quarters of the villa, the cheerful melody of an old soldier's tune with an upbeat cadence lightly whistled through his teeth. He moved with the carefree rhythm of a man recently pleasured, returning home from the hunt with his belly full and his balls empty, an entirely different creature from the one who’d so recently sulked through these same hallways on a desperate search for his most recent obsession. An as of yet fully unrealized obsession, and although it felt good to have relieved himself of his lustful burden of pent up seed, nevertheless, it was something akin to having a craving for a particular meal and instead being forced to sup on whatever you had in the cupboards at home. Belly full, appetite appeased, but still there remained the underlying issue of scratching the initial itch that had sourced the craving. Gorging himself on the baker’s bread, and cunt, for that matter, had done little more than provide him a temporary reprieve.

The gods are truly good, that this should be the extent of my problems on this fine spring day. Now that my head is cleared I can fully focus on the task at hand, on securing the villa and ensuring no further violence visits Marcus and his young bride. Speaking of...I should meet her sooner than later, the woman could walk across my path at any moment and I would be none the wiser. Imagine, glancing sideways at her without knowing it was my brother-wife that I had ogled...shameful.

Tiberius snickered at the thought of feeling shame, shaking his head as lips once more puckered to form the instrument through which his whistled tune was borne upon the air. He hadn’t, ever, not at least since passing into manhood. It’s not that he’d felt it and somehow managed to ignore it or push it aside, it just never manifested of its own accord. He could solicit the most highborn of ladies, stroll through a dinner party in the buff, banter about cocks and cunts and arseholes and tongues and every possible way they could be combined together, still never feeling the slightest warmth bloom upon his cheeks. It wasn’t just supreme confidence or cocksuredness or bravado, it was more of a defect, really, a flaw in the god's design when they made this one. When one touched something hot the instinct was to recoil with all due haste, and in much the same way, the sensation of feeling shame oft served as the social equivalent of jerking one’s hand back from a potentially harmful flame. It was quite remarkable that it hadn’t backfired in his face more often, really.

Tiberius stopped once he had reached the front of the villa, standing just outside the entrance hall, looking out over the grounds upon which it sat, eyes squinting against the harshness of the approaching midday sun.

Defensible, with the right amount of men. A single avenue of entry, our backs to the sea...assuming our enemy doesn’t have a fleet at their beck and call, we could make do with a lesser presence in the rear. A few men with spears up front here, in case they approach on horseback. Not much of an ability to quickly reinforce ourselves, way out here...I wonder what sort of rich cunt has the plot next to this, be it friend or foe? Hmmm...perhaps I’ll ride out on the ‘morrow, familiarize myself with the lay of the surrounding land and get a read on the attitude of the neighbors.

Tiberius absentmindedly descended the steps at the front of the villa that led down to the courtyard as his mind worked.

Archers stationed at the top of the steps, we could form up in the courtyard if needed. I can’t imagine anyone being brazen enough to send a proper force out here, but it’s good to consider it in the plan either way, at least until we know exactly who it is we’re dealing with. I wonder what sort of armament they have on hand here...

Tiberius had just reached the bottom of the steps when a familiar voice rang out from above.

“The previous owner warned me that riff-raff would occasionally wash all the way up here at high tide…”


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


“Women love scars, you know? Makes them think you live dangerously...I nicked myself shaving one time, for a full week after I had every whore within the sound of my voice convinced it was a wound delivered by a barbarian’s blade…”

“And what, then they’d favor you with a discount?”

“God’s no...they’d sooner part with a hand than give a client they know capable of paying full price a discount.”

“Then what was the purpose of such a fabrication?”

Tiberius and Marcus sat lounging upon two long couches in the tablinum, the former assessing the extent of the latter’s injuries and attempting to console him on the prospects of the arrow wound on his upper arm leaving behind an unsightly scar, in his way.

Tiberius shrugged. “Nothing more than that such things heat them up between the thighs...it’s like stoking the forge before plunging the iron in. Don’t pretend you’re naive to such things just because you’ve taken the vows of marriage once more…”

Marcus scoffed as he shook his head, scratching at his chin. “No, my friend...I’ve not suddenly been struck naive. I must say though, it was a solid ten minutes of conversation before the subject turned to strange women...well done, you’re showing marked improvement.”

“To be fair, I said nothing of strange, only of women. I’m assuming you’ve verified by now that she is at least that much...”

Marcus growled, something like a dog standing protectively over it’s feed bowl and offering a warning to an encroaching hand, signaling the subject of the conversation had veered down an avenue more intimate. “And what, you expect me now to give you a full report on the goings on in our bedchamber these past few nights? I’ve been shot through with an arrow, we’ve both survived an ambush...how much time do you imagine we’ve had to ourselves since last we met?”

Tiberius leaned over the table set between them, retrieving a pitcher of wine that had been brought in by a servant soon after they’d entered, topping off the empty goblet positioned on his side of the table before half-filling the one set opposite in front of Marcus, conversing as he labored to provide lubricant for further conversation.

“Enough time that if it were me in your place she’d be walking bow-legged by now…” The cant of Tiberius’ smirk filled in the missing details behind that statement as he looked over at Marcus with a raised brow. ”...but calm yourself, brother…let the wine do it’s work. Let’s enjoy a bit of friendly banter in the spirit in which it is intended, afterall, if not here with me, an old friend, who would you rather gossip with?”

Marcus couldn’t help but break into a grin at the thought of the pair of them gossiping. Tiberius certainly did have a way of lightening the mood, even if he sometimes went a bit too far in the effort. “Presuming I feel the need to at all...what would one such as I possibly have to gossip about?”

Tiberius frowned thoughtfully, sarcasm dripping from every word as he spoke. “Hmm, let’s see...you’ve just been remarried, you’ve survived an ambush, you’ve spent the past few nights in bed with your nubile young bride...or, how about all of the above?” Tiberius rolled his eyes as he lifted the goblet up to his lips, throwing his head back as he drank deeply from it.

Marcus in turn lifted his own, sniffing at it, swirling it about, eyeing it carefully as if he somehow suspected it had been tampered with. “Well...fair enough, I suppose. If you truly must know, it turns out that she’s every bit the woman that was promised. Honorable, dutiful and chaste, all the qualities that would surely make her father proud. I can only hope the gods see fit to bless her with child… she will make a fine mother to our children.” Marcus sipped from his goblet of wine, wincing as he was reacquainted with the once familiar taste of wine that had in recent years been long forgotten.

Oh, and one other quality worth mentioning...her appetite for all things sexual is ravenous, enough to nearly put you to shame by comparison. She’s the one who’d have you walking bowlegged if it were you were in my place...

Tiberius nodded encouragingly, setting his now empty goblet down atop the table before reaching for the pitcher in order to refill it. “Good...boring and pedestrian, and not exactly the sort of titillating information I had hoped for, but a start. With all seriousness, I couldn’t be more happy for you, brother, I know how important it was to you to be joined together with a properly dignified and honorable woman...”

I wonder if either of them have even seen the other naked yet, perhaps they made due with a hole cut out of a sheet they put between them, seeking the guidance of Venus that his cock might blindly find it’s way to the proper hole on the other side...Tiberius thought. If I see that his wife sits gingerly I’ll know the arrow fell a bit short of its mark...

Marcus’ eyes flickered about Tiberius’ visage, seeking nonverbal cues as to the authenticity of his well wishes after having garnered no evidence from his tone. “Much appreciated…” he offered noncommittally, bracing himself for the possibility of a forthcoming punchline.

Tiberius, still holding the pitcher of wine aloft, signaled for Marcus to offer his goblet up for refill as well, seemingly without regard to whether he desired one or not. Marcus complied, against his better judgement, as Tiberius returned his questioning look with an easy grin, carrying right on speaking as if he hadn’t properly finished. “...and that is all well and good, such things...but let us return for a moment to the part where you two…’make babies’. How was it then, your first night together?” Tiberius’ brow raised inquisitively, a poorly concealed look of anticipation creeping across his features,

Marcus sipped again from his refreshed goblet, frowning, his reply disappointingly laconic. “Fine.”

“Fine? We’re speaking of your first time bedding this woman, and all you can manage in response is ‘fine’? You speak as if giving lackluster praise to the cook for last night's dinner. You think she’d like to hear that you described your first time together as “fine”?” Tiberius scoffed, shaking his head as he took another deep pull from his goblet of wine. “You can’t fool me, old boy, I saw how vigorously her people danced...it’s a wonder you were able to hold on long enough to finish before your hip gave out, you old sod.”

Marcus couldn’t help but sputter a laugh in response, pressing his mouth into the back of the hand that held his own goblet as if to avoid spraying out the content of his last sip from it.

Tiberius’ words were tinged with mirth as he chuckled at the sight of his friend in such a state. “Right, there you are...things are not so serious as all that. The wedding is done and over, you’ve satisfied the Imperial decree and made it out in one piece. Half the bachelors in Rome are likely still pulling what remains of their hair out by the roots trying to find a proper match. Once we have this whole ambush business done and dealt with, you will have nothing more to do than spend the rest of your life with your young bride’s thighs wrapped tightly around your middle.”

Marcus shook his head, laughing under his breath, as he held his goblet out over the table to signal his desire for a refill, presumably before being goaded into doing so by his friend. “Ever the wordsmith...but I must ask. Should I not desire for more from this life, then? A Consularship, perhaps, or to be made Governor of some rich and peaceful province?”

Tiberius smirked as Marcus held out his goblet, lifting the pitcher with his free hand in a sort of salute to acknowledge his friend’s initiative for requesting his own refill without requiring chastisement for falling behind. “Marcus, my old friend...you might be older than me…” Tiberius began pouring the wine liberally into Marcus’ goblet, filling it overfull this time. “...and wiser, perhaps even more appealing to women...above the waistline, at least…” Tiberius moved to fill his own goblet similarly before setting the pitcher down atop the table. “...but you’ve still got a lot to learn about life, my brother.”

Tiberius raised his goblet towards Marcus, cutting him off before he could offer response or argument. “But enough of all that, let’s save that talk for after dinner, for when tongues have been properly loosened by wine.” Tiberius smiled warmly as he sat up, leaning forwards enough to clank his goblet against Marcus’, spilling a bit of wine over the ridge of his cup in the process, settling back into his seat, his mirth fading and giving way to a more serious and grim expression. “Let us instead speak to the most serious of matters, that which brought me here with such haste. The ambush; Manius recounted the events to me, briefly, but I want to hear from you directly the details of your part before they begin to fade from your mind. What he told me didn’t exactly line up, I get the feeling I wasn’t given the full measure...”

The two old soldiers leaned back against their respective couches then, nursing at, and occasionally refreshing, their cups of wine as they discussed heavily the previous day’s events.


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

Some time later...


“Manius didn’t say how many he would be bringing, I can’t imagine more than a contubernium or two at best.”

“We should take care not to assemble in too great a number, anything beyond that will raise suspicion that I am gathering an army of my own for some political purpose. I think Manius had the right of it, withholding knowledge of the attack from the public, but such secrecy would be for naught if others begin to take notice that I have with me more soldiers than servants, nevermind the question of feeding and housing them all. I’d rather not have an army camp blocking my view from the front steps.”

“Right...twenty well trained men will be more than enough, we can set up a proper guard rotation and have enough to form a halfway decent line if it comes to that.”

“I trust you are comfortable with being counted amongst that number?”

“Of course, brother...I am of the mind to send someone to retrieve my things in Rome. I intend to be at your side as long as it takes to resolve this conflict, whomever or whatever the source.”

“Very good, speak with Mikkos and you shall have whatever you need to facilitate your stay. But more than that, I’d ask yet more of you, if you would permit me…”

“Speak, brother…”

“My wife, Gaia...I do not wish for her to be any more disturbed by this event than she already has. Although my first instinct is to have her accompanied by a bodyguard at all times, I think in actuality it would do more harm than good. I would not have her feeling like a caged bird any more than is strictly necessary.”

“Sensible...but where do I come in, then?”

“Keep an eye on her for me, would you? Subtly…”

“Of course.”

“...I fear she would not understand the need for such precautions and balk at the idea, but should the enemy strike again, well...I would sleep better knowing she could count on having you beside her, even if she is unaware of such protection…”

Tiberius took in a heavy breath, the wine dulling more than just his senses, the warm grin splitting the lower half of his visage portraying the pride he felt, that of being needed, of being entrusted with such an important task. “It will be as if I were her shadow…”

Marcus’ returned the grin, raising his goblet in a mock salute. “I must admit, you certainly have a way about you. For some damned reason women seem to find you make enjoyable company…”

The grin left Tiberius’ lips as his thoughts turned to the events of the morning, of intruding upon the Amazon in the bath, shifting in his seat a bit as he recalled the force of her foot. He nodded thoughtfully, agreeing with his friend even as his words lacked the very quality they spoke to. “Yes...well, you know...it’s all about confidence.”

“She seems quite close with her older brother, Lucius, I believe you met him at the ceremony, no?” Tiberius curtly nodded in response. “Perhaps you could become something of a surrogate sibling for her, be someone other than her husband she could depend on in such times of need.”

“If she is open to such a thing...for you, it shall be done...”

What of the Amazon, then...where does she enter into the equation?

“Speaking of family, do you know if she…”

As if on cue, Mikkos, having approached from the side with such effortless stealth that he appeared as if from thin air, spoke, cutting him off. “Dominus, honored guest...I beg forgiveness for the interruption, but dinner is ready. I have taken the liberty of preparing the triclinium, I will find and inform the Domina of as much forthrightly...and Dominus, might you spare me a moment for a private word before you go?”

Tiberius sighed, supposing the identity of his Amazon would have to remain a mystery for at least a bit longer. Perhaps brother-wife will mention something of her family or her retinue during the dinner conversation. As if it would be that easy...

Tiberius sat up, shifting up to the edge of the couch in preparation to rise from it, placing his goblet on the table before him with a dismissive wave of his hand and a pat at his belly. “Go ahead...I need to make some room for more wine, anyways…” Rising up off the couch, Tiberius took a moment to smooth the wrinkles from the front of his tunic with strokes of his hands as he considered each man a moment, a queer look of anticipation on his face, the signal that a bad joke or tasteless limerick was soon to follow. “Have either of you boys heard the one about the Vestal Virgin and the three-legged mule?”

Mikkos, ever the professional, only stared blankly in response. Marcus, on the other hand, was much more demonstrative in his admonishment. He groaned, shooting up off the couch as he reached out to shove Tiberius away playfully but forcefully. “Go on then you drunkard...I’d rather listen to the sound of your piss hitting the pot than whatever foul attempt at humor you were about to unleash on us.”

Tiberius, with mock indignation, stepped back a few paces, a hand clutched over his heart as if he’d been wounded. “Right...I’ll save that one for after dessert, then, I suppose…” The same hand that had been clutched to chest then formed a point directed at Mikkos. “Make sure you break out the good vintage this time...I can’t have my new brother-wife thinking I’m the sort to get drunk on any old swill…” And with that direction Tiberius turned, throwing a hand up over his head in a parting, only slightly dismissive, gesture as he made his way from the chamber.

Marcus scoffed, rising up off the couch, moving out from behind the table as he too brushed off the front of his tunic. “What is it, Mikkos?”

Mikkos sighed, shifting his arms behind him and clutching his hands at the small of his back, rocking back and forth on his heels a few times as if deciding how he wanted to deliver his next message. “We have something of a problem in the kitchens, Dominus...with the staff, or rather, one in particular.”

Marcus’ frowned, listening but with divided attention as he looked about the room like he was searching for a lost item. “...go on…”

“I fear this individual might harbor no small measure of misguided prejudice...misinformed, really, some sort of old maid’s tale type of nonsense…” Sweat formed on Mikkos’ brow as he eyed Marcus warily, still rocking on his heels.

Marcus frowned, his eyes half-glazed over from drink, his shoulders squaring as he paused his search and turned to look at the elder majordomo. ”Speak plainly, Mikkos…and with purpose.”

“One of the kitchen slaves spoke out of turn regarding the Domina’s...heritage…”

Marcus’ frown deepened, signifying both surprise and momentary confusion. “About her mother and father? Why would they…”

“No, Dominus...more directly, about her color...the...um…” Mikkos stuttered. “...the particular shade and depth of her natural color, if you will. At least one amongst the slaves has openly expressed her distaste for...”

“I would not abide such an insult if it came from a friend, let alone be privy to the particulars of this slave's preference...” Markus blinked forcefully as if attempting to summon forth the full measure of his mental faculties, as if his drink-dulled senses could hardly fathom this new input. Fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, hard. “I am of the mind to have every slave in the household whipped purely for good measure, it’s clear that I’ve spared the lash for too long... ”

Mikkos swallowed forcefully, feeling his mouth grow dry. “Dominus...”

Marcus turned and paced away a few steps, his arms moving demonstrably as he spoke, his lightened mood soured by this new development. “The sheer fucking insolence! That this slave would not only have the audacity to dare think such thoughts, but then even further, feel such freedom to lend them voice. This cannot pass without punishment.”

“I agree, Dominus...strongly…”

Marcus turned back to Mikkos, drawing up close to him, looking every bit the Legatus dressing down his troops. “And you are privy to this information, how? Are you sure this is not merely an attempt to draw my ire by another slave who wishes them harm?”

“Heard by my ears, Dominus…”

“And what exactly was said?”

Mikkos paused, considering Marcus for a moment. “Dominus, perhaps it’s best that such matters wait, at least until…”

The chill in Marcus’ gaze evoked a response before the man himself could command it.

“Some rubbish about feeling pity for the slave who must clean her sheets and garments, and having to scrub them clean after…” Mikkos stopped, forcefully swallowing again with an audible ‘gulp’.

Marcus turned away, back toward the table that held the still quarter full pitcher of wine, his words spoken as if to the empty goblet he hastily endeavored to fill. “Dinner will wait, bring this slave before me...now.”

“That is not all, Dominus...it would appear that Master Tiberius has been intimate with this slave only just this morning…”

Marcus drank deeply from his goblet before offering his response. “I’ll deal with him later...tell Gaia to meet our guest in the triclinium, I will be along shortly…”

“...Dominus…”

“And don’t delay in the summoning of this loud mouthed, soon to be humbled kitchen slave...for every minute past the fifth that she does not stand before me, you’ll share in no small measure of my ire…”


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


Tiberius once more whistled as he made his way back from the latrine, running a hand through the shaggy curls atop his head as he passed through the doorway to his room.

Should have freshened up a bit before dinner, I’m sure I look like a tavern dog that’s been dragging its arse through piss and puke and spilt wine all evening…

He chuckled to himself at the thought, moving over to the basin that sat on the table at his bedside in order to splash a handful of water across his face. Bloody long day this has been... he splashed another handful, scrubbing his hands up and down his face a few times as he leaned down over the basin. I wonder what she’s like...she seemed all poise and pomp at the ceremony, a chip off the old block of that mother of hers. Nice pair of hips on that one…a compliment almost worth giving her if not for that eagle-eyed gaze she’d surely fix on you...

Dipping his hands back into the water, Tiberius ran fingers through his hair, not properly cleaning it, but at least slicking it back for a few moments before it would inevitably dry and begin to curl and grow wild and unruly again of it's own accord. He straightened then, looking about the room a moment before peering back at the door.

Surely I have a moment or two to spare…just a peek, to see how they’re doing…

Tiberius moved over to the mattress, lifting it up where he knew he’d hidden the Amazon’s subligaculum beneath it earlier, searching for and locating it with his eyes before his hand reached out for it.

Something is off here…

An observation made too late as fingers grasped the dampness of the material at the crotch. His hand shot back then as if he’d accidentally reached for a serpent that lay hidden in the grass, having mistaken it for a harmless branch.

“What in Jupiter's name…”

Tiberius knelt down beside the lifted mattress, still holding that corner aloft, his head lowering towards his stolen prize. He reached out a cautious finger to poke at it, trying to separate the front from the back in order to better examine the inside. Whatever substance the material at the crotch was soaked in was too viscous to be water or urine, oddly familiar in its consistency. Tiberius’ eyes widened as a revelation struck him.

“It’s cum…”

Startled by the sound of his own voice, he was prompted him to look around the room and back at the door again, ensuring both that he was alone and still unobserved. He turned back to look at the garment once he was sure that was the case, his nose wrinkling as he examined the evidence further, his eyes able to note small differences from the pair he’d hid here earlier, both in the position it lay and the condition of the material and the stitching around the sides.

It’s not the same pair...that sneaky cunt crept in here and exchanged her old subligaculum for this...this...used one.

Tiberius had seen more than his fair share or female orgasmic spendings in his day and could recognize intuitively that the fluid expelled was never this thick and slimy. Without doubt this was a man’s seed...and a healthy load at that, he couldn’t help but acknowledge with a grimace. The question then was, did this come straight from the source, or was it the leftovers that had seeped out from her? His own prick stirred at that thought, at the idea that a fat load of seed had been expended inside of her, slowly working it’s way out from that tight tunnel between her thighs as she crept that fat rump of hers down the hallway and towards his chambers. He couldn’t help but crack a smile.

“Well played, cub...well played. I suspect we’ll ruin more than a few subligaculum together before this game is dead and done…” Tiberius let the mattress fall then, concealing the cum soaked undergarment once more beneath it as he stood back up to his feet.

Such pleasures will have to wait, I’m afraid...I’ve got a new sister to meet and impress myself upon…

Tiberius snickered as he made his way back out into the hall, turning towards the triclinium, his thoughts filled with imagined recollections of the Amazon creeping her way down these same corridors, her head held high and her underpants filled with spilt seed, the smile on his face as warm as the rays of the evening sun where it had begun to sink down into the sea just outside the villa walls.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Eyes, bright and inquisitive, popped up, two at a time. Some from around corners, others from doorways, carefully hidden by high wooden beams and horse troughs. Not that Gaia minded having an audience - after all, had it been so long ago when she was doing much of the same? And Tenebris certainly didn't seem to mind. The massive black horse was far more concerned with the brushing he was receiving, his ears flexed to the side in enjoyment.

“What’re you all doin’ here?!” The nasally, squeaky twang of a boy cut through the otherwise peaceful silence of horse noise - whickers, snorts, small whinnies, hooves pawing through hay.

“Sounds like you all have been caught.” Her tone was gentle, heavy with the laughter she was trying to suppress. She thought it would be best to let her small audience watch; they were doing her no harm. Knowing that they were there had been enough to lift her heavily flagging spirits - a reminder of who she still yet was. A mistress of the wilds and the fertile ground, a friend to animals.

The frantic pattering of feet, chased after by clumsy footfalls of someone larger. “You all have chores t’do! Don’t stand here gawkin’ like yer simple!”

“But,” whined a smaller voice - another boy, long before the age of manhood had even begun to hint that it was approaching, “She’s funny-looking.”

“She ain’t,” snapped another voice - sharper, shriller. A girl, and, if the shuffling of feet on dirt and straw were any indication, one that didn’t take any guff from the others. At her voice, Gaia couldn’t help but to turn around to face her audience. And there they were - three, no - four - children, of varying ages. The tallest was a stripling of a boy, with the awkward facial fuzz of burgeoning manhood and the self-important air of someone that had been given quite a task. The smallest was a bit older than a toddler, clinging to the legs of the girl, holding a basket with puppy fat hands with as much delicacy as could be expected from a child.

“That ain’t no way to talk t’Domina,” snapped the tallest boy -young man, maybe, might be more accurate-, “Cain’tcha tell who she is by her clothes?!”

And here I thought I’d dressed rather modestly - no jewelry, at least - an oversight that she was thankful that Marcus hadn’t seen. How poorly would it reflect on him for her not to dress in all of the finery required of her station, of her ancestry? And it wasn’t that she could say, “Oh, my beloved, I’m dressed so poorly because I’ve spent the last few hours crying and having a wonderfully long sulk about the terrible state of my life that I now find myself in, so I thought that I’d cheer myself up by talking to a horse.” Yes, that would go over quite well, she was sure of it.

“Yah, but lookit,” insisted the smaller boy. Wiry though short, with the whipcord muscle of a child used to climbing over rocks and up trees. The roughness of his tunic and the cord of his belt, beset with a sling and a pouch of stones, told her that more than likely he was a young shepherd. My, had it gotten that late already? “She’s all dark-skinned.”

“C’ha, she’s a Nubian, of course she’s dark,” huffed the girl, matter of factly, her tone heavy with incredulousness. “Ain’t you never seen one before?”

“Nuh-un.”

“Liar!”

“I ain’t! I ain’t never seen one. Not this close, anyway,” and he stepped forward, brave little thing, bird chest puffed out. “I seen plenty of Greeks and Egyptians anna Frank, once. I even saw a man from the East! A Syrian, I bet.”

“Liar,” sniffed the girl, her hands on her pigeon hips. She had to have been ten or eleven, with a smattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks, extending out to her arms. She was well-fed, with darkly curling hair pulled tightly into a braid and looped round her head. “Everyone knows the new Domina is a Nubian. Dummy.” From the state of her dress, she seemed to be a kitchen slave -

“What’re you doin’ out the kitchen anyhow?” snapped the elder boy, his hand drawn back as if he were going to cuff her, “Yer supposed t’be in the kitchen!” From the girl’s returning glare and her own balled fist, the eldest boy quickly backed off.

“Ma sent me to go get some more herbs,” she huffed. A weak defense, if her shifting light brown eyes were any evidence. Ah; that’s who she must be! That pop-eyed defiance - and Gaia laughed, the sound cutting through the children’s conversation as if she’d shouted at them. This must be Melissa’s child.

“No need for such harsh words,” she stepped away from Tenebris, who seemed to be just as curious to watch how this all would pan out. “I’m sure everyone will get back to what they were doing soon enough. And I’m sure you’re included in that, aren’t you?” Dark eyes flickered up to the tallest boy’s face.

Mollified, the oldest boy’s cheeks and ears turned tomato red. “Yes’sm, I mean, yes Domina, but what he said, what he was doin’, it ain’t right, he oughta be punished!”

“Cain't be punished for bein' simple, Septimius!” shouted the girl, who startled the youngest, who dropped her basket. A squawk of indignation.

“Mama be mad!” lisped the littlest, lowering herself on pudgy legs to gather odds and ends that had fallen out of the basket. “I’ll tell,” she sniffed, grasping at the herbs, and bringing large handfuls of straw and grass with it.

“You ain’t gonna tell, cause if you do, I’ll tell Ma ya dropped the basket and got mud in it, see!” The girl pointed towards the detritus floating at the top of the herbs, and began to pick them out in annoyance. “You cain’t do anything without some help, I swear, you’re the worst, Despina!”

One harsh word too many, and the recently named Despina’s face turned red. Crumpled. And then came the wailing.

“Calista, yer mean! I’m gonna tell!” She began to sob in earnest now, fat hands now grubby with dirt and the tears and snot she tried to wipe away.

For a moment, all Gaia could do was blink, completely taken aback by the turn of events. What would Marcus do? No, beyond that, what would a Domina do?

She knelt, and held out her arms. “Come now, no time for tears. Despina, was it? You’re doing a fine job of helping. No one’s going to tell on you.”

A kind voice among the slings and arrows of her elders - a port in a storm. There was no hesitation, remembrance of place, as the littlest girl ran to Gaia, and buried her face in her stolla. “There, there - hush, now,” Gaia took an edge of her palla and wiped the girl’s eyes. Wet and small with grief, they were pieces of pale green sea glass in a warm sand-colored face. “No need for such tears. No one’s going to be punished.”

Septimius, Calista, and the shepherd boy watched, mouths open, simply agog. Despina, comforted by Gaia’s warm embrace, left her tears behind in memory almost as soon as they’d started. Smiling down into the small face, Gaia dabbed again at her cheeks. “There. I knew there was a pretty little girl under all of that sadness! The gods bless those with a happy face, you know,” and a gentle poke to the cheek sent Despina into giggles. Small arms wrapped around Gaia’s neck with surprising strength as the girl nearly yanked Gaia down to the ground with the force of her hug.

“Domina’s the nicest!” she shrieked in glee, “And I think she looks like a queen!” A defiant glare shot back to the other children, capped with a pout that dared any to challenge her new assessment. “The prettiest of them all,” she added, before glancing back at Gaia. “Prettier ’n you, ugly Calista!” Despina stuck out her tongue, loosening her grip on Gaia’s neck, effectively letting the older woman go, but not feeling confident enough to toddle too far away.

“Whatever,” sniffed Calista - but it wouldn’t take the most observant person to tell that the jibe about her looks had hurt her a bit.

“That’s not nice,” Gaia breathed, straightening her stolla and palla as she stood, “I think your sister, Calista, is a fine looking girl. And I’ll bet she’ll be even prettier as she gets older. Girls are like flowers - we bloom in time.”

And quickly fade and are replaced with fresher ones.

The bitterness of the thought didn’t cross to Gaia’s face as she dusted off the front of her stolla. Calista seemed heartened by the brief words, if the quick flash of pink across her freckled cheeks was any indication.

Annoyed with the whole episode, Septimius snorted. “Y’all made fools of yerselves in front of the Domina - Felix, you wi’cher bellend starin’, Calista wi’cher mouth, and-”

Gaia sighed, and held up her hands. Septimius stopped mid-sentence, remembering his audience. The two girls, feeling that they had an ally in this battle against the sexes, closed in Gaia’s sides. “All right - enough bickering! We all have jobs to do, right?” Where had that come from? Maybe Agrippina's matronly nature had invisibly rubbed off on her.

Gaia glanced at the kids. Each of them nodded, sheepish to eager. “That’s right! But before we start - you there, Felix, was it?”

Singled out, Felix swallowed so hard that the walnut of his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Yes’sm?”

“You said you haven’t seen a Nubian this close, right?”

He nodded again, confusion and fear in his dark eyes.

“So now’s your chance to get a good look at me.” Gaia stepped forward, then knelt in front of the boy. “I’ve got two hands, two feet, two legs, two-“

“Arms!” finished Despina, triumphant.

“Yes, that’s right, two arms,” Gaia smiled, “So you see, we’re not that different.”

“Your face looks different,” Felix stuttered, nearly caught under his breath.

“But your face looks different from Calista’s, which looks different from Septimius's,” and she pointed to the eldest boy. “So we’re all different, even if your colors are the same.”

“Does it come off?”

Gaia blinked.

“Does…what come off?”

“The darkness. The brown, I mean. Not that stuff,” Felix pointed to the henna, still strong on her hands, “But…” he trailed off, words failing him.

Never in all of my years did I think I would have to deal with this. Lucius, one of your many lessons has again struck home.

“You can touch and see for yourself.” Gaia held out her arm, pulling back the folds of her palla. Hesitating, Felix looked to Septimius, then to Calista and Despina. The two girls gave him a collective well go on with it, dummy look. No succor was to be found from the older boy as well, whose dark eyes promised not only a lashing, but endless teasing. Caught between a rock and a hard place, Felix gingerly touched Gaia’s outstretched arm. Rubbed it under his rough palm. Lifted his hand to look at it - and seemed shocked that his palm was the same color as it had been before he’d touched her.

“See? It doesn’t come off, no more than your color comes off when you get wet,” Gaia was standing again, straightening out her palla.

“Then do you get lighter if you don’t get enough sun?” Hesitation gave way to boundless curiosity, the brightness returning in his eyes. Here was a living, breathing new thing!

“Sometimes,” Gaia laughed a little. “But I get darker if I’m out in the sun, just like you.”

“So do you ever turn just black? Like t’night?”

“FELIX!” That question earned him a hard cuff on the back of the head from Septimius. “Bellend! Go tend t’sheep! Idiot!” Yelping and cradling the back of his head, Felix gave the older boy a glare, and then looked back to Gaia, looking for some sort of out.

“Back to work, all of us - and no, Felix, I never get that dark,” the last was said with a warm laugh, half incredulous that the child had asked such an asinine question, half amazement that he had the courage to do so. “Calista, Despina - I’m due back to the villa; why don’t I accompany you two to the kitchen? Seeing the goods that you’re carrying has given me an idea.”

“Domina likes us most of all,” Despina crowed, hefting up her basket with as much pride as her little body could muster.

“Despina!” snapped Calista, exasperated - but it was more for show. Gaia could feel the older girl’s eyes on her, hopeful for some intervention, some understanding. She’d taken everything as matter of factly as she could, but the fact that this Domina was not only in the stables, but didn’t seem to want to punish them or tell on them was frankly playing tricks with her mind. She remembered the last Domina, the mean woman, who never said anything nice and was quick with a beating. As she took up her stride along Despina and Gaia, Calista spared a glance at the older woman. Sure, she was a Nubian, and her ma had said she was strange, but she was nice, and that’s all that mattered.



________



The kitchen was awash in motion - the heat amplified by the press of so many frantic bodies. After depositing both girls - and receiving an earful of apologies from Melissa - Gaia thought that perhaps another way to amplify her mood was to follow up on a bit of advice from Mikkos. He had said that she was the Domina, that it was to be a feast for her as well, had he not? So when she approached the women with a small package of dark red powder, she allowed her memories to free her tongue.

“It’s a ground pepper from our home,” she said, realizing how strange it might be for a new wife to be producing strange bits and bobs, “I’ll have to go through all of my things to see if seeds for the mother plant were included. Here, please try it. But be careful - a little will go a long way.”

She had to work hard to bite back laughter as Melissa’s face turned beet red and she began to cough, her eyes watering. And had to work harder still when the commotion from Melissa brought over Myrtis, who had much the same reaction, this time with a running nose as well.

“That tastes like the fires of the underworld! How on earth can you eat this?!”

“You use a just a bit, depending on your tastes. For sauces and stews and the like,” she couldn’t help her laughter now. Great Huntress, I needed that. You do work in mysterious ways to us mortals. “When I saw Calista with the basket of herbs, it gave me an idea…We would have a roast chicken, rubbed with this pepper, and some other herbs, roasted slow over the fire. I thought that…well,” she flushed a bit - go on now, Gaia, go through with it! - “I thought that I might try my hand at making it, since it would be new to you. Here, I can show you….”

While Gaia was still a novice baker - and that was being kind - something about the preparation of meats came natural to her. Massaging olive oil into a plucked chicken, she described every step of what she was doing to the rapt attention of Melissa and Myrtis, and a few other slaves that she didn’t know the names of. To an outsider, it appeared that she was working a strange magic, adding that red powder, fine salt, crushed and dried herbs. Taking and dampening old bread in olive oil and water, mixing with wild onion and garlic to stuff the cavity of the bird. To Gaia, she was simply doing what she’d watched a myriad of times before - Omuhoko, the oldest kitchen slave, had been another warm face, an adopted grandmother, who more than once not only sheltered Gaia, but showed her a thing or two about spices - a natural evolution from being enamored with plants.

“Now, you put it in the embers, and leave it to roast,” Gaia wiped at the sweat on her brow.

“We can address it from here, Domina,” Myrtis said, with the tone of a mother shooing a child to wash up, “Please, the dinner will be delayed if you are not there.”

“And far be it from me to waste all of your hard work,” a small smile from Gaia, and then she was whisked out of the warm depths of the kitchen.


__________


With all of the grace that she handled the children and the kitchen, Gaia’s rush back to her shared room with Marcus was anything but. Tear, kohl, dirt and snot-stained stolla and palla were whipped off with the panic of someone who was running late for an important audience - and that was the truth, wasn’t it? Sandals ripped off, tossed into a corner with haphazard care. The worst of it was that she had literally no idea what to wear. The most trivial of things, yes, but as she looked at her vast wardrobe, she realized, with a chill, how much that Arethusa had dressed her. Not just the physical act, but providing much needed feedback, suggestions, pairings. Considering that Arethusa was first in line with any outgrown or older clothing, one could suspect that she would lead Gaia into fashion follies to line her own closet, but nothing could be further from the truth. As Arethusa was older, she took on Gaia as her own dress up doll, often exclaiming with joy with the end results, something that reflected as well on her as it did on Gaia.

Arethusa, I know you’re not here, came the panicked thought as she combed through stolla after stolla, dainty upon dainty, But I could really use your guidance. Speak through something; anything! The smallest sign and I will gift you a parcel of cinnamon sticks and a song bird in a gilded cage -

As if by magic, Gaia shoved aside more fabric within the deep cedar chest, and her hand landed on a bundle of pale pink fabric, the color of a new rose.

She could’ve cried.










Arethusa, if you’re with me, I hope I did all right…

Not that anyone could tell that she was full of doubt. As Gaia strode down the hall towards the triclinium, she seemed every inch a queen. She was doing her best to channel the chill affected nature of her mother, but also trying to temper it with Agrippina’s innate calmness that made her approachable and warm and it was getting to be too much, too many people crowding her mind so that there was no room for Gaia, but maybe that was best after all, Gaia would make a mess of it all, Gaia wouldn’t have applied her kohl so carefully, had picked her cosmetics to be so flattering, her golden jewelry to be so fine -

But at least she didn’t have to worry about having to dress her hair.

She’d rigged (and she thought it was rather inspired) her palla to stay put with a cleverly placed pin that looped round to her earrings. It would limit the movement of her head (to keep from jerking her ears too painfully), but it would hold the palla in place and her audience would be none the wiser that she was bald beneath it. Not that she particularly cared, knowing the reasons why, but it wasn’t quite the impression that she wanted to send.

How would Agrippina handle this? She’d walk like this, her head held just so, smile like this, walk in slower steps - how does she make it anywhere? A slug could out run me at this pace! Does she worry about her breasts and buttocks jiggling? I bet she doesn’t - she doesn’t have these ridiculous things. I thought I’d picked the right strophium but I know this bounce can be seen from afar, maybe I’m being too self conscious, but if I can feel them move, surely others can see them?

And so one with her thoughts - until a very familiar figure proved to be approaching the triclinium at the same time as she was.

She could’ve snorted. Could’ve balked, have put on an offended face. But she did none of the above. With a coolness in her stride that she knew would have made her mother proud, she simply smiled at the mountain that was Tiberius. Innocent enough, until her eyes met his. No shocked flicker of recognition, no seductive wink.

Hands folded primly on her lap as she stood there, a work of art in the pink stolla and matching palla, her golden finery diadems placed around her body as if by the hands of the gods themselves, the faint trail of her invisible perfume, spicy and resinous.

“Praetor Tiberius,” a smooth, honeyed voice, “I trust that you received my present in good health?”

 

[Talon]

It’s always in the last place you look…

Tiberius wore an easy grin, toothless and wide, as he made first eye contact with the woman in pink whose path he intersected just outside the triclinium. And what a woman she was, he thought, as a quick glance downward drank in the totality of her form. She seemed every bit a highborn Patrician lady, only just descended from her slave-borne cart to walk amongst the common rabble, the mere mortals, for a brief moment of charity, pressing silver denarri into their palms as she prayed that the gods would take heed of their plight, the warmth of her soft and gentle touch more valuable a gift than any coin pressed to flesh. She was radiant in her finery, the shade of her garments a perfect compliment to the rich, earthy tone of her flesh, as dark as the most fertile of soil, the kind the god’s had blessed to yield bountiful crops harvest after harvest. The finery she wore seemed as if a matter of course, as if it were she that enhanced their beauty and not the other way around. She’d seem every bit a goddess if it were an old horse blanket she was wrapped in instead.

Now this is a woman...Marcus, you lucky dog, you’ve not been so good a man that you’ve earned all this…

As the two drew nearer his gaze held to her, favoring her face but not without sparing glances down at the bounty of treasure her stolla kept concealed beneath, covered but hardly countained as they bounced and shook beneath the soft fabric at her chest with every graceful step that brought her closer towards him. She was busty, perhaps almost overly so for one of such limited height and mass, but they somehow suited her frame, even if he was sure they must all but drag her down to the floor when released from the prison of her undergarments. Tiberius forcefully bit back the urge to spend more time in the admiring of such a pair, consoling himself with the thought that he would press Marcus for more detail when next they were alone, if he couldn’t see them in all their glory then he’d have to make due with a secondhand description of what it was like to worship at that altar.

We’re going to need a lot more wine before the night’s end…

It was with admirable effort that he managed to keep his gaze above her neckline for those last few steps, busying himself with admiring the way she had tastefully applied her cosmetics and arranged her palla, highlighting but not drowning out the natural beauty in her softly feminine features. She was every bit the beauty up close, holding up where others might begin to wane once able to see with more detail. Beautiful...but somehow oddly familiar. Something about her appearance spoke to something or someone he recognized but could not immediately recall, nagging like an itch at the back of his skull.

It must be that she so strongly resembles her mother now that she is free of all that ceremonial garb…

Tiberius’ features drew in a moment, brow furrowed as a frown briefly turned down the corners of his lips, ice cool orbs still fixed to her face but now with the blank stare of someone searching through memory, wading in the pool of recollection, desperately seeking the reference that had been lost within.

As they drew within arm’s reach they both stopped as if on cue, as if the practiced movements of actors on stage, as if two like ends of different magnets repelling each other when brought too close. Tiberius stood in a measured stance, with confidence but seemingly half-guarded, drawing back his shoulders to allow him to stand at his full height, a few quick and forceful shakes of his head given towards the clearing of stray thoughts as he fully came to a stop.

Nevermind that...perhaps I’ve had too much wine already…


“Praetor Tiberius, I trust that you received my present in good health?”


Gods...even her voice is beautiful, like a melody carried lightly on a soft spring breeze. This must be Gaia...if not her, then who? And gift...what gift?

The warm smile he wore lightly on his lips was once more an open expression of joy, not guarded or masked as others of his station might wear. “The pleasure is all mine, brother-wife…” He took a half step forward then, leaning his head down towards her as if to offer a greeting kiss in the manner of Romans. “...if it pleases you, I would address you as ‘sister’ from hence…”

He stopped short, his eyes on hers, fixed on those dark pools set against a sea of white orbs. A look of recollection flashed across his features, followed quickly by confusion, his head hovering there a moment, so close to hers but drawing no closer. It was in the eyes, there, where she could not mask her true self in fine garments or jewels, that the spark of remembrance caught flame. Images flashed across his mind’s eye of the Amazon of the baths, nude as the day she was born, confident and fierce and irresistible...this was her, without doubt.

The gift…a cum soaked subligaculum…

Tiberius held a moment, his brow furrowing, a name whispered, not true name, but given. “Cub…?”

Tiberius suddenly burst into laughter, his booming chuckle filling the hall about them, the man pulling back as he slapped a hand over his heart. “Hah! You had me a moment...I almost thought…” Another round of chuckling. “Ahhh...well, you certainly look and act the part, I’ll give you that. A bit too big in the bust, perhaps, are you not worried your mistress will tan your hide for stretching out her pretty dress so? You look on the verge of bursting through a seam.”

Tiberius, his laughter still resolving, looked away from her a moment to scan the hallway behind her, his hand rubbing away the tears that had formed at the corners of his eyes. “Ahhh, gods...where is she, then, the lady of the house?”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

If pressed kindly or if threatened with torture, she wouldn’t be able to answer how she was so easily able to speak with this giant of a man, this raw chunk of stone spat unceremoniously from the womb of the earth. Was it childish rage, calmed by the unending expanse of sorrow of her future? Or was it the desperate grasping of something familiar, the prankish realm of a girl that had older brothers and had spent more than her fair share of her youth scrapping with them? Whatever the particular reason was (maybe as simple as them both being dressed, and his appearance being a welcome distraction from the other buzzing bees of her thoughts about how to act), at his comments, she simply laughed. Not mocking or cold, nor forced and plastic. It was a shade above a deep belly guffaw, capped with a soft snort as she raised a hand to her mouth, hurrying to close the gate before more, even more unladylike laughs escaped her.

What has this brute gotten into that he doesn’t recognize me? My clothes surely don’t disguise my face that well? Another snorted laugh. My face! Gaia, Gaia: at what point did this creature actually look at your face?

She closed the gap between them now, eyes glinting with mischief. This was no longer the lady of the house, but already a younger sister, ribbing her brother after being teased. She titled her head, all grace and poise, cooly receptive to his greeting kiss. But having been in this situation before, it would take little movement from her to suddenly loop an arm around his neck, yanking him down to her level. No small feat, but helped with years of experience. Her lips next to his ear now, her grip on his neck tightened, burgeoning bicep biting into the nape of his neck, holding him still.

“Should I flip up my stolla and show you my bare ass for you to remember?” Harsh language from the portrait of a lady, the cracks of the woman showing through the pomp and frills. A snake-like whisper, menace-laced sweet. “Because I could, but I think a second look would be too good for you.”

As quickly as she’d gone for his neck, he was released, and distance between them again, as if it had never happened, as if she had heard footsteps of the father of the house. A what, me, never! look, wide dark eyes batting innocently, youthfulness added to a face pushed into maturity with the heavy application of kohl around her eyes, turning her from a sculpture to a person. “The lady of the house?” Voice lifted, conversational now, malice departed, “Why, Praetor - you’re standing in front of her. Gaia Africana, your new ‘sister’, as you put it?” Upward inflection, teasing, still.

How to handle such a man? Should I hold my tongue? I’ve already spoken and behaved like a savage. Cold thoughts that twisted the fabric of her happiness. But it’s so easy to be…closer to myself with him. So he’s approached me in the bath with ill-intent, ill-intent, should he had truly wanted, he could have very well acted out. But he didn’t - instead settling for a prank, and one I’ve returned in kind.

“So let us start on a clean slate,” she finished her thought out loud, fixing him to the spot with those eyes of hers. They were full of good humor, impish, like he would have to breathe the merest hint of trickery and she’d be in. “As I said, mere moments ago, I am Gaia Africana, the lady of this home, and it would please me greatly if you felt so inclined to call me ‘sister.’ You’ve already treated me like one - what, with your prank and then throwing me into the bath. Come, let me embrace my new brother, one I would welcome gladly to my family - I’ve some practice with them, you know.”

Closing the gap between them, she embraced him warmly, arms reached up to twine around his neck, a bit more formal than if she had grabbed him around the middle, a more intimate gesture saved for actual blood. Compared to the grasp on his neck not moments before, this was more of a mere hint of flesh to flesh, her body warm to his under the sheer silken folds of her stolla, her perfume snaking invisible fingers, pulling him tighter. Standing on her tiptoes, she took the opportunity to whisper in his ear, “Though if you tell my husband, your brother, of what occurred this morning in the baths, I will have no problem with gutting you as you slept.”

A release again, a step back. “Now, shall we go to dinner? I’ve had a hand in preparing a bit of it myself, and it would please me greatly to see my new brother partake.”

 

[Talon]

As Gaia pulled away from him, Tiberius could still feel her lips there at his ear where they’d brushed against it, causing more of a stir within him than did the promise, not threat, that they’d carried upon them. The grin that lit the lower half of his visage was at odds with the tilt of his head and the look in his eye, one that spoke to confused acceptance of her true identity, that of his new sister by bonds of brotherhood, the source from which light would cast the shadow he’d promised to become. Somewhere deep inside it felt right, that the mantle of the dark Amazon rested easily on her shoulders, for what woman common-born could hope to cut such a figure? The ease of her banter perhaps spoke otherwise, but having glimpsed earlier her fiery spirit, such candor was not at all unbecoming. He’d laughed or smiled along with her in the delivery, as if the two were already as thick as thieves, the beginnings of a bond taking root there as the unlikely pair shared what should have by all rights been an awkward moment. It hadn’t been, at least not entirely.

Was it awkward, though, that he’d so readily welcomed her pulling him close, that he’d offered no resistance, that the scent of her yet lingered in his nostrils, dancing around in his head, swirling about images best forgotten, of his hand clapping against her rump, of breasts dancing about her chest as they’d grappled, fighting gravity as fiercely as they fought confinement now wrapped up within her dress.

He said nothing of her promise to visit violence upon him if he spoke of their first true meeting. While such a threat hadn’t strictly been necessary to convince him to hold still his tongue, he read deeper into the intent of her statement than her words spoke to, that, in failing to inform her husband, she’d be the one at fault in his eyes and likely reap the majority of his wrath over it. Why should she suffer over something she’d had no control over? If he truly was to be her brother, perhaps this should be his first act of familial grace. Easy enough to see it kept behind teeth, but forgetting it entirely as if it had never happened? He wasn’t sure he could, even if he wished to. Thankfully she hadn’t asked as much of him, perhaps herself of the opinion that such a moment could not so easily be banished from memory.

Tiberius sucked in a deep breath, exhaling it as he scrubbed a hand across his face, the revelation of her identity still washing over and reverberating through him. He once more chuckled beneath his breath as he favored her with a lighthearted grin refreshed as if by force of scrubbing hand. “Well, dear sister, it’s clear you know well the true way to a man’s heart. If it’s with food and drink you hope to quell the savage beast...consider him all but housebroken.” Tiberius reached out to take her right hand in his, lifting it just so to allow him to slide his left arm beneath it, bending it back towards him then as if offering his arm to her in the manner of an escort.

As Tiberius straightened he turned his head and canted it down towards her, offering words only for her hearing. “I’ll warn you though, cub, if you prove too able in the kitchen you’ll never be rid of me. I mean, we both already know you can crack an egg or two easily enough…” He then mimicked a humorous, if muted, rendition of the yelp he’d belted out when she kicked him between the thighs. “...but here’s hoping omelettes aren’t on the menu, I’m not sure my ego could abide such violent imagery…”

Tiberius escorted her through the doorway of the triclinium, the lingering hint of her perfume soon overpowered by the smell of cooked meat, some aspect of which was unfamiliar and foreign, wafting up from a low table arranged between long, backless couches on three sides, set with all manner of trays and bowls housing a rather impressive array of food items in what seemed by sight and smell to be a feast fit for a King. He hazarded another quick glance to the woman on his arm, his sister, he reminded himself forcefully as his gaze lingered a moment where it had best not.

Or a Queen…

“I’m not sure what is keeping Marcus, I left him not five minutes past. Mikkos required a word with him…” Tiberius shrugged. “...perhaps he is relieving himself of the wine we indulged in earlier before he joins us.”

Tiberius led her over towards the couches a few steps before stopping a moment to allow her to pull back her arm, himself moving away, looking about and surveying the room a moment as if by force of habit before turning his attention towards the table bearing the feast. He felt a gurgle at his middle in response to the sight. “Gods...I’m so hungry I could eat an ass, tail end first…” he said to no one in particular. As if suddenly remembering with whom he shared the room his head turned towards her, a sheepish grin warming his visage. “Pardon my manners, cub...I meant to say a mule, ass end first.”

Now a far cry from the image of the aggressively barbaric brute of the baths, Tiberius had fallen in with her as if the two had been born together and suckled from the same teat. He seemed entirely at ease, those harsh, stoney features of his made almost boyish by the readiness of his smile, the natural straw yellow of his hair all but bleached away by the sun until it was light enough to be nearly white. He wore but a simple tunic of clean white, belted at the middle, tailored to fit his frame snugly, drawing focus to the width of his shoulders, to the bulge of muscle revealed where tunic gave way to skin, flesh darkened by the same sun that had lightened his hair, his natural tone not entirely dissimilar from her husband’s but rather cool where his was warm. Now fully clothed, his most striking feature, apart from his size, was easily those eyes of icy blue, bearing the likeness of a wolf’s, of the snowy tundra and great sheets of frozen sea water his ancestors had left behind some generations back. Pale and expressive and with an ever present gleam of mischief, those orbs now fixed on her as he offered her a noncommittal shrug.

“I suppose we should wait for Marcus before we begin the eating…” His tone suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced they should. “...but there’s no slight in enjoying a bit of drink before he decides to grace us with his presence...shall we?”

Tiberius moved towards a table against the wall upon which sat goblets and pitchers in preparation for the serving of the meal. He seized one of the pitchers and brought it up to his nose with a scrutinizing sniff, seemingly assessing the quality of the vintage. “...that’ll do…” He looked over to Gaia then, his brow lifting inquisitively. “...how do you take yours, watered or without?”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

It may have started off life as being a muffled snort, but it soon was born to the air in a full out snuffle that would have done a hog proud, capped with a short, but loud laugh - one of true amusement. Easily, she linked her arm in his, resisting the unbidden urge to press closer to him.

I’ve barely known him for a day but I feel as if we’ve been related for years. Relief, then, so strong that it nearly made her pass out, rushed through her body, and, unconsciously, she squeezed the arm that he offered her a bit tighter. A passing expression of comfort.

Thank the Huntress! For as much time as she’d lamented her new role, her path still seemed to be strewn with the occasional reminders that at root, she was still yet unchanged. That she might weather this new storm. “You speak with a tongue almost as silver as Marcus’s - you two truly are brothers,” said warmly, that laughter still caught in the corners of her lips as she looked at him. Her expression was washed of most upper class grace - one couldn’t erase generations of select breeding so easily - and she seemed as content with him in the moment as a cat with a saucer of cream. An ease that had only been privy to Marcus in the haze of post-coital conversation. No, that wasn’t quite it. No matter how at “ease” she may have felt with Marcus, there was still a sense of reverence, of uncertainty. Of being outclassed and hopelessly immature, destined to forever chase behind his ever growing shadow. With Tiberius, already, there was the buoyant nature that characterized her relationship with Lucius.

Folly, perhaps, to “fall” so quickly and suddenly for a strange face, but for Gaia, sheltered as she was, Tiberius was less of a brother than a lifesaver, a gift from the gods that she’d initially misunderstood. “You know,” her tone was easy, happy - but for their ears only, “I’d attacked you in the bath because I thought you were potentially after Marcus. It seems silly now, I know, but you’d appeared out of nowhere,” she gestured an explosion with her freed left hand, “A boar in the forest! So I thought, ‘Well, I’ve got to stop him no matter what,’ and now here we are!” Laughter again, though easier and softer, distance enough now to step away from anger, to realize how childish she’d been. “It’s almost a shame that we can’t tell Marcus…” She trailed off, a bit of reality slipping into her rosy dream. She hadn’t truly thought about how her husband would react to such a story, though the nagging feeling in her stomach told her that it wouldn’t be with good humor. Even if she’d tried to explain how she wanted to do whatever she could to protect her slumbering and healing husband, as a proper wife, she should’ve run, gathered help, instead of try to take on the matter herself.

He wouldn’t understand. It’d make him look bad - but in my heart, I did as Diana has blessed me. And so it would seem that she’s blessed me in turn. The slight shadow of sorrow that had crossed her face, sparkling in tune with the gems of her earrings, shifted with the light of those baubles. Her left hand touched his bicep, steeling herself, before she let go. I’ve got to maintain some effort of being proper; I can’t just touch on this man like he is my blood brother. It’ll set tongues to wagging, and my presence alone seems to be more than enough fodder to keep them busy.

“ ‘Cub’,” she resumed, looking straight ahead for a moment, her voice still soft and meant for him alone, “I rather like that nickname. It would seem that you’ve already started to play the role of brother before you were fully aware. My Lucius called me ‘fig dumpling’, or ‘dumpling.’ It must be second nature to brothers to give sisters nicknames. So that means I’ll have to figure out one for you,” now she was looking up at him again, nose scrunched at the bridge as she made a show of giving careful consideration. Then, with a soft gasp, she slid her arm from his, and paced in front of him. “Look at your eyes! I’ve never seen such a blue!” Standing on her tiptoes, without the slightest bit of shame (and to think, she’d been incredulous earlier at the same reaction from the children), she grasped the sides of his face between her palms, hopping up and down as her calves grew tired of supporting her weight on her tiptoes. “Such a pretty color! Like cornflowers. Or maybe the sky, or the mountains in the distance, when the clouds are low in the sky.” She let go of the sides of his face, though it was with a bit of reluctance.

Apologize! That was rude!

Why? He’s seen you nude. There’s nothing hidden between us now. And it’s not like you’re asking about that third arm that he apparently calls a phallus. She quickly bit her lower lip, hoping her cheeks weren’t as red as they felt. And now you’ve made a fine mess of it all; thinking about that. How it stirred that strange feeling in your gut, that heat - how maybe -

No. We’re not following that horse. We’re not to think of it. He’s been a bit crude, but since he knows who I am, I suspect such commentary will be the end of it. Surely it’s not because I’m attractive, but because I was naked and it was an easy opportunity. He’s much different now that we’re clothed, and that’s a good thing.

You’re not being fair, sighed a voice in her head. Marcus seems to think you’re attractive enough.

Marcus only thinks of my breasts and my rear, snarled another voice. You’re not to expect great love poetry because you’re a wife now. You do your wifely duty and consider yourself lucky that you find as much enjoyment in it.

That’s not fair to Marcus, though, chimed in yet another voice. He means well, think of the bracelet he made you.

After he insulted you!

After you were rude to him. And you broke that vase and he hasn’t even so much as mentioned it.

So, chimed in yet another voice, don’t you think it’s been too long since you’ve actually said something?

So caught up in her thoughts so quickly that she forgot to hold the hem of her stolla as she stepped up the final, gentle steps to the triclinium, and unceremoniously tripped over the bottom of it. “Gah!” Undignified, unbecoming, and unexpected - she flailed, grabbed onto Tiberius, and nearly took him down with her as she tried to steady herself. Thankfully he had much more of a solid footing, and without much effort, used the grip that he still had on her arm to pull her upright.

Flustered, panting, and now, entirely embarrassed, she clung to Tiberius’s arm with both hands, her eyes wide, brows lifted, as she waited for her heart to slow down. She’d dug her short nails into his arm hard enough to leave small crescents.

“Great Juno,” she finally breathed - before breaking into nervous laughter. The kind that started rough, staccato, water over an uneven river bed. Soon enough, though, she was letting go of Tiberius’s arm, folding over, hysterically laughing as she hugged her thighs close, before lifting her head with a smart jerk. “Good luck within poor that Marcus was not here to see that - I fear I’m already, perhaps, not as good of a wife as he may have been lead to believe.” Airly enough, but with the weight of actual doubt, the smallest creasing of her brow as the past few hours swam back up through her distractions.

Not even seven days into this and I’ve shamed him nearly as many times. Diana, Juno - anyone, please, just help me through this dinner. Help me hold it together, find things to make idle chatter about, and grant me a swift dawn so that I may still yet recover myself.

A soft sigh as she did her best to dispel those thoughts - if not banish them entirely, at least lock them away for a bit. Focus was turned to the table, and a small, shy smile then as she recognized the roasted chicken, slightly red from the rubbings of pepper. Something familiar.

Even if it is dead.

“Mm, I think that this particular mule might be grateful if you were to curb your hunger for just a bit longer. I’m sure Marcus will be along shortly, if what you’ve said is true.” She looked at the couches, unsure of where to sit. At home, it would have been so easy - her seat hadn’t changed in all of her years. Now, she felt fairly petrified. What if she sat in the wrong place? Too close to Tiberius, or not close enough to Marcus? Or worse, what if she sat in his place and caused him ire?

A hard swallow. Should I be honest? Should I say that I’m not sure where to sit, because we’ve dined in different places so far, or should I sit anywhere and try to play it off if I’m incorrect? Wait! See if Tiberius sits first -

Oh, you absolute ox!

So much for that hope; Tiberius was moving towards the table, and no closer to the couches. She tried to plaster a smile on her face, though between her pressed lips and raised brows, it would look more like a pained grimace. “Watered, please, if you would be so kind.”

Though unwatered would probably help me through this. Especially if it had a bit of the juice of a poppy in it.

 

[Talon]

This was an odd one, this Gaia Africana. Somehow capable of exhibiting grace even when on the verge of falling on that pretty face of hers. It’d be a shame, to marr such natural beauty, but almost worth the risk to hear more of that laugh of hers. Besides, she has her brother Tiberius here now to look out for her, to catch her should she fall.

Is it wrong that I inhabit her shadow not because I’ve been asked to, but because it gives me an excuse to be so near her?

Tiberius returned her uneasy grimace with a warm smile of his own and a soft chuckle beneath his breath as he acknowledged her preference with an affirmative nod. “Watered it is, then, cub…” A reiteration of her nickname then, in acknowledgement of her approval of it. For all her threats, she didn’t seem eager to put the events of the past morning entirely behind her. If she did, surely she would desire the choosing of a different name, perhaps even preferring he use the one given to her at birth.

She looks like something she ate disagrees with her, I wonder what has her so out of sorts? Perhaps a bit of banter will put her at ease.

“I must say...” Tiberius turned away from her and set down the pitcher of wine he’d been holding to pick up the one that held but plain water, pouring liberally from it into the goblet soon to be delivered to her hand. “...you’re not at all what I expected you’d be...”. He looked back over his shoulder in her direction, glancing from the corner of his eyes as if to assess her reaction. “...after having met your mother, I half expected that you’d be cut from the same cloth…” He looked back over at the table before him, switching back to the pitcher of wine and topping off her goblet before filling his own in turn. “...all prim and proper. She carries herself as if the stick up her arse is nearly the size of the one up Marcus’...”. Setting down the pitcher he then took up a goblet in each hand before turning to move back over towards her, that same mischievous smile playing across his lips as he drew closer.

Gods, she smells good...

Tiberius’ eyes half-closed a moment as he was able to once more pick out the distinctive notes of her perfume upon his approach, standing out even amongst the numerous aromas that filled the air of the triclinium, strong enough to linger about her but not be overpowering as in the case of those who wore it heavily in lieu of regular bathing. It was the second scent he could now link to her in his mind, the first having been sourced from the crotch of the subligaculum she’d stolen back from him before dinner. That earthy, primal, pheromone-laden scent that had caused the hairs down the back of his neck to stand on end as he pressed his nose to that one particular spot, the place where leather met...

I’m not sure which I like more...I wonder if I could manage to get my hands on the subligaculum she wears now, I bet it carries some measure of both. Perhaps I could bribe their chamber slave, or ply the newlywed couple with enough wine that they wouldn’t hear me sneak in after they've retired to their chambers for the night….

Stop that...she’s your sister now, remember? What would Marcus think of you obsessing so deeply over the scent of his wife’s cunt?

The old dog would probably be beside himself with joy in the knowing that I’m the one jealous of him, for once...why couldn’t the bastard have gone off and married the buck-toothed, half-witted daughter of some country yokel who smelled of naught but sheep shit and goat’s milk. Of all the women in Rome, why did it have to be one built like her...are the gods testing me, then?

Tiberius shook his head as if to clear whatever line of thought he had been lost in, the easy smile once more upon his lips as he stood before her, offering her drink to her, the fine wine contained within it watered down enough to offer but a hint at its former potency in the tasting of it. “Here you are, cub. And for the record I am happy to have been proven wrong in my estimation of you…” Tiberius gave a curt nod before taking an exploratory sip from his goblet, silently nodding as if to note to himself his approval of Mikkos’ choice of wine for the evening. He shifted a few half steps closer towards her then, the shuffling of restless feet as if undertaken somewhat subconciously, as if he were drawn into her ordit by some natural force he was powerless to resist. While maybe not strictly improper, the growing lack of distance between them, it was perhaps a bit too familiar for ones so recently acquainted.

As smoothly as he had drawn in towards her his hand moved then to the small of her back, resting there where it curved inward at the base of her spine, that lovely feature that granted her lower half it's desirable shape, the look no woman born of his mother's people could dare hope to emulate. He wanted nothing more in that moment than for her to lean in towards him, to rest her head against the bulwark of his chest, to see if their clothed bodies fit as well together as their nude bodies from earlier that morning had offered promise they would. A mismatched pair if there ever was one, with ancestors hailing from opposite corners of the earth brought together here at its center, his body wide at the top, hers in the middle. They could not possibly have been designed with a mind that they should lie together, and yet still, despite how wrong it felt to lust after a woman whose die had been cast for another man to whom he owed allegiance, he couldn’t ignore the desire for her that had taken root so deep within him. It wasn’t strictly physical, this desire he felt, although he’d be lying if he tried to make the claim that the shape of her body wasn’t at the foundation of it. It wasn’t merely down to a nicely shaped pair of tits, though, not anymore...it was that odd laugh of hers, uninhibited and infectious, the type that made him want to crack a jest at every turn so that he might be privy to it once more. He couldn't quite be sure what he was more drunk on, the wine, or her?

His hand lingered at the small of her back as he turned his head down towards her, words spoken at a volume as if intended to carry them to her ears only, the magnitude of wine thus far imbibed this evening making him more bold than perhaps he might otherwise be in such circumstances, turning his mood darkly erotic as if he'd suddenly been struck by an arrow from Cupid's bow well south of it's usually intended target. “I hunger, and yet perhaps the source of my appetite is for things best not spoken of so soon before supper...the sort of things that makes the sight of you in that dress more appetizing than any dish atop that table...that makes me grow envious of your husband as I think of how fortunate he is to have you around to warm his bed at night...let's hope he arrives soon, lest we choose to get started without him...” Like the placement of his hand, his words skirted right up to the line of was what decent and proper, perhaps tapping but a toe across to the other side. More than a bit forward, approaching a topic one should definitely avoid amongst polite company, nevermind when speaking to the wife of a friend so recently declared sister. It was his tone that carried things fully over that unspoken line, the rumble of that deep baritone, tinged with such heavy emotion that even the most naive of listeners could discern his intention. Not the light and airy speech of a man in love attempt to court his beloved, no, instead the lowly hushed whisper of conspiring lovers, the sort of tone that made every word seem filthy, that assured the listener that this was a man aroused by her mere presence, that he was likely imagining within his mind something far more improper than the mere content his speech spoke to. And if she required further evidence beyond that, perhaps she could find it in the electricity that passed between them where they touched, his hand taking care to never stray farther south, to not give her rightful cause to claim he’d fondled her or been untowards in his potentially unwelcomed advances, all while yet somehow conveying much the same sentiment as the tone he’d chosen. She’d seen a glimpse of this version of him there in the baths when first he’d entered, the creature who saw something he wanted and moved as if he intended to have it.

Forgive me, brother, for I'm going to have my way with this woman, some day, some how...some day, just not this day...

And just as suddenly as he had turned the mood he was altering it again as he pulled away from her, fingers trailing across the fine fabric of her stolla, reluctantly breaking contact only when the growing distance between them strictly enforced it, to move over towards the couch situated on the right side of the room with an easy gait. He carried himself just as he had before, every bit the bantering brother, as if his momentary relapse into the Beast of the Baths was but imagined, the memory of it the next morning perhaps the byproduct of having partaken too liberally of so fine a vintage. “I think I’ll take this one here, nearest the wine, if it pleases the lady of the house.” He moved around in front of the couch, peering down at the contents of the table set in the middle intently a moment before taking his seat with a groan of relaxation. “Perhaps you would point out to me the dish I should avoid…” a playful glance in her direction accompanied by that sheepish grin of his as he settled over onto his side, perched up on an elbow, his knees wide, the very image of a cocky male who seemed to know his actions would pass without consequence. “...I mean, the one prepared by your hand. I’m eager to see if my new sister is as skilled a cook as she is light on her feet, notwithstanding the past few minutes, of course…”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“Hmm, hmm…” A musical hum as she reached for the goblet. Fingers brushed across one another, starbursts of brief warmth before fading to the slick coolness of the pottery. To her credit, rather than gulping down a large mouthful (as would have benefited her nerves), she merely wet her lips at the rim, listening to him.

He would mention Mother. Dampening of the lips turned into a full blow, but still lady-like, swig of the wine. He’s not entirely wrong - though I’m not sure if I should be flattered or insulted. On one hand, Mother is beautiful, but on the other, she’s…Mother.

A small sputter at the mention of Marcus’s name.

Do I laugh in agreement, or should I be insulted? A panic. I don’t know enough of Marcus to know if he’s prim; he certainly doesn’t hold his tongue around me, in lust or in anger. A tightening of those lips around the rim of her goblet. If I laugh, I set a bad impression for Marcus, adding to my already sizable tally. But if I do, I further cement camaraderie with the man he calls ‘brother’ - but couldn’t that be taken as picking one over the other? Her thoughts showed on her face as a widening of her eyes, another deep swig of wine. Watered generously, there was enough of the flavor left to soothe her - or at least delude her into thinking that.

Great Juno, help me! Something charitable, from one wife to another -

Another great swallow of wine - this one close enough on the heels of the other that the taste was suddenly too bitter, the fermentation enough to make her cough slightly.

“You’ve yet to know me well enough to make such assertions,” she finally managed to choke out, on the heels of yet another sip of wine - this one, much smaller, and with the justification of helping to clear her throat. “Though I’m not sure what anyone would expect from the wife of Marcus Valerius Aetius.” The words fell from her mouth with much more weight than she expected - how many times had she thought of his whole name, or the station that went with it? Far too much time concerned about her narrow corner of the world than what now lay before her. And yet another way that I’m distinctly inadequate for him. Still, she hoped that there had been the bare bones of humor in her reply - a neat deflection that spared her from having to comment on her mother or her new -and still a stranger to her- husband.

Tiberius moving closer was a cloud passing over the sun. Not that it brought a sudden chill, but the realization that there were much larger things out there than herself. Though they were not combatants in the nude, and she had the refinery of her clothing, some semblance of her mother’s lessons to wrap herself in, being close to him was standing next to a bear. A bear that had acknowledged her presence, and seemed content enough with the current events not to do anything. A healthy amount of fear, there, only tempered by her affinity for the wild, was what made her jump, wine nearly spilling over her hands, as he pressed his hand to the small of her back.

She froze. Felt the shiver start from her toes up to the base of her spine, curl round her sex.

I thought I was over this! Sheer panic now. Images of that organ of his flashing through her mind, the idle desires that had crossed in the mists of the bath. Of curiosity to a new male form, one that seemed as aggressive as wanton. His voice caressed the edge of her ear, caused a shudder in the glitter of those earrings.

And her mind ground to a long halt.

Just what did he mean by ‘hunger’? Surely he can’t…No. There’s no way. She jerked back to the waking world, a look of sheer incredulity across her face. One brow raised, the corner of her nose wrinkled, right corner of her mouth drawn up as well. Caught between being offended and thinking he was joking, because surely he had to be, he seemed the kind to jest enough -

And this is when the wolf would devour the lamb.

I’ve been too trusting - everything Natta said about men, strange men, ah, she was right! Why didn’t I listen? I thought that he would indeed be a brother, seeing me in the baths like seeing a sister. But no, there’s something else there, something I’d refuse to believe. And not just from him - the sight of that organ of his...It spurs heat within me, heat I should try and dampen at the source.

She slipped from him, in perfect conjunction with his adding space between them, the whispering hiss of her stolla slipping against his grasp. Her back was to him now, as her head lowered to contemplate her warped face in the dancing wine.

“…If you jest,” tremulous voice, not on the edge of tears, but gathering strength, she was no silly girl with love in her eyes and daydreams of a suitor, she was Diana-blessed, she ran with the wild creatures, and married or not, she still had that, no one could take it from her - “It’s in poor taste, brother,” a heavy underscore of that title, an underscoring for him to remember his place, not just to Marcus, but to her. Unseemly. As the words turned round in her head, the laughter she’d shared so easily before turned to bitter vinegar in her mouth. And here I thought that he would be a companion, a brother gained when it feels that I have lost so much. But here instead he only has a desire for this body!

A rueful chuckle, one she couldn’t stop - a strange, snorted sound, scoffing at something unspoken. Agrippina was the beauty - she’s the one that set man’s heart aflame with nothing more than a look. And I? Just a misshapen dumpling, not meant for the snares of a man’s world. But I suppose I will have to learn to navigate them. “But I suppose there have been many others that have melted like butter under the noonday sun to hear such honeyed words.” She was turning to face him now, a bit of a queer smile on her face, suggesting that all was forgiven, but now she wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. Like a lion with a meaty bone between his paws, but who still had eyes on the remains of the antelope near by. “And if by all means, you seek to practice them on a sympathetic audience…” a coy poke of her tongue into the corner of her mouth, causing her cheek to bulge, as if giving the matter serious and considerable thought, “Might I suggest one of the she-goats? I’m sure they hear quite the plethora of love talk from the he-goat once the spring comes round.”

Wiping her hands clean with words. Easy. Too easy, almost, and she bid a silent prayer of thankfulness to Juno. Fortune continued to smile at her, as he took the seat closest to the table - making it easy for her to pick the one furthest from him, across, but with an empty seat for Marcus to sit between them. So what if it wasn’t the space that he was accustomed to? She could quickly make up an excuse for the seating arrangements and neither one of them would lose face due to it.

“If you cannot handle spice, a low fire that burns steadily in the mouth, then yes, by all means, avoid what I’ve made,” she glanced up at him from the table, the ghost of a smile of suggestion at her mouth. Right hand set down the goblet, while the left brushed across the length of the set table, landing above the red-spiced rubbed chicken. “It’s a speciality of my home, and as such, of my ancestors. I thought that given the occasion, my new marriage,” another underscore, “and now a welcoming of a new brother, that it seemed only fit that I would bring something that meant much to me to the two men that should now dominate my life. For better or for worse." There definitely was something else in the snare of that smile, but what it was, she wasn't telling.

 

[Talon]

Tiberius sat in silent repose a moment after she’d finished speaking, still lounging on the couch with that same frustratingly carefree, sheepish grin plastered across his face as if it were a permanent feature, as if a boy caught with his hand in the honeyed treats jar, even as his gaze was fixed to hers, sparing not a timid or shamed glance away even as her words grew somewhat heated. She could see something of Marcus in his eyes then, if not in color or shape then in function, of how he looked upon her as if weighing her, measuring her, taking stock of his opponent from across the field of battle. He took a sip from his goblet then, nodding affirmatively in response to nothing in particular as he finally spoke.

“You know, cub...I think I’ve finally decided that I like you.”

He threw back his head and barked a laugh then, something of the booming laugh she’d heard out in the hallway before they’d entered, “Hah!...and not just as a pretty face to go along with a nice pair of tits, I mean, there is so much more there beneath the surface...” Perhaps not the sort of reaction one would expect from a clearly drunken man who’d just had his sexual advances rebuffed, but from the tone of his voice and the warm smile worn upon his face, he seemed to speak with genuine candor. “I think we can be as brother and sister, after all…”

Tiberius took another sip from his goblet, the reverberations from the residual laughter still working its way through his system amplified as he held the cup near his mouth a moment before lowering it. “There is something you should know about me if we are to become like family; there are precious few who walk this earth upon two legs, man or woman, for whom I have not felt at one time or another at least some passing desire to fuck. And although I reckon you won’t see it this way, it would be surprising, perhaps insulting, even, if I didn’t at least make attempt to lure you into my bed. Marcus has had his turn…” He chuckled beneath his breath then as if recalling the moment in his head, wiping at his mouth with the back of his free hand. “...and he rejected my advances much the same as you have, if not with a bit more ferocity. Perhaps I’ll tell you of it someday when we have a moment to ourselves.” A sly smile, conspiratorial, as if he’d offered to tell her of a time when Marcus had done something to embarrass himself.

Tiberius’ gaze fell to his goblet as he swirled the contents of it about. “You might consider my manner of speaking too forward…” Tiberius shrugged, looking back up at her from across the table. What mirth they had previously held was for the moment gone, his eyes gleaming wetly in the telltale sign of someone deep in drink, but beneath that, those icy blue orbs held no small measure of earnestness. “...and you wouldn’t be wrong. But you should see my advances as nothing more than an offer to share in a moment of pleasure between us. I don’t seek to replace your husband in your heart, nor you in his...but I do wish to see us as close as brother and sister who share the same blood, and will be at your back with sword in hand if ever you have need of it…”

Tiberius leaned up off of his elbow with a groan of protest, rolling his shoulder there as if working out a kink, sliding up to the edge of the couch then as if preparing to stand. “And on your suggestion of goats...from my experience it’s impossible to get past the smell...” He demonstratively waved his free hand under his nose for effect. “...not to mention those hooves. One good kick would crush a man’s figs like grapes beneath a Greek’s foot. A concept you’re quite familiar with…fig dumpling, indeed...” Another chuckle as he brought his goblet up to his lips one final time, kicking his head back to drain what liquid remained in the vessel down his gullet in one fell swoop. The back of his hand was at his mouth again, wiping at his lips, before both moved to rest on his knees a moment. “Ahhh...and what sort of man would I be if I turned down the tasting of your food? I look forward to learning more of your people’s culture, even if it is only of what they put in their belly. I enjoyed what I saw of it at the ceremony…”

Tiberius stood then, and, with remarkably stable footing for a man so lacking in sobriety, he managed to navigate his way amongst the furniture and finery and decor without disturbing a single item. He continued on speaking over his shoulder, the sound of a stream of poured liquid filling a vessel accompanying his words. “...such wondrous dancing, a sight to keep even a man of my great appetites appeased.” He turned back then, both goblet and pitcher in hand, apparently having decided the hazards of such a trip called for the establishment of a refill station more local to his seated position. He returned to his seat as gracefully as he had gone from it, searching a moment for a bare spot amongst the table suitable enough to house the pitcher, and having found it and laid the pitcher to rest there, he reclined back against the couch in his familiar repose.

Even with a smile upon his lips and mirth in those cool blue eyes he looked the part of some great beast at rest, the musculature of his arm activated by the task of holding his upper body elevated, thick and sinewy, a sandaled foot resting atop the couch, his knee bent up skyward, his hips opened, the hem of his short tunic riding up, occasionally offering glimpses of what lie between his thighs from her vantage across from him. It seemed more the relaxed lounging of a drunkenly carefree man than further attempt to seduce, although the effect was much the same in the end, the bit of folded cloth revealed there engaged in the herculean task of containing both his phallus and its complement of testicles, his loincloth bulging like the purse of Croesus with the effort.

Tiberius sipped from his refreshed goblet, looking quite pleased at the prospect of once more putting conflict behind them, as if the moment between them, brought on by him, had never occurred. “Nubian, right? I don’t suppose your father has any other daughters hidden away from view...perhaps you have a cousin or two of marrying age to whom you could introduce me?”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“ ‘Finally decided’?”

Her face turned as childishly sour as if she’d taken a great bite of a lemon. Exaggerated, but completely natural - it would appear that she still had a long way to go when it came to hiding her true thoughts from the eyes of others. That, or she still felt as damnably comfortable with Tiberius as she would someone of her own blood, even though his most recent words proved that she should be on her guard.

Then, a bit of a pout, the beginning of the reigning in of her emotions. And here I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt - well. Maybe he’s no more than a brute than I first thought. “Hmph,” she capped off her train of thought, little more than an airy gesture of annoyance, the spirit gone out of it.

That’s what I get for being too eager - in more ways than one. Mother would tan me lighter than Natta if she were to see me acting like this. An inhale: slow exhale as she lifted her goblet to her lips again. I can blame the wine, but even then, it’s in poor taste for a lady to drink so much that her tongue is loosened. ‘Better seen and not heard’, as Mother would say. Just recalling those words were enough to generate her mother’s cold look of distain that would serve as correction any time Gaia acted out a bit at dinner. Or in public. Or anywhere.

“ ‘Pretty face,’” she mumbled, causing the wine to bubble around her lips, in the cup. He’s mocking me certainly. But the gilt on this cloud is that at least my bust is something to be envied, so think on that, Cassia! Cassia of the bee stings, more like it. “ ‘Brother and sister’…” Would she spend the rest of the dinner mimicking him? It seemed like it - but without the glee that children usually took in such behaviors. Her repetitions were quiet, thoughtful - a tasting of the words and weighing them on the scales kept dark within her mind. No matter how she added or subtracted, the sum was still the same: she’d thought one thing of this man, and somehow she was both incorrect and correct at the same time. But who is this man that he would call Marcus a brother? What of their story there? Loyal enough to stop whatever he was doing, to come from wherever, to here, upon the merest hint of trouble. That’s nothing to be scoffed at. But that loyalty is to Marcus - one would assume that it would extend to me, but it could and couldn’t on the same hand. I don’t have the same sort of attachment - nor would I have the opportunity to bond myself to such an ox so closely.

A narrowing of her eyes as she looked down at her reflection in her cup. Though I’m sure if I were to offer him my body, he would valiantly declare himself at my service. And if I were smart about it, I could simply toss suggestions his way to ensure his loyalty. A grimace. I would be the most base of women if I were to do something like that. Curiosity alone isn't good enough to shatter whatever it is that I'm trying to build here. A determined clack as she set the goblet down, with the unspoken statement that she was going to abstain. She needed a clear head. I’ve been protected by the Huntress so far; I will not doubt her further protection, as long as I keep up my end of the bargain, one freely, and willingly, given. If this beast seeks to consider me a sister, well, then, it will be solely on his behalf. I’d thought that he had been a gift from the gods, but more like he’s a prank from Mercury himself. I concede, merry winged one - and I’ll laugh at this, this momentary distraction from the severity of my life. I may question the timing of such a prank, but as I’m but mortal, I’m simply subject to your will.

Though I would like to hear of that story of him and Marcus. They could duel with those members of theirs.

“Well,” she started, on the end of her throat clearing. He’d said quite a bit, and the funny thing about it all? The thing that pricked at her, honestly caused her a bit of hurt? His careless suggestion as just offering her pleasure. Apparently I’m not good enough for anything but a nice face and a healthy set of teats. Surprising even her were the hot burn of tears that suddenly rose to her eyes. Venus has breezed into my life, and yet, it seems that she would seek to mock me like all others. Is that all the good that this body is? Something to be taken? Enjoyed? What of all else that makes me Gaia? Or is that truly of no matter?

“You certainly do not measure your words before you pour them,” she managed, clearing her throat again to chase away the fraying of tears that stood there. I can’t simply run away in tears like a child. I have to stand my ground. Natta warned me, I did not listen, and now I’ve got to heed her words. Men are but wolves; some nicer than others, with careful grooming and the glitter of titles, but a wolf is a wolf. And while a woman may be little more than a lamb, a careful lamb can live long. The ice that framed those words was unintentional, but beyond her control. To her credit, it was the only tell that she had been insulted, or that she nursed a hurt. And in that, truly, the shades of her blood slipped through. There was the aloof nature of her mother, the imperious glance of a goddess that was determining what to do about the line of ants that barred her path.

He even makes to mock my family, and coldness turned to fury. She had no love for her mother in particular, but the celebrations of her family, be them wedding, funeral, birth, or harvest time, were precious moments of joy. And here he’d make them into something salacious, something sexual and other. He’s clearly a man of one mind, and one that I best avoid. She swallowed the lump in her throat. And it is those gods, those buried deep within the flow of time, that dwell in distant memory of my blood, that I call upon now.

Like magic, her posture changed. From something carefree and open to closed off and erect, on guard. Like she could kill him with little more than a serving utensil, should she have the opportunity. And it would be a swift kill; one even his experienced eyes couldn’t determine. It would manifest in a cold glint in her eyes, one reserved for the lowest of creatures. “I’m sure it would do my father great joy to hear that you enjoyed the wedding.” Flat tones, not so flat as to be called rude - but yes, the chill was there, the inferno of anger in her eyes. “He does pride himself on celebrating to the fullest.”

Cool eyes watched him as he reclined. It was her fury that kept her curiosity from winning out, from looking at that bulging loincloth, though a part of her was screaming at her to do so. Not just the sheer size of him, but more mundane things: how could one walk with such baggage between the legs? Did he use the whole hide of a cow to keep himself decent? And ‘decent’ might be pushing it. Instead, she seemed all the content to do little more than glare at him - then, the razor’s slice of a smile. Mean. Petty. Utterly patrician.

“Now, now, brother - you’re already joined to my family by relation to me,” dulcet tones, somewhere, she knew her mother was smiling, “Besides that, I am the last of my father’s daughters and the last of marriageable women in this family.” That she was aware of, at least. Cousins were far flung through the Empire; there was a faint possibility of more in Nubia, but those blood ties would be faint at best. All lost in the sands of time - she was as Roman as this creature that shared her table. “But I would not suggest darkening my family’s doorstep on your own. You’re liable to be run through.”

 

[Talon]

Mikkos found Marcus in much the same place as he’d left him, there in the tablinum, hovering about the table that had held the pitchers and plate of refreshments he’d had laid out for the master of the house and his guest. He could see both pitchers haphazardly laid about on their side, the cup still clutched in Marcus’ hand containing the last of the wine that had been brought for them. In his other he held the spatha, still at home in its scabbard, that Mikkos had fetched and brought for him earlier in the day. He looked...unhinged, Mikkos thought, a descriptor not often fitting a man of his station and caliber.

Marcus sprang to life as the elder majordomo entered, fixing him with a gaze that held such fury that it stopped Mikkos in his tracks as if he’d been slapped in the face.

“Dominus…”

Marcus threw aside the cup with the look of a man casting aside refuge, the sound of shattering ceramic echoing off the columns and the high ceiling about and around him, as he straightened, his sword held by the scabbard in his off hand, low and about his waist, in a position so well practiced by the former soldier that he seemingly had assumed it by force of habit alone.

“Where is she?” His voice boomed, drowning out what residual noise still hung in the air from the shattering of the cup, so different from the measured tone Mikkos had grown accustomed to hearing from him over the years. Recollection flashed across the elder servant's eyes, of that moment during the ambush, of Marcus cutting down those two men without the batting of an eye. “Where?” Marcus prompted impatiently, drawing Mikkos back into the present moment.

Mikkos bowed his head, preferring the sight of his feet to the prospect of meeting his master’s gaze when such a mood had befallen him. “She is just outside, Dominus...I thought perhaps I could speak to you a moment before…”

“The time for speaking is over Mikkos, bring her before me as commanded…” He let his words trail off, the threat should he be disobeyed needing no great description when silence would suit the purpose just as effectively.

Mikkos nodded and turned on his heel, moving swiftly from the chamber, returning in moments with a woman grasped in hand, led by the majordomo by his hold on her upper arm. She appeared well into middle age, the vibrant red of the lower half of her hair overtaken by the natural grey that she had left neglected for too long. She was stocky of build, a prominently hooked nose her most recognizable feature, and bore upon her flesh the resemblance of perhaps a Greek or Scythian origin. Even with her head bowed forward, Marcus could make out the wet trails upon her cheeks from where she had been weeping. Mikkos led her to stand before his master, stopping a few times as the woman staggered, all but holding her upright near the end as she seemed on the verge of collapsing.

“Dominus...the slave Thelomene, as requested.”

Marcus stood in silence a moment, just looking upon her, not as Tiberius had, with an eye for what pleasure might be had from her, but with the callous edge of a man assessing a potential purchase of cattle. A grunt then, as if what action he would take had been decided. “Mikkos...strip her and see her to her knees…”

Mikkos hazarded a quick glance at Marcus from under brow, and deciding it best not to argue, he set about removing the simple slave gown that served as the woman’s only garment. Marcus watched with a dispassionate gaze as her body was fully exposed to him, and for her part, she was disciplined enough not to attempt to shield herself from his view, her only protest the occasional sound of a choked off sob or wet sniffle. He began to pace around the pair of servants as Mikkos completed his grim task, guiding her to kneel on bare knees against the marble flooring, her head and shoulders leaned forward, leaving the expanse of her naked back and buttocks open to his view.

Mikkos stepped back then, Thelomene’s garments clutched in hand in front of him, his head still bowed as he awaited possible further instruction. Marcus moved over towards Mikkos, extending an open hand out to him. “Give me this one’s belt…”

Mikkos frowned, sorting the item out from the hastily put together jumble of her clothing, and upon finding it, was careful to place the iron buckle in the palm of his master’s hand, hoping that might help spare Thelomene the worst injury from what was to come. Marcus tested the crude length of leather in the air beside them a few times, whipping with furious motion, the frequency of sobs from the prostate slave increasing as she could hear the ‘whoosh’ of the belt as it cut through the air.

Marcus moved to stand behind her, his eyes all but boring holes down through her back. “Word has reached my ears that you would speak ill of your Domina...of her appearance, of what color flesh the gods of her ancestral homeland saw fit to gift her people. Would you judge my children so harshly when you see that they share in it, too?”

The slave gave a start, thinking she had been given a prompt to make her case, her ragged and shrill voice bouncing up off the marble flooring from where she was bent over it. “Dominus…”

Marcus kept on speaking as if he hadn’t taken notice. “Her people are my family, and I can no more abide such an insult than if you meant it for me directly. Hear me now, slave…” Venom dripped from that last word, emphasized with all the bitterness and disdain one of his class would carry for one beneath even the bottommost rung of the societal ladder. “...if I hear word that you’ve spoken out of turn again, I’ll make what Crassus did to Spartacus look like child’s play. I’ll have you sewn up into a sack with a serpent, a dog and a monkey, then I’ll fish what’s left of you out from that sack and have what remains cast into the river. Your people will have nothing to remember you by, nowhere to mourn or give offerings, so that you might wander the shores of the afterlife for all eternity, never knowing the peace of final rest. “

“Hear me well, slave...for I have spoken.”


The sharp crack of leather against flesh and the harsh cries of the whipped rang out into the hallways of an otherwise serene evening at the villa.


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


Tiberius returned only what could be described as a pout upon hearing the revelation that Gaia was the last of the available women in her family. He shrugged then, taking another sip from his cup, settling more of his weight onto his elbow where it pressed down into the cushioning of the couch. “I appreciate the warning, though in all fairness, I would be seeking to do much the same to them, in a manner of speaking.” Tiberius waggled his eyebrows, as if he needed any more emphasis given to the crudeness of his statement.

If he felt any measure of the change in atmospheric conditions from her side of the table he gave no sign, all warm smiles and gleeful gazes even as they were rebuffed by her shield of upper class grace. He reached out towards the table with his free arm, plucking a single olive from where it had been carefully placed atop a saucer containing a pyramid formed of them, now missing the point at it’s top as a result of the uncaring removal of it’s centerpiece, Tiberius pulling it back and popping it into his mouth before she had the chance to offer any potential rebuke towards him. The hand that had snatched the olive from it’s platter busied itself with brushing against the front of his tunic, devolving into little more than a scratching of his belly after a few moments, as he chewed meticulously and thoughtfully.

“You know, cub...something just struck me. You remind me of someone…” He nodded as he considered her, pointing with a wagging finger in the manner of someone who had a point to make. “Yep...when you sit like that, lips all pursed disapprovingly, looking like a hen perched up on her egg...spitting image.” He laughed in something like a guffaw as he sat up excitedly, shaking his head. “Ahhh...Marcus is going to get a kick out of this one...that his new wife looks just like…”

“Tiberius...I leave you alone with my wife for all of five minutes and it already looks like she’s ready to chew your head off…”

The figure of Marcus appeared in the doorway just then, looking a bit unkempt, the hair atop his head having been roused as if by the excited scrubbing of fingers through it, a clear look of inebriation worn on his features, a slight slur to his speech. Even as he stood still there in the doorway he swayed a bit, a steadying hand pressed against it as if to help him combat the risk of taking an untimely tumble.

Tiberius, his focus having been entirely on his interactions with Gaia, turned his head towards the new arrival with a look of clear surprise. “Brother!...Hah...thank the gods, the air was getting a bit stale in here…”

“Likely because you broke wind…”

Tiberius laughed as he rose to his feet, much more steady on them than it seemed Marcus was or would be, should he hazard an attempt to make further forward progress into the room. “Let me help the man of the hour to his seat beside his lovely wife, here…” Tiberius took a few quick steps in Marcus’ direction as if he intended to do just that.

Marcus frowned, the exaggerated expression of a man who’d had too much to drink and was no longer capable of subtlety, shaking his shoulders as if to pull away from a grasping hand. “Unhand me, you brute...I’m not so old or infirm that I cannot manage so simple a task on my own. Why don’t you busy yourself with the filling of our goblets, hmm? I want to watch a master work his most practiced craft…”

Tiberius seemed taken aback, cutting off his motion as he raised his hands up in a gesture of peace. “As you will...though I reckon such a display won’t take place until I’ve talked my way between the soft thighs of the next unsuspecting kitchen girl.”

“Ahhh, yes...Tiberius, the great pleaser of women…” Marcus scoffed, pushing off from the wall as he stumbled in the direction of the couch upon which Gaia sat. “...to the equally great disappointment of those women’s fathers…”

Tiberius moved away then, walking back towards the table that held the goblets and drinks that was set against the wall behind him, chuckling as he went.

“The best soldier to have served under me not named Manius...” A sharp dig, evidenced by the hiss of pain from Tiberius from across the room. “...recipient of the Gold Crown, awarded at a ceremony held by Augustus himself…” Thankfully the journey over to the couch was a brief one, still, it seemed clear it took all of what little remained of Marcus’ higher functions for him to make it there unscathed. “...and yet the man thinks of only one thing. It’s a wonder you ever survived a single battle at all…” Marcus all but threw himself down on the couch beside Gaia, landing on his elbows and rump, a stray foot striking the edge of the table set with food, setting cookware and plates and cups a-rattle. “Whoops…” Marcus sputtered behind a hearty chuckle...his head turning over to finally acknowledge the presence of his wife from where she sat beside him. “Hello, love...I trust this brute has managed to keep his hands to himself...” His tone was uncharacteristically light and bubbly when addressing her from where it had been pointed and sharp when bantering back and forth with Tiberius. “...amongst other things…”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

If she thought that Marcus was going to be her savior, she was sorely disappointed. The chill of her face melting to relief and affection as her husband appeared (so innocent in its delight as to be flat out charming) - then, the slow realization that Marcus was not….Marcus. Realization turned to horror: not that of a well-heeled woman reacting in embarassment (just think of the gossip!), but that of a child who’s hero had suddenly turned into a monster.

Listen to the way he speaks! And I thought he was honorable, proper. She stood up as swiftly as he’d sat down, arms straight by her side as if scared out of her seat by a spirit. On second thought, she knelt and retrieved her goblet. She breezed away from the reclining couch, moving lightly as clouds across the sky, swept on by an unseen wind. It was with trembling hands that she moved to refill her cup.

Steady, Gaia. So you’ve married a boar. A boar with a he-goat for a brother. And you, no better than a cat who’s tail has been stepped on, and cannot manage her way to safety. Knuckles paled as she gripped the handle of the vase, pouring wine liberally. I’ll only add a bit of water, enough to appear ladylike, but leaving enough of the fruit of the vine to work its magic. With her goblet refilled, she moved back to the couch where Marcus was sprawled, trying to steel her face into something neutral. If I frown, I’m a nag, if I smile, I take drunkenness too easily, like a woman of loose virtue. Why do I keep falling into these situations with no prize or valor to be had? I would have been better off going to the temple of Vesta!






What was the saying? Hindsight was clear as the dawn? Something like that. Who had said it? Had it been anyone of any particular importance? Hrm; no - no one that she could think of. But it was an accurate statement, and one that particularly felt relevant now.

Gaia was drunk.

Not that she let on about it - she’d kept her tongue disturbingly still as the dinner got underway, hoping to blend into the background. It was a talent often cultivated by the youngest child in a large brood, and one that she hoped had done her well. Oh, there had been the occasional polite, stiff laughter and passing of plates, but largely, she seemed to be content to be seen, and not heard.

And to refill her goblet many times without the assistance of anyone.

Conversation was half-heard, her normal daydreaming demeanor heightened by her slow responses. In the echoing conversations between men, she had her voice alone to keep her sane. The same voice that told her that just a little more wine might sand the rougher parts of the evening into something she could handle.

And here I was longing to know more of my husband. I’ve got my answer - is this..no. Lucius would never be so crude even in the barracks. Lucius is a shining example of what all men should aspire to be: he inspires loyalty, courage, has a kind heart and a warm smile and a tender word for those who need it most. And look at these two creatures: speaking of farts and fucking slaves!

Reaching forward, she deftly took a piece of the chicken she’d made, cut into manageable pieces by her when her hand was steadier. The smell of it alone, this close to her, made the tears start fresh in her eyes. I never thought I’d long for being at home again. How I wish this could be shared with my brothers, my sisters, even horrid Cassia, and mother, and…

An audible sniff, tears falling down her cheeks. She paused, clumsily wiping away at them with the backs of her hands, her rows of fine bracelets jangling musically. An odd counterpoint to her motions. She’d hoped that they were discreet enough, but as the wind had dulled her senses, the fact that she was wiping away tears and a running nose would have been clear to a blind beggar.

“Are men always this horrid?” she suddenly blurted - then, a gasp, as she realized she’d spoken her thoughts out loud. Eyes widened in terror at being exposed raw - and then:

“Fires of Pluto!” she snarled, lifting her goblet to her mouth. Hand held up to pause all conversation as she took long draught after long draught, her throat bobbing from the effort. Nary a drop of wine escaped her lips before she slammed the goblet down again with enough force to rattle the table. Impressive little fig dumpling - she’d drained a nearly full goblet in one go. “How did you,” she turned, pointing an accusing finger at Marcus, the source of nearly all of her woes, “End up with such a feral he-goat as a brother?!” she pointed at Tiberius with her free hand, her left hand. “Your tongue is as crude as his - farts and fucking slave girls! My father would weep to know that I was married off to such an abomination. But what’s worse, worse than that creature, is your mouth…!”

With a swiftness that belied her drunkness, she lunged across the couch at Marcus, and grasped the sides of his face with one hand, the bracelets chiming threateningly. “This mouth,” her tones were softer, caressing, now, “That speaks such sweet words, that brings me to the realms of the gods themselves in pleasure. Am I to be little more than just a repository for your seed, and nothing else?” Panic in those deep eyes, panic and fear and sorrow, a desperate, clinging need to be reassured, to be truly loved. “Bah!” she said, just as suddenly, letting him go - and staggering to her feet, she tossed down the goblet in a fit of pique, the vessel shattering. “No matter! Wolves, all of you, the whole lot-” she was stumbling over the voluminous folds of her stolla, but though she appeared to trip once, twice, she didn’t fall. Once she was over to the table where the drinks were, she picked up the vase of wine, neglecting to bring a cup. Lifting to her lips, she drank from it straight, pausing only to catch her breath and to wipe the rivulets of wine that had escaped the corners of her mouth.

“Wolves, wolves, wolves, are you all,” she sing-songed, waving the vase around, a clumsy dance, a mere hint of what she showed on her wedding night, “Wolves and sheep, sheep and wolves, which cloak should I wear today?” Laughter then, as she swayed, holding the edge of her stolla with her unoccupied left hand, the vase of wine in her right. “Should I be as a lamb, baa-baaing sweet and low, here to be devoured?” She suddenly crouched in a lewd gesture, flipping her stolla up to reveal her thighs as she set down the vase on the table. Perhaps her movements weren’t so far off from the burlesques that happened at her wedding, even if they weren't performed by her, “A tender lamb, though already with her first wool shorn, ah! She's no longer as white as her companions!” More of her little made up song as she straightened herself out, nearly into a smooth back bend, arms twining over her head, “Or should I be a wolf, fangs and teeth and tongue, devouring all in my path, you, young man, you look to be ripe for the biting!”

She was on Marcus again, face to face, snapping her teeth in an audible clack. “Shall I devour you, my little lamb? Be careful, even a she-wolf has fangs!"

 

[Talon]

Tiberius had ripped the leg off a pheasant, gesturing demonstratively with it, swinging it to and fro, bits of grease and meat flung about the air around him haphazardly, as he reenacted the scene of the battle that had earned him his Gold Crown, a feat oft recalled if the practiced pace of his story gave any indication. He was on his feet, beside the couch he had spent the greater part of the evening lounging upon.

“So I’m up on the battlements, slipping on guts and shit and blood as I made my way down the line, cutting the throats of any barbarian bastard who dares cross my path, bellowing at the top of my lungs…” He pulled the pheasant leg made mock sword back, taking a bite off the hunk of meat that still desperately clung to the bone, talking with a mouthful of half-chewed foul as he continued recounting his story. “Then this great big fucker came striding up...a head taller than me, armored up, sword the size of Jupiter's cock and twice as heavy. It’s the fucking chieftan!” Tiberius paused for effect, taking a swig from the implement that served as his proxy for a shield, his goblet of wine. “Right, so this big bastard comes bearing down on me, his first blow cleaves the right side of my shield clean off, I duck under his next strike, close the distance and slice the dog from arsehole to blowhole!” Tiberius laughed, taking another bite from his leg of foul. “I swear on Mars’ sword...I had a look beneath his skirt after the battle was done, tiny little cock on ‘im, but bollocks the size of a fucking melon! I had them made into a coin purse, I’ll show you when we get back to…”

“Are men always this horrid?”

Both such horrid men looked over towards the source of the interruption as if on cue, heads turning with such synchronicity that it seemed as if practiced. They both wore very different expressions on their respective visages, however, with Tiberius’ bearing one of annoyance, of being interrupted mid-tale, while Marcus’ held something of a look of incredulity that this question had come from the woman who had, at least until this point in the meal, been all but silent. He saw the trails that marked the passage of tears plainly worn upon her cheeks, and blinking forcefully, sat up off his elbows as if he was preparing to console her.

And then suddenly Gaia exploded into action.

Downing the contents of her cup with speed enough to make even Tiberius nod his head with begrudging approval, both men were relegated to be but members of her audience as she ranted and raved and pointed and slandered. Marcus, for his part, still hadn’t entirely worked out his astonishment at this sudden change of behavior she exhibited, looking more taken aback and wounded than anything else. Tiberius, on the other hand, watched with great amusement, still working his way through his leg of pheasant, nodding and smiling and laughing in agreement. It seemed that hearing the word ‘fart’ pass from between the lips of such a woman, highborn and well bred, as he’d been so recently reminded, proved too much for him, however, hitting the big man’s ears in such a way that he crumpled over in a fit of laughter, shuffling over and flopping down atop his couch as it worked its way through him, his booming laughter in the background as Gaia pounced on the unsuspecting form of her husband.

Marcus looked on with impotent bewilderment as she spat her truth at him, even as she grasped his face he made no move to inhibit or restrain her. It’s likely his reaction when sober might have been somewhat similar, if from the shock factor alone, but now, well beyond drunk, so much so that sobriety seemed more a concept than a potential future state of being, he simply wasn’t capable of summoning forth rebuke. And so he sat, his only action taken the occasional sip from his goblet as he watched her sing and dance with what amounted to some form of drunken revelry combined with her expression of womanly frustration caused by the opposite sex.

What has she been through that she suffers so...am I the cause of this?

Marcus, a man often in his own head, if not overly so, was finding it troublesome to summon forth his usual internal debate. He felt as if wine would pour from his ears should he lean his head to either side.

Oh no...but this is my favorite tunic, think of the stains!

For fear of potentially ruining his garment he endeavored to keep his head level, struggling against the suddenly excessive weight of his eyelids as they threatened to slam shut shut should he relent in his focus.

Tiberius' eyes remained well open, curiously watchful of the lone female in the room as she moved about, sloppily dancing here or there, invoking thoughts of the very movements that had caused her to put her back up when he’d made mention of how much he had enjoyed them.

It’s a wonder this one doesn’t tip over backwards with a rump like that…

He laughed to himself, lazily plucking stray olives out from amongst the strewn about contents of the table top before popping them into his mouth as he watched her with passive interest.

“Shall I devour you, my little lamb? Be careful, even a she-wolf has fangs!"

Without warning she was upon him again, stirring Marcus from his drunken near-slumber. A customary half-grin finally broke through the stormcloud on his face as he stared back into her eyes, his wine induced stupor finally lifting, as if the innate desire to mate had defeated the effects of overconsumption enough to allow him a somewhat normal degree of function. “Mmmm...there are parts of me that you can certainly devour, oh great and terrible she-wolf...you’ve proven to me as much…” His hands could be felt along the outside of her hips, gripping her there, not pushing her back, but pulling her towards him as his face slowly drew closer to hers. “...one part in particular comes to mind…”

“Is there to be a show, then, should I perhaps fetch another pitcher of wine? Although, if she aims to bite your cock off, I’m not sure even I would want to see that...” The booming voice of Tiberius rang out from behind Gaia.

“Bah!” Marcus barked, rolling to his side and tugging at Gaia to pull her down atop the couch beside him with their fronts facing each other. “Must you ruin every moment?”

Tiberius, perched atop the couch opposite the pair of them with elbows against his knees and his goblet of wine never far from his lips, frowned. “Hey...I was rather enjoying the view from back here…”

Marcus scoffed, chuckling a bit beneath his breath. “I bet you were…” Marcus turned his head towards Gaia then, directing his words towards her, a knowing grin slowly creeping across his lips. “You might be a wolf, and I a sheep, sure...but this one…” Marcus gestured with a nod of his head in the direction of his friend. “This one here went by another name back in the Legion…”

Tiberius shook his head, waving off Marcus dismissively with a pointed laugh. “Hah!...jealous, the lot of them…”

Marcus scoffed again, rolling his eyes, his mouth agape around a boyishly sly smile as he continued. “Uh-huh...he feigns offense, but I hear he secretly bids his lovers call him by it to this day…”

“Where did you hear this from, your mother?”

Marcus waved off the insult as he carried on spinning the tale for Gaia’s benefit. “They called him ‘Ox’...perhaps you’re thinking, ‘well, of course, look at him!’...but it’s not through lack of brains that he earned it…”

“Careful now, sheep...I’ll gore you with my horn if you’re not careful.”

Marcus chuckled, . “Ahhh...go on then Ox, show the she-wolf here how you earned your name…”

Tiberius stood up from his perch with a groan of effort, his eyes meeting Gaia’s a moment, some deeper meaning passing between them wordlessly, that of tales untold and conflicts kept secret. “Are you sure your young bride here can bear the sight of it?”

Without awaiting Marcus’ reply Tiberius stepped forward, his shins knocking against the edge of the table, jostling it’s contents as they lay strewn about in disarray atop it, the big man unceremoniously yanking up the front of his tunic, folding it back over on itself and tucking it inside the top of his belt, exposing to the newly wed couple’s sight a bulging loincloth framed by two great trunks for thighs, nearly so pale as to be indistinguishable from the material of his undergarment. Tiberius’ fingers worked at the knot that held together the length of cord which held that overburdened strip of cloth securely in place, twisting it open with practiced ease.

Whether a byproduct of the veritable river of wine that had flowed from their three cups or the unseen workings of Venus, there hung about the air of the triclinium an undeniable feeling of eroticism and anticipation, this giant of a man standing before them preparing to bare himself so openly, with nakedly brazen disregard for any notion of common decency or morals or shame. It was most vulgar and lewd of all, perhaps, that the giant’s visage bore neither signs of mirth nor signals suggesting his actions were undertaken merely in jest, holding instead only the promise of determined intent. Tiberius’ hand pulled away as it completed its task, and like a sheet pulled from statue to reveal it for public display, cord and cloth fell away from him as if anxious to rid themselves of their former burden, rustling as they gathered at his feet around his ankles.

They called him ‘Ox’...but it’s not through lack of brains that he earned it…

Marcus’ words still rang in the air as the true origin of Tiberius’ nickname swung down to hang nakedly there before them; long and low, fat and heavy, if not for the identifiable shape that clearly marked it as belonging to a man, it might could be found at home on the underside of some great beast of burden. It bore a color several shades darker than that of his surrounding flesh, and wore atop it a shock of soft, golden blonde hair that extended halfway up to his navel. Reaching halfway down his thighs even in its current state of slumber, the outrageously sized organ didn’t seem to shy away from the idea of being put on display, occasionally pulsating with masculine energy as if to demonstrate its potential for equally outsized virility. Clad in what looked to be a sea of smooth, soft flesh along the substantial length of its stout shaft, the otherwise placid surface was marred only occasionally by a ripple in the form of the odd, starkly blue vein set against the lighter beige of its flesh. The organ’s foreskin was abundant enough to almost entirely conceal the pale, cool flesh of the knob that only just peeked out from its hood at its tip, exposing where it bore a slit which served to enable the delivery of the precious cargo contained in that fleshy sack that hung down between his legs, its own prodigious size outshined only by virtue of the presence of its more formidable cousin.

Marcus suddenly nudged Gaia with an elbow, a tone of familiarity present in his voice as he spoke. “Gaia...meet Ox.” On the face of it, it seemed a dangerous proposition to introduce such a virile male to one’s significant other, particularly one who Marcus knew had never met a boundary that he hadn’t dared to cross. The idea seemed lost on Marcus, however, who seemed more amused by the situation than anything.

Unlike his friend, Tiberius stood as if towering over Gaia even from the opposite side of the table, his pale eyes considering only her, the man looking somewhat ridiculous in his state of half-dress, and yet, at the same time, exuding all the confidence naturally lended a male who bore such an organ as the one that hung between his legs. He wore that now familiar look of lust plainly on his features, from the set of his brow, low and brooding, to the insufferably smug grin playing across his lips. She needn’t take clues from his tone or innuendo anymore, though, not with the most substantial source of evidence laid out so clearly right before her eyes; his mammoth prick twitching under the scrutiny of her gaze as if to signal to her that it’s owner yet harbored no small amount of lust for her.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

The world was lighter and heavier at the same time. Lighter in deed and in word, heavier in the efforts it took to make her limbs move in the way she wanted them to. No matter, for she flung her arms around Marcus’s neck after he spoke to her, his hands on her hips. Her right hand would tangle in the fine hair at the nape of his neck, thus far the most intimate gesture between them, no matter how many times their bodies had come together. Tenderness there, an adoring lover reunited with the object of her desire. A strange bubble floating to the surface of the malaise of lust that characterized the room. Maybe it was her being womanly, to blunt those harsh edges, or maybe simple as the wine eased her tongue and her mind. His hands on her were salacious, yes, but knowing that, warring against the unyielding desire to be needed by this man made her soft.

A murmuring so that only their ears could hear: “The grievances of a she-wolf are scary snarls to the lamb, but this she-wolf, she dies, slowly, of love for a lamb.” Her forehead to his, she tilted her head up, kissing his brow. Wiped sweat from it with the edge of her palla, before returning her forehead to his. The feel of him, warm and solid, close, was an anchor in the sea she was adrift on. A smile, that razor flick again. “The she-wolf can’t fight her nature, though. She wants to devour the lamb whole - not just what lays between his legs,” her right hand pulled away from the nape of his neck, “but the whole of him. His mind,” fingers traced the lines of his temples, “His nose,” her pointer finger ran down the bridge of his nose, “His lips,” tracing the line of them, “His chin,” Lower still traveled her finger, to caress the harsh lines of his Adam’s apple. “His throat.” Collarbones, then, between his pectorals, she pressed her full palm, “And his heart.”

Could there have been more to that moment, a switching of tracts to tenderness? Only the gods knew, for the voice of Tiberius, mocking and cawing, Marcus’s response, shattered it. Her scowl would match the harshness in his voice, shot pointedly at Tiberius. She hadn’t forgotten the injuries to her pride, her family, by him, and somehow, watching him laugh so hardily was spurring her ire all the more.

“He’s a he-goat!” She snapped, cutting off Marcus midway, “A filthy he-goat that thinks of nothing more than slave girls and rutting.” Not that her exclamation would make a lick of difference to the events that were already set in motion. The mention of a nickname, this “Ox,” and her attention turned back to Marcus, blinking wide brown eyes, earrings swaying from her early motion.

I know where this is going.

A flicker of sobriety in the chaotic rolling of her mind, and she kept her eyes on Marcus - only a quick dart in Tiberius’s way, without so much as a movement of her head, indicated that she’d heard what the two were saying. As the conversation continued to turn, she reached across the table for the vase of wine again. She would need it. Tiberius’s heated eyes on her caused her cheeks to flame, a color change that she hoped that she masked as she lifted the vase to her lips again, drinking, but there seemed to be no amount that could cure her parched throat. So it was around the vase, still lifted to her lips, that she looked once more at the beast she’d encountered what felt like years ago. Under the flickering light, the warmth of the food, the wine, the fear was somehow eased. No longer was he a beast capable of wrenching his pleasure from her, but the somewhat subdued predator, hidden behind a cage, but knowing that the time that those bars would open would be soon.

Sucked down more wine. Put the near empty vase down on the table - it had sired a litter since the dinner started, empty vessels scattered across the remnants of the food. Turned away from Marcus to truly inspect the massive member dangled in front of her. Less than a man’s member than some strange sleeping serpent.

“Make sure to keep it over there - I can smell the stench of whores, boys, and slaves from here,” she sniffed, waving her hand dismissively at him. Well, what a turn was that - she seemed wholly uninterested. It would seem that the wine would bring her patrician pettiness to heights previously unseen. Calculated, perhaps, but not quite. The sight of it made her squirm, that faint flame of desire from this morning still there, but ah, hadn’t he heaped coarse words upon it, even moreso than their encounter in the bath?

Yes. Yes he did. He maligned my family. Worse than that, he thinks he can dangle that monster in front of me and crow about pleasure, without caring a whit about me.

“It’s a rat that seeks to hide its head in any welcoming hole it can find,” hands were no longer idle as she inched closer to Marcus. With the measuredly slow movements of the very drunk where every endeavor became one of utmost importance, she gingerly tagged at the edge of his tunic. “So there is an ox,” she murmured, lifting up Marcus’s tunic, tucking the edge of it in his belt, her hands reassuring him, easing him, with luxurious strokes to his inner thighs, “And here is a horse…” Words trailed off as she undid the knot at his hip, the one holding his loin cloth closed. She knew she was being horrifically forward, but the slow fire in her belly encouraged it. Hadn’t he liked it when she was bold in her explorations of him? When she spoke fondly (and her truth) of how finely made a man he was? “And not just any horse, mind you, but one finely bred, through generations of careful selection, to be the best of the line, the finest mount that anyone should aspire to....” She pulled away his loincloth as careful as she was unwrapping a cherished present, content, for a moment, to simply let his phallus lay on the smooth leather. “Beautifully made, and weighted perfectly,” she continued, the triclinium turned into an auction house, “The culmination of civilized men that seeks the most precious and valuable of mates!” And a bit of self-aggrandizing, something to build up her own wounded pride.

I am something.

“But, gentlemen, well, fair husband, and he-goat, I have something that will trump both horse and ox!” She was getting to her feet now, impish glee on her face. The ruffling of the ample skirts, and she was flipping them up, lost in a sea of pale pink, before she was tucking them higher into her own belt, a thing made of spiderwebs of gold, occasionally studded with a bit of quartz, draped artfully around her waist and hips to emphasize the clench of the former and the fullness of the latter. As unsteady as she was on her feet, the tucking of those skirts was a long practiced movement - one that usually resulted in a torn stolla and a lashing from her mother after her outdoor adventures were done, “Feast your eyes on this - the elephant!”

With as much flourish as she could muster, she yanked down her subligaculum, a fine little thing of dyed red leather and intricate beadwork - her dressing up for the night hadn’t only been for the outer shell -, and draped her left arm between her thighs. Hunched over, she swung around to face Marcus and then Tiberius, mimicking the motion of a cock with that dangling left arm.

“The elephant trumps both the horse and the ox - so the two of you must pay proper due to your superior. Look, he wakes!” She began to lift her left arm a bit, the slow rise of a cock sensing pleasure ahead. “Both of you, come kiss it, before it grows too much for your mouths to handle!”

 

[Talon]

Gaia had Marcus all but eating from the palm of her hand as they lay there pressed together, his body responding to her touch as if he felt every sensation a thousand times over. He had laughed upon hearing his wife’s opinion of the proud phallus that had been so crudely revealed to her, leaning over and lightly kissing what flesh lay bare before his eyes even as she launched her verbal volleys of barbed arrows at the man he called brother. If he took offense on the part of his friend he gave no sign, instead enthralled by this godly creature beside him, his lips against her neck, then the flesh at her upper arm as she leaned forward to partake of more wine. Where she went he followed, as she moved he moved, with soft kisses and worshipful strokes of his hands against the warmth of her flesh following not far behind each time she’d settled, even for a moment.

Tiberius himself was engaged in another struggle, first, in but standing still as if posing for artistic capture. A ridiculous model he’d make in such a state, his tunic haphazardly tucked up into his belt, his phallus hanging there imposingly, at odds with the uncertain steadiness of legs that seemed to have begun to tire of carrying the beast through the river of wine into which he’d waded waist deep. He swayed there, not at risk of stumbling but neither entirely steady, his cocky smile at least half sourced from the courage brought on by the imbibing of the product of the fruit of the vine. And for a moment it seemed to be a hardy defense, that grin, his attempt at emulating the air of upper class grace that Gaia so effortlessly assumed, but in this case, at least, the unflappable, braggadocious, insufferably degenerate giant was hopelessly outmatched. She was born to it, her birthright, by blood, while he was but an upjumped Plebian, lower than perhaps, if accounting for what force had humbled his mother’s people. Just as they had been crushed beneath the heel of Rome, their remnants scattered to the four winds, he too was beaten down under the weight of bearing her relentless scrutiny. It spoke to the sheer determination of such a specimen, his will to be and breed, that he was not reduced to a mere pile of ash from the heat conveyed to him by the intensity of her baleful gaze. That, or perhaps more accurately, he owed his continued survival as a man of flesh and bone to no more than that she’d hardly looked upon him at all.

Cowed, perhaps, for the moment, but not broken.

Both men watched with rapt attention as Gaia moved to make Marcus compliant with the newly established fashion trend of the triclinium, lovingly caressing him with fingers and words as they rolled off her tongue. A hand stroked down the dangling phallus at her back as if idly tugging at it, the timing of the gesture hardly coincidental as Marcus’ own manhood was introduced to the open air to all the fanfare any man could dare hope for, the proud organ laid across his undergarment like some returning conqueror lounging in his chariot, basking in the praise heaped upon him as he was carried through the streets of Rome in a Triumphal procession held in his honor. It would take more than words to rouse him in Marcus’ current state, but still, the effects of her actions had well taken hold elsewhere in his body. His chest rose and fell at heightened pace, his exhalations audible and heavy, as his eyes were for her every movement.

Tiberius looked on from over the top of her head and past her shoulders, shifting this way and that as if desperate to be privy to any intimate contact that might take place beyond his vantage. His shoulders jerked one after the other, unconscious firing of muscles as if an outward manifestation of his inward frustration, of jealousy, of wishing to be in his brother's place, not with just any woman basking in his glory, but this one in particular. His hand, as if of its own free will, maintained the occasional tugging at his phallus, pulling it down and away from him, not stroking, not sensually, but almost as one would the end of a string worked into a stubbornly tied knot.

He watched with great interest as she rose and spoke, and perhaps in the most surprising development yet, was made to alter the wear of her overgarment in a similar fashion to that of her dinner mates by her own design. Both sets of eyes were upon her then as she bent to prepare herself, both lingering on the shape of her rump where the fabric of her stolla was taxed by the task of encompassing the full magnitude of it. The flash of red between her legs, a new and exotic subligaculum, caused the perking up of a blonde brow above enraptured gaze. An implication not offered ample time to consider before she’d already spun around and presented for their consideration her entry into their impromptu phallus exhibition.

Sudden laughter was drawn from both men by the ridiculousness of her display, but, for Marcus at least, that laughter was short lived. He was upon her almost as soon as she’d finished speaking, scooting down the couch so as to be closer to where she stood, as if taking her request as being given earnestly, his lips touching fingers, wrist and forearm in close succession as he worked his way up her arm, thinking not of how it would be to kiss her great phallus, if she'd had one, but rather that it provided a convenient enough excuse to put his lips in contact with her flesh, sensual or not.

Tiberius moved a few steps around the table in her direction, his hand now openly working at the length of his prick, still mostly flaccid but beginning to exhibit signs of stirring by virtue of his efforts. His eyes flickered down to where her arm was held between her thighs, where Marcus busied himself with the application of worshipful kisses. “That’s cute, there, ‘elephant’...” He scoffed with some measure of genuine amusement. “...but I think the contest has been unfairly judged in your favor.” He took another step, cautiously, the humor of her display not entirely erasing from memory the harshness of her previous verbal jabs at him. Still, there seemed at least some small measure of confidence restored there, some swagger returned, as he brazenly challenged her. “I’d wager I still have you beat. My cock against your forearm...the winner makes what request they will of the loser...care to take that bet, 'my lady'?”

Marcus’ mouth demonstrated his confidence as well, moving beyond Gaia’s arm with thought that he’d well met her request of tribute, trailing kisses across the expanse of smoothly soft skin that housed those thick and muscular thighs of hers, paying homage to her body where it was most due, pressing his face into the crease where pelvis met thigh, along the boundary where the first few little dark and curly hairs began to manifest, his hands busying themselves with running fingers up the back of her calves, with grabbing the backs of her thighs and pulling her into closer proximity with him, fingertips only thus far daring to brush along the underside where the curve of her rump hung over the backs of her thighs.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Drawing nearer to the couch, she adopted her imitation of Tiberius’s swaggering walk, an open mockery of the lusty man’s approach. “There now,” she deepened her voice, another mockery of Tiberius’s tones, adapting his smug smirk and raising of her brow, “Here’s a good horse, a good supplicant to give praise to his better.” Left hand traced the line of Marcus’s busy lips, the two working at contra points: encouraging his affection and basking in it, wet fingers trailing down the side of his face, eyes looking down on him, in their changed positions, her now the dominant, with an outpouring of love that spilled freely upon him. Beyond the jest, there was true affection there, heightened by the wine. “And to him, he receives the bounty….” Left hand was pulled away as she parted her thighs. Brazenly, now, further to welcome Marcus’s questing lips - but as a reminder that she yet had an audience, the quickest movements of her hands were enough to drop her stolla behind her, hiding her bared ass and the movements of Marcus’s face from Tiberius. And to add insult to injury, she not even so much as spared him a glance.

I swore that I would make you pay, a cruel grin playing across her face before dissolving into one of sweetness as she turned her attention back to Marcus. And I plan on enjoying this.

“Look at you,” she purred, her voice for Marcus alone, throatier than it had been before. If he’d worried before about awakening a sleeping beast, the face she showed him now was proof that he was right to be worried. “You look perfect, right there, between my thighs.” Inching closer to the edge of the couch in an odd splay legged crouch, left hand cupped the back of Marcus’s neck as she propped one leg up on the edge of the couch, exposing the deep pink of her sex to him. A stumbling as his hands grabbed the backs of her thighs, laughter, then, breaking of the character she was building for herself as she fell forward onto Marcus’s back and neck. It didn’t take long for her to disengage herself, hopping a bit to regain her balance on one leg, the other straightening to help anchor herself. No easy task, as the wine was making the room spin. But it also made the world brighter, laughter easier, so she couldn’t complain too much. “Eager lamb, the object of my heart’s only desire…”

Wait, wasn’t I supposed to be a man?

“Ah yes,” deepened tones again, “You suck that elephant cock, the true winner of tonight’s contest!” Left hand tightened on the back of his neck, though not unkindly, as she pressed Marcus’s face into her open cunt. “Yes…” A lower purr, ending on a shudder as his tongue eagerly began its work. “Magnificent…”

Through the dreamy warmth of Marcus’s mouth working, Tiberius’s voice was unwelcome. And with a huff of annoyance, though she kept that leg up on the couch, grinding her hips slowly into Marcus’s face, already slick with her arousal, with the promise of more, she glanced over her shoulder with a roll of her eyes.

“Does an elephant listen to the mere chitterings of a rat?” Her right hand cupped to her ear, giving a great show of listening to absolutely nothing. “I should think not - listen, then, to the last defiant squeaks of a rat caught between the cat’s claws. ‘Please, Queen Cat, spare my insignificant life,’ he calls, hoping that she will take pity on him. But alas,” shifting now, stepping out of her subligaculum and kicking them haphazardly aside, “This Queen Cat has no desire to listen any further.” With a flip of her palla, as if it was a length of her own hair over her shoulder, she turned her attentions back to Marcus.

“Do you hear that, my love? This rat, this he-goat, feels he’s been judged unfairly. ‘Squeak, squeak,’ he demands, ‘Squeak squeak, Queen Cat! I have a grievance…” Words lowered into a bit of a growl, “If I were of so low a mind as to give this rat my ear, I should think that he needs a demonstration of why my elephant cock was the winner. But look here, my elephant cock has been transformed into an inverted sheath, all the better to truly measure…”

Kind hand let go of Marcus’s neck, trailed under his jaw, as she stepped off the couch. Lowered her face to his, shining with her own fluids, though she’d yet to reach orgasm, and smiled, full of that warmth, the reassurance that she would always be a soft, warm place for him, “I love you,” she murmured, only for their ears, “So very, very much. Look…”

A shifting. Leg up on the couch again, her right hand reaching to part her folds. “See how I shine for you, and you alone…” Fingers graced the inner folds, traced along the recently discovered nub of her clitoris, “I want to be everything to you…so much more than just a scabbard to your sword.” Voice lifted, a glance tossed behind her to Tiberius, “Since I’m the clear winner of this contest, then I’m going to make my request of Marcus, but for his ears only,” and another flippant turn before she was facing Marcus again, “And I request,” for their ears alone, again, “That you love me, and see me as I am, not just a sheath, and tell me about yourself, all about yourself, ah, there’s so much I could ask of you, from you,” her words were running together as she slipped her leg down from the couch again, this time pressing Marcus back into a sitting position, all the better for what she had in mind. A gentle tap of his legs to get them to spread as she clambered over him, thighs on the outside of his own, “Meeting this he-goat makes me question my love for you,” she said, loud enough for Tiberius to hear, “To know that you run with such creatures makes you all the more a stranger in my eyes. So let me know you in the way that you first knew me - and continue to reward the victor!”

Another glance to Tiberius - and wait, what’s this? The pink of her tongue, stuck out defiantly at him, even as her right hand worked between her and Marcus’s bodies, lining up his cock to her wet entrance. Eager strokes, tempered only by the softness of her hands, those that she pressed to her own sex, wetting her fingers that she ran over him. She re-adjusted, shifting so that her cunt was no longer in perfect alignment with his phallus, but so that she was straddling one of his legs. Left arm around his neck as she stroked him with her right, her hips starting a slow grind on his thigh, smearing him with her, nearly burning with the wet furnace of her cunt.