Caveat Emptor (Closed for Apollo Wilde)

[Talon]

How does Marcus put up with this insufferable brat?

Tiberius smirked as he leaned down over the table, picking through the disheveled mess that covered its surface, strewn about like so much detritus on the beach after a shipwreck had washed ashore, seeking to find amongst it something salvageable enough to still be edible. He’d abandoned hope that this situation might evolve into something more interesting around the fifth time Gaia had referred to him by her new name for him, this ‘he-goat’, which should have been a rather obvious tell as to his status as a potential sexual partner the first time he’d heard the usage of it.

Nobody wants to fuck a goat...excepting maybe other goats, and maybe the occasional lonely goatherd...

Securing what looked to be the half-eaten remains of the butt end of a loaf of bread, fortunately only half soaked in wine, Tiberius straightened and made his way back around to his original side of the table.

I suppose you read that one wrong, there, ladykiller…

Tiberius flopped down onto the couch with a dejected sigh, not so much only for the fact that he was destined to be going to bed this night with a full set of balls, but also, all that remained to occupy his time was watching the brat have her way with Marcus. To top things off, she’d done all she could to ensure that the view wasn’t an interesting one, which made the prospect of watching them hump themselves unconscious all the more depressing. His smirk turned sour, the corners of his mouth turning down, as he ripped away the half of bread that had been soaked in spilled wine and carelessly tossed it aside before lifting what remained up to his lips to nibble at it.

If I leave before them she’ll look the victor. I mean, clearly she is the victor, but I can’t let her have the satisfaction of knowing that I concede to as much. Better to just look bored by it than feed into that already outsized ego. Queen Cat… Tiberius scoffed as he ripped a larger chunk of bread off between his teeth. ...and I’m no fucking rat either, you cunt.

Another sigh as he looked down over his form, his hands reaching down to untuck the front of his tunic and pull it down over his manhood. Wine stains marked his formerly pure white garment here and there, spilled by forceful clanking together of cups or excited gesture, serving as a poignant reminder of why such a color made an unwise choice for dinner party attire.

Some fucking party this proved to be...next time we’ll rent something further inland, invite a bunch of the guys from the old Legion, bring in a cartload of casks and two of prostitutes...no wives allowed.

Tiberius groaned as he leaned up, grasping at the first goblet he could reach, pulling it up to his nose for an exploratory sniff as if to ensure that it’s contents were indeed of the vine. Might’ve pissed in one of these earlier, it’s at that point in the night where anything could happen…

Well, almost anything. I’ll sooner wear Jason’s Golden Fleece than manage to convince this one to grant me so much as a glance at her arse…

Tiberius’ eyes darted across the table to the couple on the couch across from him, focusing on the shapely rump of Gaia as she rode Marcus’ thigh, from what little he could make of it from where her stolla had bunched up in the back where it lay across his leg.

If ever there was an ass worth begging for, I suppose this would be the one, but then again even I have my limits. I’m no dandy to be made to beg and crawl and grovel for it...but what if I had? What if I had just bit my tongue, told this woman what she clearly wished to hear? It wouldn’t be the same...even imagining she would be bouncing away on my lap instead of Marcus’ if I had, she wouldn't be with Tiberius, it would instead be some imposter who let her make him into what she wanted him to be. She can hardly stand the sight of the real Tiberius...

Tiberius drained what remained of the wine from the goblet before setting it back atop the table. It was then that a nagging voice at the back of his skull attempted to console him, as if some aspect of his subconscious mind was seeking to protect what precious little of his ego remained intact after Gaia had so ruthlessly shred him to pieces with her expertly aimed barbs.

She wants a man like Marcus, a man with goals, with ambitions...she’ll be the wife of a Consul one day, what is it you think you can give her now, a single night of pleasure? Women like her, Patricians, care for only one thing, and that thing is not what’s between your thighs. Besides, she already has pleasure, look at her…

Even as his thoughts bid him look he couldn’t bring himself to, didn’t need to, for he already knew the answer.

Let him have her to himself, he’s earned it. Don’t ruin what he has just because you want a taste of her cunt. What will Marcus say of this on the morrow, if he’s able to remember anything of it? Wouldn’t you rather tell him you passed out on the couch, rather than you spent the night trying to lay with his wife? You already have the secret of the baths, can you bear the load of two burdens?

That bastard knew what he was doing when he bid me show her…

What, that you’re a freak? That the gods blessed your phallus rather than bestowing brains or birthright? He meant her to laugh at you, not be seduced by you, to show you that some women, his woman, were beyond such things. It’s just as he told you that day outside of the carpentum...the slaves and whores sing your praises because you pay or command them to, nothing else. This is a free woman, of noble blood, and she told you what she thought of it. Move on, you’ll be back amongst the whores of Rome before you know it.

Tiberius scrubbed his hands through his hair. There have been others, before…

And there will be others, again...just not this one. Move on.

I don’t want others, I want her!

You might as well want Venus, for all your troubles. At least then you’ll have a more palatable excuse for why you won’t have her in the end, no? Come now...what would you do, just walk over to her and demand she service you?

I could...

You won’t. Are you going to force yourself on her, then, right there over the drunken figure of Marcus, her husband?

He won’t remember this, he’s neck deep in his cups…

He’d well remember something like that, you making a cuckold out of your dearest friend as he lies helpless to prevent it. Are you so low a beast that you would do this, to this man, to someone you love? Besides, even if he doesn’t remember she would remember for him… rest now, and in the morning you’ll seek out the bread baker and sate your hunger for food and pleasure both, you’ll feel better about all of this bad business and she’ll have no venom to pour in Marcus’ ear about you...sleep, and this night of discontent will be over.

I don’t want to be alone this night, of all nights…

You’re alone every night, this one will be no great exception…

Tiberius relented, finally accepting defeat. He cast a final forlorn gaze at the form of Gaia as she pleasured her husband, his friend. He nodded to himself, looking away as he turned to stretch out on his back atop the couch, his feet hanging over the far end on account of his height, elbow cocked up in the air, back of hand pressed over eyes as much to shield them from the low ambient light of the chamber as to keep them from seeking sights best forgotten.

At least I’m no fucking rat…

The broadcasting of a final thought as the sulking giant sought stillness of mind in preparation for slumber.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Through the haze of her own pleasure, the room rang suddenly still. Grinding on Marcus slowed, then halted, her brows raised, confusion on her face.

I’d expected that beast to come back with something…!

Staggering, she looked behind her - and there was Tiberius, laying on the couch, hand over his eyes.

Her brain swam.

Have I said something too cold?

Bah, he’s an ox, Marcus said so himself.

Marcus also trusts this man with his life.

I think he’s been sufficiently punished.

Your mockery went too far.

“My love,” a return to her normal voice, free of the haughty tones she’d had but a minute ago, a break in the play. “Spare me a few moments to right a wrong.” Caresses of Marcus’s face, hands over his collarbone, his arms, taking time to enjoy him. A squeeze of his thigh, and she was shuffling to remove herself. She’d almost succeeded when a stray fold of her stolla, perhaps as punishment from Bacchus himself, caught on her foot and sent her flailing backwards. “…Ack!”

Thankfully she landed clear of the table - falling onto the floor, legs splayed, wide open, and the rest of her lost beneath the pink of her stolla, her legs, her sex, strange stamen in the middle of the flower of her dress. There couldn’t have been a point that she could have looked less dignified. She accepted her “punishment” with a begrudging grace, opting to simply lay there on the floor while she tried to get the room to stop spinning long enough so that she could regain her feet. It took what felt like years for her to finally right herself, one leg, then the other, on all fours, crawling, before shaking arms were lifted from the ground, one after the other, held out so that she could keep her balance, and then, wonder of wonders, she was on her feet, and able to walk once more.





A soldier like Tiberius would know when someone was approaching, hand over his eyes or not. There was no attempt at overt stealth, wine made normal footsteps loud and shuffling, washing away the hint of natural grace.

Strange quiet in the triclinium: not hostile, but strange after the sound of human voices had rung out so clearly. This was a lull, a moment for everyone to catch their breaths. There had been the soft murmuring of voices, but it had been some time ago. Time was moving slowly, distorted, pulled too tightly over taxed senses.

Whisper of fabric. Small hand on his chest, over his chest. Followed by something heavier, warmer. Words for his ears only. “I’m sorry,” clear, beaten clean of the patrician mockery and restored to its normal dulcet tones, weighed down with contrition. Out of nowhere, it would seem - but as she lifted her head from his chest, the hand that had rested there, her right, lifted to card through the coarse blonde curls. “Jests have gone too far,” hesitation, not out of embarrassment, but of a wine-mulled brain struggling to find the right words, “You are no rat, or an ox, you are Tiberius, the brother of my husband, and thusly my brother as well.” Fumbling in the way all words spoken mired in wine were, they were no less emotional or true. “My sister, Cassia, a hideous creature, she teased me like that, calling me ‘pig gut’, ‘cow tits’, among others. May the Gods strike me mute if such words pass my mouth with the same venom.”

She was shuffling, nearly tripping over her stolla as she wrenched it free from her legs to move better. She bumped into the table, sending goblets and plates clattering, and a soft swear from her to mark her annoyance. “I hate these skirts,” a grumble, then, she was shoving him. Not cruelly, but to make him move, to share the couch he was reclining on. Bratty little sister certainly as she kept at it, making it clear that she wasn’t going to stop until he moved. The slightest bit of leeway from him, and she was on the couch next to him. Then straddling his lap, much as she had Marcus. This position seemed to even out their heights a bit more, though he still towered over her.

Pressing her forehead to his, her palla, somewhat askew, was knocked further back off of her brow. A small hiss of pain as it snagged in her earrings (hoist by her own petard, then). A huff, and she broke the contact, only to remove those earrings and toss them (somewhat carefully) onto the table. Without the rigging she’d set up to keep it in place, the palla slipped from her head, settled about her shoulders. Her forehead to his again, she lined the bridge of her nose, snub thing to angular, for a moment. Closed her eyes. Breathed. She was redolent of sweat, wine, kitchen herbs, and beneath it all, her perfume, but even that was a patina over her natural scent, deep and earthy, leeching from her skin, her arms, her bared sex beneath the skirts.

“Forgive me, Tiberius.” A leaning back, arms around his neck to hold her steady - he could bear her uneven weight - all the better to see those eyes of his. And all the better for him to see hers: swimming in wine, but weighed down by her guilt. A kiss to his forehead, feather light. This was not the wheedling kiss of a prostitute or a temporary lover, trying to coax him into greater excess. One of apology, of wanting to mend a broken fence. Lips to his cheek, one, then the other, more touches. Exploratory. “You’ve nobility I’ve yet to see,” words soft against his lips, “And you should not suffer for my blindness. Come, kiss me…” Mouth hovering over his own, lower lip brushing against his. Without waiting for his answer, plush lips covered his own. As tender as her words, gentle, not asking anything from him other than to be him, to forgive her ignorance.

Gossamer touch. Unsure. Pressing harder, still soft sweet, figuring out. Wanting more. A pulling back, space to breathe, eyes locked on his. Overflowing with newness. Searching his own. Right hand against the right side of his face, seeking approval, but taking the lead. Leaning in again, lips slightly parted. Leaving the realm of innocence, but in no hurry, not as of yet, to wade entirely into the oceans of desire. Shy lovers exchanging first kisses behind brick walls, pushed further, deeper, by the hard tug in their bodies that lead them into unknown territory. Right hand caressing still, carding through hair, the line of his jaw, the side of his neck. Pulling away again, to breathe, to let the air between them simmer, a hint of seeking approval, that smile of hers a hand extended behind her, bidding him to take it, to follow her on a new adventure.

Kissing again. Mouths parted, tongues slowly waking, no hurry in a battle for dominance. Seeking the other out, meeting, greeting. Dancing slowly around one another. The deep flare of desire in the pit of her stomach that made her pull away from him with a breathy gasp, overwhelmed.

Why do I feel as if I've spent, just from a kiss?

Eyes were on his again, wide, not confused, but...intrigued. Pleased. Welcoming. "It is a mystery..." More to herself than to him. How different was that kiss from Marcus? Marcus had been in the lead every time, seeking almost to beat her down, the fire of his ardor this strong. But now she had taken the lead, and, though she knew she had wanted his forgiveness, she had wanted to kiss him, to see what it was like, and...something else, something that she didn't quite have the words for. To be gentle, she supposed, to this mountain of a man. To be kind to a beaten animal - no, not an animal. A man. A man wholly opposite from the one she knew, Marcus, but tied together by a bond she had no inkling to. Shyness now, a ducking of that chin as those dark eyes glanced down and to the side. "Could I...kiss you again?"

 

[Talon]

A yelp of surprise, followed closely by the thud of what sounded to be a body impacting against the floor somewhere off to his left side, was enough to rouse Tiberius from his state of near slumber. A soft, exasperated sigh was his only response.

Hmmm...wrong hole, perhaps? Had his mood not turned so dark of late Tiberius would have snickered at the thought. Perhaps I shouldn’t have covered my eyes after all, it would do my wounded pride a bit of good to see her get her comeuppance.

His left ear twitched; the sound of footsteps approaching at a shuffle, interrupting his train of thought. Gaia, it must be, unlikely Marcus would be so steady on his feet in his state. Maybe she’s come to check if I’m still breathing after so savage a beating? Hah! Either that or she’s taken by the need to relieve herself of too much wine and decided on a whim that I’d make a fine target for it. Why not? At least then I would have a fine story at hand should I ever wish to see her blush... ‘Dearest sister, do you remember that time you got so drunk that you stumbled over and pissed all over me? What? Why are you blushing? If I had a troop of archers who could aim half as well under the influence of so much drink…’.

A hand at his chest. Not in the form of a closed fist as he might have otherwise expected, but rather a gesture more placatory and gentle, the soft stroke of an open palm. Before he had time to clear his hand from over his eyes, what must be her head had joined her hand, pressing down against his breast. Not random, not simply a drunk person falling to rest where last their feet could carry them, there was clearly purposeful intent behind her actions.

“I’m sorry.”

A quirked brow, a scrutinizing gaze, lips pressed together to form a tight line; his look offered more insight into his initial reaction than one of his normally sarcastic quips otherwise would have. He was waiting for the ‘but’, the part where she said something about how he’d goaded her into it, or how perhaps he should have kept his underpants on no matter what her husband had bid him do, or kept his eyes and thoughts to himself more throughout dinner. She wouldn’t have been wrong, but it would have changed the manner in which her apology was received if she had, more like the opening volley of an argument about who was to blame for it all rather than a genuine appeal for forgiveness That was not her intent, though, as she instead went on to reiterate that he was indeed her brother and even further to explain how her sister had treated her poorly in a manner similar to the way she’d come at him earlier.

She paused speaking for a moment as she moved, giving Tirberius an opening to offer his own penance in the form of an apology in kind. “I accept your apology if you will accept mine in turn...we both could do with treating the other with a bit more kindness and grace, me particularly so...”

He thought then of his own sister, Boudicca, and how she’d tormented him when he was little. Not the right moment to commiserate, but something worth mentioning in future, perhaps to bond over mutual experiences. He couldn’t hold his tongue entirely, though, and as she repositioned herself to sit beside him, Tiberius moving aside at the insistence of her prodding with only the faintest hint of a playful grumble, he did feel obligated to offer his opinion on how far off the mark her sister’s insults had truly been. “‘Cow tits’? What, is the woman blind as well as cruel? If cows indeed had tits like those…” A thrusting out of his chin, gesturing towards the pair in question. “...I’d be a drover instead of a soldier. I’d be shit at it, no doubt, as I’d never be able to bring myself to sell off a single head of cattle.” He smiled at her with that telltale sheepish grin that she was coming to recognize was something of a sign that his mood was light enough to offer jest.

A playful grin cut short, then, as she unexpectedly moved to sit astride him. He sat up off his back as if somewhat alarmed by this new development, making no move to inhibit her but looking like something of a startled animal who’d detected a potential threat.

What is she about? Does she hold blade to hand, waiting only for the lowering of my guard to plunge it in my chest?

Heightened alertness calmed as her forehead pressed to his before pulling back just as suddenly, that knot in his gut beginning to work itself free even as the hair stood up along the back of his arms. The rise and fall of his chest grew heavy, his exhalations soft huffs heard only by their ears, their cadence steady, the jingling of jewelry the only accompanying sound as he watched her remove her earrings without offering further comment. Tiberius’ brain struggled to process thought, as laden by wine as it was desire suddenly reawakened, his tongue held still as if he had no desire to speak, to potentially interrupt and foul this moment with words that most assuredly would not meet it. As her palla fell about her shoulders he was met by the familiar sight of her bared scalp, that bold hairstyle, or lack thereof, that most assuredly held deeper meaning to her than mere choice of fashion. A question for another time, and one he did not ponder past fleeting thought, his attention drawn instead towards her visage, now bereft of it’s framing of pink finery, soft and beautiful and feminine in the most fundamental of ways. Cool blue eyes considered her as she turned her attention back towards him.

“You’re beautiful…”. Words softly spoken, little more than a hoarse whisper, and as she pressed her forehead to his again he showed no renewal of alarm, instead his hands moving to wrap gently around her sides, more as if to offer her support and stabilization in her positioning than the fevered grip of a passionate lover. “There is nothing to forgive…what insult was taken is now forgotten, truly.” A soft kiss at his forehead, then again at each of his cheeks, gestures he made no move to shy away from. Suddenly he gave thought to how close they were, their bodies were, as consideration of what must be pressed nakedly against the cloth of his tunic hidden there beneath the folds of her stolla, marking him with her scent, passed across the front of his mind. He felt as if he could almost perceive the heat of it there, although it was growing more difficult to distinguish between what was of her and what was of him as he felt his loins beginning to stir. A tightening of his grip about her waist as he felt her lips brush against his. And then...

His lips met hers without reservation, conceding ground to her without argument, sharing the exploratory first kiss of unfamiliar lovers, warm, soft and bashful. His eyes never left hers, burning with a renewed desire, a wanting to share more, so much more, than the mere embrace of lips. He was held there, though, not by force of threat, but by her force of will, by an unspoken command to still his questing hands, to take slowly this uncertain road they traveled down together, the brash womanizer and the only very recently experienced maiden, what would normally be a moment where the balance of power had shifted wholly in his favor, instead residing with her, this cool, calm and confident woman who by no rights should be this capable, but she was. She favored him then with another kiss, and then a third, the two unlikely lovers sharing what seemed an eternity there locked in intimate embrace, both seemingly lost in the other, neither wanting to be the one to be first to break contact.

Finally, just as she was the one to start it, Gaia pulled away with a gasp that so perfectly encapsulated his own feelings at that moment.

“Gods, woman…” Tiberius was breathless when he finally spoke, his forehead once more resting against hers as they sought solace from the storm that was the last few minutes. “...a kiss like that could bring a man back from even the realm of the dead...” He laughed softly beneath his breath, rubbing his nose together with hers. “...if ever your aim is to kiss me like that, then the answer will always be yes…”

Tiberius didn’t wait for her to initiate the next round of kisses, though, not this time, his lips meeting hers as if eager to express the depth of desire that had so recently been reawakened in him by result of her actions. Tongues once more meeting, softly twirling about each other with growing familiarity, his head canted to one side so that he could deepen it, hands that rested on her hips pulling her against him, encouraging the grinding motion of her hips down against him, his own thrusting up to meet hers as she did, mimicking the impassioned movements of two lovers in coitus.

He broke the embrace of their lips long enough to speak, impassioned words devoid of the undertone of innuendo that normally colored his speech as if sourced from the heart. “My thoughts have hardly strayed from you since first we met…” Another kiss, little more than the tasting of lips before he pulled away again. “...it’s unhealthy, that a man should be so obsessed…” Another. “...but I cannot help it. That subligaculum bore upon it your scent, and since discovering it, I can’t put it out of my mind…” Another kiss, deeper this time, a testament to the truthfulness of his words, of their sentiment. One of his hands moved up to pull one of hers from behind his neck, holding it against him as he led it down, down across the thickness of his chest, under the hem of her stolla where it bunched up around his middle, leaving it a moment there where she could feel his hardness, the ultimate expression of the depth of his desire for her, still concealed by and contained within his tunic. His lips were at her neck then, his body leaning forward to press against hers, the hard wall of his chest against the softness of her breasts. Words whispered against her flesh, his voice hoarse and tinged with renewed lust, soft enough to be meant only for her ears. “Tell me that you don’t feel it too, this desire shared between us. Tell me that I will not find wetness there between your thighs...or that you haven’t spent a single moment of the past day thinking of what lies between mine.” He nibbled at the flesh of her neck, enough for her to feel the sharpness of his canines, a hand gliding up her back, pressed between her shoulder blades, pulling her into him, holding her there should she shy away. “Tell me I’m but a blind, deaf and dumb fool who knows nothing of the way of women. Speak the truth of such things, if I am indeed mistaken…” His lips left her neck as he moved his head back to sit squarely before hers, foreheads touching, his lips hovering just beyond her own.

There beneath her stolla, where his hand held hers pressed against him, she could feel him relent in his restraining grip...calloused palms brushing against her thigh, fingers pressing into her flesh, sliding up, moving as if drawn towards the heat of her core, brushing through the dense patch of dark hair above her sex, a thick thumb blindly searching out what he knew must lie near there but could not see, finally finding it’s target as it brushed lightly across the nub of her clitoris.

“But if I am not, then let us explore more of each other. Go on, cub, let not shyness stay your hand, touch me as you would a lover. Let us start gently, just as with your kiss...”. The reemergence of an affectionate nickname, perhaps the ultimate proof that what animosity had passed between them was truly gone. Although he had attempted to take some initiative here, it was clear in the way he looked in her eyes, the way his chest rose and fell, the rapid pace of the beating of his heart, that this was a man so deeply in lust that she had but speak the words and he would make it so, as if she could ask to have him pull the moon from the sky in order to grant him rest between her thighs and he would endeavor to fulfill even so impossible a request.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

A soft snort of laughter, real and undisguised by refined blood. “ ‘Cow tits’, as recent as the day of my wedding. Jealousy, my eldest sister says - Cassia’s got but bee stings, and that is, perhaps, being too generous…” Her words were confined to the two of them, puffs of breath exhaled against his lower lip, her nose still in alignment with his, despite the somewhat flattened bridge of his own. “She’s a horror and a she-bitch and a creature from nightmares and I wish to speak of her no further,” Teasing brat there, whining about an elder sister. “Mmm, my brother Tiberius, king of the cowherds..!”

Swimming through the cloud of wine, her heart was buoyant again. Apologies were made, and better than that, accepted. It made being close to him a true return to the echo of home, to the feeling she’d instantly felt with him and wanted to wrap herself in. No guilt, no hesitation, even with her new husband behind her. Was she supposed to feel the thrill of a wife, discovering a new suitor, mouth watering at the dangling of forbidden fruit? Or the haughty nature of a rich woman who knew that even the most choices of cocks could be purchased? Maybe there would be time to consider such things once the wine had worn off. For now, she was light, feeling nothing but a swelling within her chest. She’d asked for love, and now, here was a possibility to feel it twice over. To pour herself out onto this new creature, already bonded to her.

If his compliments struck true, she gave no sign. Somewhere, in the corner of her mind that remained stubbornly free from wine, there was a nagging snarl, not to be fooled by honeyed words. How could she be beautiful, not even bothering with the comparison to Agrippina, but for the simple fact that she was just now married at her advanced age? “I wish to keep kissing you, for as long as you’ll let me,” her words, planted as gently as her lips were, just to the side of his mouth. There was a throbbing, no, a hard pulsing in her core, something she recognized from her time with Marcus. Her sex, still new, was quickly forgetting how sore she was and was eagerly preparing to take what was offered. She did her best to quell that insufferable whine wth a grind of her hips against his, so slight as to be imagined, enough for him to feel the heat and the slickness, thick and plentiful, that bled through her, dampened the folds of her stolla. His sweetness, surprising from such a man, caused her to laugh again, not boisterous or mocking, but as light as she’d heard in her dream. “If there’s anything close to the heavens here on this earth,” she whispered against his mouth, fingers of her right hand tracing the lines of his lips, his jaw, the hair at the nape of his neck, “Then this is surely is close to it. I can scarcely think of anything better…”

Lips against his again - his own beating hers to the punch by a split second. As much as her body burned, threatened to combust, she kept the kiss slow. Was she in a hurry? Was this still an apology, or was this a new exploration, a new sensation to be enjoyed? Her and Marcus - of course there would be comparison, what else could there be? - were explosive, flames on dry grass, an outpouring of all that she still didn’t have words for, but wanted to wrap him in, to tangle themselves until they ceased to be individuals, and with that, to ease their differences. This was…like learning to draw a bow. There was the opportunity to learn, the opportunity to teach. Maybe she was overstepping, assuming that Tiberius had never experienced any sort of tenderness, but it was compelling her to keep kissing him like this, noses rubbing against one another, hands in his hair, a smile on her mouth whenever they broke for air. No dueling of tongues, no biting of lower lips. Each deep kiss was followed by a butterfly touch of her lips against his, kissing for the sake of it, for the enjoyment of the experience, to crack open all she’d been holding back so long.

His words, soothing water in a quiet brook, buried deep within the heart of the forest. A place where nature slept, but was watchful all the same, a secret -

Soft gasp as his hand lead hers down to him. The size of him caused her eyes to widen, comical if not for the heat that flared in her cheeks, tugged her body harder into his. Raw desire, enough to make her near shudder against him, her hand still on the monster of his sex, caused her to pull away, her mind spinning, suddenly feeling faint.

“Oh, Tiberius…” breathed as softly as bidding a new lover to her bed, to her pulled back sheets and waiting thighs, “I…” Words fled her. What could she say? She held in her hands, even if her eyes wanted to disbelief, the proof of his ardor. It all could be words, hadn’t she said, before the wine began to flow, that his tongue was as silver as Marcus’s? She pressed her forehead to his again, seeking to ground herself in the solidness of him. His lips against her neck, smoothness marred with the occasional nip, was making her lose what little senses she had left. Everything she felt twice, no, nearly five times over, till she could scarcely remember the shape of her own body. Whimpering, then, soft, nearly defeated, her hips pressing down into his, her hand, tentatively, squeezing. Her fingers couldn’t close around his girth - a flare of panic, deep, primal, as strong as the desire -

“You can’t possibly fit,” a near soft wail in his ear, the ghost of the consummation of her marriage. Real fear now. If Marcus had caused her pain, as tender as he was, this, this was something entirely different. “You’ll tear me apart…”

But why did that cause the fire to burn higher?

I want you to.

I want you to rend me apart.

She was shaking visibly now, trembling leaf against the harsh wind of winter.

What do I do?

A soft cry; a jerk of her body. More dampness spreading through her, bleeding onto him, as his thumb brushed against her nub. She looked into his eyes, hers full of water, on the verge of tears. It burned so, so badly. “I…” Tongue thickened, stilled in her mouth. Could she not lift herself, impale herself on him?

No, I cannot -

I…

Comfort in his arms, yes, but…She glanced over her shoulder, at the recumbent form of Marcus. Safety, security there too. Her first guide.

When her voice came, she didn’t know who was speaking the words. “Take me with him, with your brother…bind the three of us together.” Begging in her voice, for reassurance, for the familiar, to be eased further along into this journey that was new and old. A deep inhale. Sweat slicked skin that stuck to fabric, slipped through his grasp. Standing now, undoing gold, finery upon finery. The hissing of silk as she pulled it away from her, her fingers still shaking, a tremble so profound it could be seen in her bared stomach. Strophium tossed aside, once tugged overhead. Shyness, still - fear. The roles reversed, a lamb lead before two wolves. Arms crossed over her breasts, she was all too aware of how small she was, how bare her body was. Her arousal glistened in the dark tangle of her pubic hair, smeared helplessly down her thighs.

Should she move, try to pull them to better accommodations? She felt glued to the spot: Marcus behind her, Tiberius in front of her.

“I wish to take you both in,” incense smoke burned at the alter of Venus slipping into her, through her cunt, out of her mouth to take form in words she had no bravery to speak. Shyness rubbed away, a nymph realizing that she was among other immortals now, and no further need to be coy. “Tiberius,” a smile there, warm, welcoming, too wholesome for the thick undercurrent of desire. A smile that was a sliver of laughter - she crossed back to the couch to where Marcus lounged. “It would seem that you’ve another opportunity to seduce Marcus…I will gladly help.”

A lower lip caught between those teeth as she looked at the larger man, will he or won’t he in those wine-brightened eyes, pulling him in, closer.

“Marcus…my love…” Sliding on the couch, crawling on all fours, playful and intense. Lowering of her head to his splayed thighs, small palms caressing the inside of them. Shifting again, so that her back was to Marcus, sitting between his legs, hers spread. The whole of her sex was exposed to Tiberius now, plump lips parting lazily, held together in places by the thick strands of her arousal. Thick and clear, beads of dew on spider web, parting to reveal the deep pink of her entrance, the paler pink of her erect clitoris, hidden petals beneath the deep brown, near violet of her labia minora.

A pause, sex in the air, syrup threatening to spill from overripe fruit. Laughter from her, awkward, gentle, amused: "I know not what to do next...could either of you help me...? I've got a frightful burning in my chest," words murmured, baffled, curious. "And my sex..." How could she put those feelings into words? She leaned back against Marcus, a small writhing of her body against his, "It only eases when you are close to me. So come close to me..!" A bit of a pout there, as if Tiberius's simple distance was insult to her.

 

[Talon]

Tiberius all but leapt up from the couch at her invitation to join her, his own clothing stripped from him and tossed aside with such haste that one would think it had caught fire, the full scope of his musculature on display then as arms lifted up above his head as he pulled off his tunic, showing what muscle lie beneath the softness that had in recent years just began to gather at his middle. A shock of light blonde hair down his belly, trailing up between his pecs before branching out to cover them in a fine layer of soft, natural fur. No more distinctive feature, above his waist, than his shoulders, though, wide enough to threaten to scrape against doorways, lending a distinctive ‘v’ shape to his upper body despite the growing size of his belly. It seemed a proper gut and love handles were still a few years, and a hundred casks or so, off, as he yet retained some measure of youth and engaged in strenuous activity frequently enough to stave off the worst effects of gluttonous indulgence.

He moved around the table set between the couches like a man on a mission, eyes gleaming, his smile warm, the expression of someone who thought all hope had been lost only to have the greatest of fortunes unexpectedly bestowed upon him. He stopped a moment to push away the table, back over towards his former couch, with a foot, giving the three of them an additional measure of space and to prevent the inevitable crashing of plates as one or the other of them collided with it while lost in the throes of passion. His eyes considered Marcus a moment as he turned back towards them, who seemed to be only just gradually collecting himself, his eyes still not fully open, as Gaia positioned herself there between his thighs and spread her own open.

“Gods…”

Tiberius couldn’t help but give an exclamation as the sight of her bared so openly before him met his eyes and stopped him dead in his tracks. Like a flower in bloom, outer petals opening to reveal what astounding beauty lie beneath them, there she was, Gaia’s sex, the very source of that scent that had marked the inside of her sublicalcum, of that heat that had been felt at his middle as she sat astride him, so colorful and fit and sleek and juicy...a feast for the eyes far greater than even the one they had been served for their bellies only hours prior. A feast that proved too appetizing for the giant to refuse as he closed what little distance remained between them and fell to a squat between her opened thighs with determined swiftness.

This was not the somewhat tender ministrations of a new husband seeking to bring his wife gently along the path to pleasure. Marcus had seemed to genuinely enjoy the act of cunnilingus, and the skillful movements of his tongue, seemingly well versed in what techniques would please a woman, spoke to his desire to provide his partner with a pleasurable experience through it. Despite being the very same act on the surface, a man putting his mouth to a woman’s sex, the actions of Tiberius bore little resemblance to those of Marcus. Two great, big hands, little more than the paws of some wild beast, clapped down against the inside of her thighs where they drew closer to pelvis, where the tone of her flesh began to gradually shift from a rich brown reminiscent of the earth, her namesake, to something darker. His hands did not linger for long, sliding closer inwards towards her sex, the rough, calloused palms of hands as accustomed to gripping the handle of a sword or the brace of a shield as they were to the stroking of thighs pressed against the softness of her skin, delighting at the feel of the firm musculature that lie just beneath the surface, at the contrast of their flesh, both in texture and in tone, two thick thumbs pressing into thickly plump labia, flushed by her arousal, already made slick and wet and shiny by the efforts of the kissing and necking and stroking he’d done while she sat astride him.

Tiberius’ gaze drank in all the details of her sex, hungrily taking in what was offered before him, the sight of it spread open, all but drenched in her arousal as it seeped from her, viscous strands of it still linked from one colorful bit of flesh to the other, vibrant and healthy and sending instinctual signals to him, a viable male, a potential partner, that this one was fit to breed. Perhaps it was the wine, or all of the built up tension, but Tiberius could hardly recall a moment when he had felt more aroused at the mere sight of a cunt. Whether it was objectively perfectly formed, or merely made so by virtue of being found between this particular woman’s thighs, made no significant difference at that moment. It looked unspoiled, and every bit as well formed as the rest of her, offering him a silent promise that no small amount of pleasure would be found there should he choose to delve deeper. Tiberius took up the unspoken offer with no sign of hesitation.

Tiberius’ bent forward then, his head drawing closer to her sex, his eyes flickering up to meet hers, half shielded by his brow, those ice blue orbs conveying the look of a predator having found it’s prey. “Nggghh.” While a guttural grunt of approval was all the verbal praise he offered, even so basic a gesture carried beneath it so much meaning, that Tiberius was as enchanted by the sight of her sex as she had been his, that, where she held fear for the implications that his size conveyed, his approval was colored only by an expression of longing, of wishing to reap the ruin she feared would come, of being the one to devastate her sex, to forever change it from this point forward, not in size or shape or appearance, but in appetite, so that she might never again wonder what it meant to be stuffed full after she had experienced a night with him.

His approval expressed, Tiberius went about the sampling of his quarry without further fanfare, pressing his face forcefully into the gaping sex laid out before him, nose and mouth most of all, his tongue following not far behind, delving inside her as deeply as it could manage, greedily tasting of her, seeking the flavor promised by the richness her scent, and judging from his initial reaction, approving of what he’d found there. His mouth worked wetly, nosily, as he supped for the second time this evening there between her thighs, his hands holding her legs pressed open, the stubble on his cheeks and chin mercifully not grown out enough to be overly harsh, but still felt against the smoothness of her flesh where they touched.

Tiberius lifted his head from her, licking at his lips as he went, as he moved to shift his position from a squat to down on one knee there before her, seemingly unconcerned with the hardness of the floor beneath him. His body moved forward, and with it came swinging that monstrous phallus that was affixed there between his thighs, ridiculously long and outrageously thick, urged to have grown to its full capacity by the tasting of her sex, almost outshining the presence of the man it was attached to for all of the attention it commanded, something of a King, perhaps, but one of a barbaric realm, having risen to that lofty position by virtue of size and strength alone as opposed to wisdom and birthright. His hands had left her sex by now, his left passing under her leg and pulling it towards him as he shifted, lifting it up to lie against his bare chest, too short for her to hook over his shoulder, but giving him something of hers to anchor himself to should she shift too much as he attempted to enter her. His right hand busied itself with gripping his prick near the base, holding it aloft before him, the span of his fingers only just up to the task of encompassing his girth on account of their more than ample length. It’s shadow fell across that dark triangle of hair above her sex as he drew gradually ever closer, passing the soft fold of her belly on line with her hips, cast down into the crevase of her navel before climbing up the other side, creeping across the entirety of her midsection, appearing as a thick line bisecting it, before she could feel that fleshy sack that hung below his phallus press up against her labia.

Where it had previously hung fat and lazily between his thighs, his cock was now at full mast, jagged veins running it’s length, most notably along the sides, his expanse of foreskin bunched up behind the swollen ridge of that thick, pale knob at the tip. Thickest near the middle and tapered to somewhat of a point at the end, beyond sheer size alone this specimen was quite different from the one she had previously encountered. The head of Marcus’ cock was fat, the thickest part of his manhood overall, and somewhat blunt in shape, of something like a plum or one of those stout mushroom caps that grew low to the ground, where Tiberius’ held something more like the shape of a bell, thick not so much at the tip as it was near the ridge. Edged out by the bigger man only slightly in the area of girth, Marcus’ was something of a Gladius, seeming large against his somewhat slender frame and more than ample enough to get the job done in any circumstance. Tiberius, then, wielded a Broadsword, the brutish, unsophisticated weapons of his mother’s people, overlarge, heavy, not suitable for engaging with the enemy in close quarters on account of the room needed to swing it, but able to deal far more devastation with any one well placed swing then it’s somewhat more modest cousin.

Marcus had tested her ability to accommodate him, providing for her that first enlightening experience of penetration, one that seemed in hindsight to be but a warm-up for the task of accepting something as outrageously sized as Tiberius’ phallus deep inside her.

Tiberius held his prick aloft as it hovered over her belly, the man himself seeming to enjoy this bit of theatre as evidenced by the cocky smile that twisted his lips, taking his time as if he was in no hurry to rush things along, as if he welcomed the tension that was built on both sides, from her of taking him, and from him of taking her. He released his grip on his phallus, letting it fall to impact with her belly with a heavy, fleshy ‘thwap’, the head aimed straight at the valley between her breasts, that slit at the tip, complete with the little extra bit of fleshy flap along either side that made it look something like the eye of some fierce cyclops, staring her down definitely should she lift her head and look down between her breasts. His hand, recently unoccupied, palmed the orb of her left breast, lifting it up on her chest from where it had settled slightly off the side as she lay on her back, again grunting his approval as he crudely groped her. “Nggh...if your sex only eases when I draw close, then so do I find peace only when suckling at these teats…” A slow grinding of his hips, working to drag an inch or two of his prick’s length up and down the ridge of her clit and it’s hood where it lay across it, not capable of the precise stimulation of a more dextrous appendage, not precisely hitting the mark of that nub with each motion, but providing what stimulation he could to both him and her in the process. His tesicles hung heavily down between her thighs, low enough that if they were of a similar shade of coloring, it might seem from a certain angle as if they were truly hers as the forward range of his motion pressed them up against the plump lips of her sex.

Tiberius’ gaze, laden with lust and wine in equal measure, lifted from her breast even as his hand remained there, thick fingers now working at the nub of her nipple, pressing it between thumb and forefinger, tweaking it, twisting it gently, testing her tolerance for pain and how much of it she found to be stimulating. “You will certainly have the pleasure of both of us at once, assuming Marcus decides to join in, and still finds himself capable…” A joke meant to reference his inebriation rather than his virility, which, even to this point, with how dominating Tiberius’ demeanor had become, he hadn’t sought to challenge the role of him as his brother or that of her husband. There was a different dynamic at play here between the three of them, something wholly unique, not adulterous, not dominant and submissive, but the outpouring of a mutual display of lust and affection for the woman who had so deeply captured the interest of these two old friends. What that would mean in the long term for them, the men, when Marcus was more sound of mind, had yet to be decided. “...but first...let us see if you can take the one of me without being ruined by the effort.”

A scoff, followed by that frustrating grin of his, as his hand left her breast to once more take hold of his prick. He pulled his hips back then, sharp jerks of his wrist causing the head of his cock to tap against her belly as if passed over it in it’s retreat, something like the tapping of a wooden club against a debtor's as of yet unbroken knee, or the domination of one animal over the other as they mated, like a wildcat biting the fur at the base of it’s mates neck. Menacing and provocative as much as it was erotic. Finally that tapping was now directly against the nub of her clit, his hand sliding up, thumb pressing down against the head as he used it to stimulate her, brushing it against her in a quick, back-and-forth motion.

“Ready, cub? Once we start, I’m not stopping until I feel that I’ve properly ravaged this tight little cunt of yours…” Another few taps to punctuate his point before he angled his cock down, the head pressing between her labia, gathering what fresh arousal had been churned from her depths after having so deeply drank of it earlier, coating the it with up and down swipes that pressed only a fingertip’s worth of length between those dark outer lips and in where that bloom of vivid color captured the eye, the motion as much a further tease as it was a preparatory measure. Finally he ceased, positioning himself lower against her opening, down where he knew her entrance to be, his hand holding himself steady there as if he anticipated a difficult entry.



Positioned behind Gaia, with her back pressed against his chest, Marcus had finally got something of his wits back about him, his lips seeking first and foremost her flesh, against her neck, trailing up, at her ear, his breathing deep and heavy, his prick already beginning to stir where she could feel it pressed up against her back. His hands wrapped around her, seeking breasts that had so helpfully been bared since last his knowing, a scoff, the warmth of his breath at her shoulder as his lips touched musculature there, soft kisses. Words, spoken by a deep voice, at the edge of his consciousness, all but undecipherable, little more than tone. He blinked forcefully, the clearing of slumber and the lingering influence of drink, squinting at the light of the room as his vision slowly grew sharper. Hearing that voice again, his head turned, a questioning gaze cast down over his wife's shoulder, taking in the unexpected sight of what lay between her thighs…

A massive phallus, oddly familiar, was poised to enter her, positioned there where there could be no mistaking it’s intent.

That almost looks like…Marcus’ eyes were drawn upwards just as the voice that had drawn his attention resumed speaking.



“Good...now open for me, cub…” Tiberius’ hips pressed forward, his grip on her leg that he held pressed against his chest tightening, pressure building at her entrance as the monster from the baths battled against the tightness of the Amazon’s hole in its quest to finally be granted entry inside it.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Whistling past the battlefield. That could have defined her laughter, caught between joy and the tremor of fear. She was learning how little she knew of this man, of how little she truly knew of the battlefield, for in Tiberius’s eager movements, there was a swiftness that she hadn’t imagined possible. Seeing him dispose of his tunic was to see him nude for the first time all over again. Pressed firmly back against Marcus, her heart hammered against the cage of her breast, fear mingling with eagerness, with the base desire to take and take and take, to be bred over and over until she was certain that she was with child, fat, sated, content, completely buried within the scent of these two men. Her fingers tightened on Marcus’s thighs, small crescents scooping into the smooth flesh. Had she acted too rashly, too spurred by forces that she had yet to understand? Could she expect tenderness, or had she blown past it, awoken the beast that she’d assumed he was?

But that smile…

It was enough to still, somewhat, the trembling in her legs, ease the grip on Marcus. Enough for her to return a smile that shook, crumpled around the edges. Still the inexperienced virgin there, laid bare once more under his bright, cold eyes. Reassurance that was dashed when his tongue attacked her open cunt with a ferocity that jostled her back, roughly, into Marcus. A flinching, the involuntary spasm of her legs closing, trying to ward off the djinn she’d disturbed out of the lamp. To no avail; his hands were already between her thighs, spreading them. She offered no resistance then, but he could feel her shaking, the hesitation in dark eyes, the flickering of hope for something else, intrigued - uncertainty. So much, not enough - wishing she could turn and completely bury herself in the safety of Marcus behind her, she sucked in a deep breath, tilting her head back, eyes squeezing shut, out of embarassment, fear, unknown. His thumbs parted her sex, a brazenness that was a far cry from the touch of her husband. Marcus had been excited, yes, but with the civility, if that was the proper word, to hold himself back, long enough, at least, to ease the worst of her fears. But as much as she wanted to scoot away, slam her legs shut at the intrusion, she forced herself to open one eye, the right, squinting, lower lip caught between her teeth.

Curious little thing. Wanting more, longing for it, not knowing how to ask for it. Looking for reassurance, somewhere, anywhere, that this was the right thing, that the strange ghost of Venus that had slipped into her, moved her tongue according to her golden haired whims, was still looking out for her. That there was some control still yet to be had, that the wild horse she was riding was still subject to her whim, as long as her hand was on the bridle.

“You look at me like…” Her words failed her, leaving her in a sharp cry, her head slamming hard back into Marcus’s shoulder, her body jerking, touched by lighting. His tongue was not kind, not tender, not curious. He lapped, no, devoured her sex as a starving man would fall upon a fine dinner, her own arousal secondary to quenching that great hunger. Delving again and again into her, the bristle of his cheeks prickling the inside of her overly sensitive sex. Hips bucked into his mouth, clumsy, seeking to rub the swollen pearl of her clitoris against his lips, his tongue, even the angle of his chin, to relieve the desire, to push her higher. He wouldn’t give her that - he was pulling away. Ruin in his wake: the tension, the faint fear, had left her body, leaving her boneless, panting helplessly, eyes full of water, close to tears yet again, shaking against the form of Marcus.

Pendulous - bigger than she imagined. A size that boggled the imagination, made her mouth water, forced the smallest of whimpers from her. His cock was absolutely massive: a feat all the more impressive for all the wine that they’d had, proportional, and yet all the more impressive in its size compared to the large man attached to it. She’d jested about having an elephant, but as she looked at Tiberius’s cock as it drew closer to her, she realized that the mockery of her arm was closer to the reality of what she was looking at.

Too late to flee now; her leg was in his grasp, a movement that made her start, nearly turn back into Marcus. Caught now, she lay still, bird caught between the paws of a cat, waiting. Scared again; her heart thudding so hard that the blood rushing in her ears deafening her to all else. Surely he could see the way her heart was pounding in the way her breasts jumped, in the flickering of her stomach, the soft curves of her stomach bearing the impact of his cock.

“Please,” soft, shaking, “please. Be gentle.” Words easily mocked, surely - words that Tiberius surely would have heard time and time before, both in feigning the innocence of a new bride for a price, and from the truly uninitiated, daunted by what lay in front of them. A desire to want to be near him, to accept all he had to offer, not in teasing, but in welcoming, to share - but was it moving too fast, a girl chased under the hay pile by her young swain. Hesitation, but knowing that she’d gone too far to turn him away. Hands moved from Marcus’s thighs, to caress the powerful forearms that kept her in place, that was leading that battering ram of his cock to her sex. Stroked the sun-darkened skin, looking, seeking, to soothe. Looking back up at him, the openness of her eyes, the desire, no, need, to trust him beyond what words could say. That she was leaping into the depths of his ocean without knowing how to swim. Relying on him to catch her, even beneath the bravado and confidence of his words. Slipping to mend the gap: she had spoken words, sheer filth, to Marcus - but they had been born of some spirit he’d brought out in her, kindred spirits seeking each other in roughness. Here, though she heard his words, she reached up, twisting a bit, to cup the side of Tiberius’s face in her hand. Pressed her taper fingers into him, her thumb brushing across his lower lip.

Eyes deepened their hold on his own. Brushing past the dust of jests, of commonality. Opening up more than just her sex, but her heart - willing him in deep, deep, deeper still. A naiad leading him to the edge of the pond in which she lived, coaxing him ever closer, until she pulled him into the water with her, but never letting go, pulling closer into her body. She was still shaking, more pronounced now as he got closer and closer to penetrating her. Her body, a step ahead of her mind, made easy the path for him; the couch beneath her was sodden with the fluid from her sex. The drumbeat of her heart was felt even there, in the plump labia lips, swollen to near aching, the opening of her cunt fluttering around him. A tenseness again; left hand shifting to the back of his neck, pulling him down, knocking him off balance. An unspoken plea to promise her to be soft with her, to realize what it was that was happening. That it was more than just pleasure, she wanted him, yes, was curious, no, needed to feel him splitting her open, risking the pain, but more, all the more, wanting to pull him into her. Truly into her, to absorb all that he could give, to cradle him between her legs and balance the largeness of his body within her, on top of her, her body an ocean to the boat of him, no, the ocean to his sky, molding together, stretching to mold herself properly.

“Don’t,” breathed against his lips. Not a rebuke to him, not with the way she shifted beneath him. Not with the way those hips slowly rolled up towards him, edging him closer to her clit, bathing him in the heated arousal from her, so much that it felt that she’d wet herself. “Don’t.” Softer now, whispered against his lips. A kiss, not a farewell to their early innocence, but pulling him to remember. Don’t rush with me. I am not going anywhere. Don’t close yourself off to me with these words. “Fall with me, Tiberius…” Spoken from the pounding of her heart, tattooed against his lips. “I will catch you.”

Ground beneath her feet. Arms steeling herself - a sigh of contentment, reassurance, as Marcus made his presence known in the touch of his mouth, his own phallus rising to the occasion. She should be ashamed, to have him see her like this, splayed in his lap, his battle brother, his massive cock fit to split his new wife. And of her? Her head tilted back against his shoulder, the cords of her slender throat exposed, her body shaking, her grip falling away from her hold on Tiberius’s face, his neck. Reaching behind her, arm looped under Marcus’s her hand, slick from sweat, her own fluids, scrambling for his own. “My love,” soft, begging. “Hold me. Steady me.” Words breathed into the curve of his ears, before her face turned to bury itself in his neck, dampening it with her sweat, with tears. The prodding of Tiberius’s cock against her sex, running round the tight circle of her opening, Venus, the head of him, just the tip, fit to split her, no matter how wet, how much her body ached to give way to him. He pushed further in, and she cried out, scrambling back further, primal fear taking hold, the gazelle bolting at the mere scent of a lion. He would have a hard time of it: she was wet, yes, wet and wetter still, but tensing, forcing him out as he pressed harder in. It was long, agonizing moments when that bell-shaped head pressed further, further, until it alone was engulfed in her body. He could feel her inner walls already spasming, struggling to either accommodate or force him out. Fresh tears sprang to her eyes, the pain, the desire of wanting more, making her gasp, pant as if she’d run for miles.

“Kiss me, someone, please…” Begging in a tone that was raw with terror. She needed an intimate touch, the reassurance that this was more than a passing interest in her body, sated once the wine had worn away. The same tone she’d taken hours earlier, begging, pleading, her love for Marcus. The same shaking in her chest, the flickering desire to need to be close, not just physically, but emotionally, fingers tangled in one another, for someone, anyone, to accept what she wanted so badly to give.

 

[Talon]

Marcus stared up at the face of the man to whom belonged the strangely familiar phallus that was attempting to penetrate his wife’s most intimate of places, having been stunned into silence and inaction by the recognition made there, by seeing the face of none other than his battle brother and oldest of friends, Tiberius. Marcus’ expression was blank, the far off look one held as wheels spun behind empty eyes.

How long was I unconscious, how deeply had I slept, that I allowed my wife to be set upon right beneath my nose? I vowed to protect her, and already twice within the span of so many days have I failed in my duty as her husband. She must think me the lowest of cowards…

Gaia pressed back against him, retreating, seeking succor from a warm and familiar source, jolting Marcus from his contemplative state with the force of her movement. Marcus took notice of the movement of her hand as it fell away from Tiberius’ neck, not from having been struggling against him, to be free from him, but from what must have been some sort of embrace, a detail he’d missed as his eyes had sought only the verification of the phallus’ owner. A contemplative frown, his brow knit in the consideration of all available evidence, as Gaia whispered in his ear and offered the strongest piece yet:

“My love, hold me. Steady me.”

‘Steady me’? Not ‘save me’ or ‘protect me’, but ‘steady me’...

Even as his mind worked, connecting dots and lines and slowly working through the complicated tangle of emotions this situation had stirred up within him, his arms wrapped more tightly around her in fulfillment of her request. As her face pressed into his neck his own turned to that side, his eyes leaving Tiberius’ face for the first time in what felt like ages, his cheek pressing up against her bare scalp in a gesture of intimacy and comfort. He could feel her shaking through the contact of her back with his chest, to which he responded by pulling her back into him even more tightly as her hand reached back to embrace him. His mouth opened to speak in a ragged whisper, his throat dry from where he had been staring with mouth agape only moments prior.

“My love...I am here.” Marcus pressed the side of his lips against the smoothness of her scalp in a half kiss, feeling the hint of sweat that had formed there. Whatever this was, between her and Tiberius, it was clear that it was not simply a matter of his friend acting out of turn and forcing himself on her.

Did she seduce him, or him her? Did he ply her with so much wine that she knows not, or cares not, who labors between her thighs? Or is she instead fully aware of what she is doing, with purpose, carrying out our shared fantasies that we whispered together about in the dark as we lay together? She practically threatened to gut me if I brought them up outside of our chambers...maybe she thought I would be trusting of Tiberius, that I wouldn’t mind the sharing of them if it were with him. She seemed to be less than enthused with him during dinner...until, that is, I bid him show her it.

Eyes that had only just left Tiberius were compelled to return to him even as he consoled his wife, satisfying a nagging curiosity that itched at the back of his skull, glancing out of the corner of his eyes not up towards Tiberius’ face, nor to the width of his shoulders or to the stoutness of his chest. Shamefully, it was the very last place he should be compelled to look that he felt the most drawn towards, that overgrown organ Tiberius was busy trying to cram deep into his Gaia’s depths, the thing that was causing her such discomfort in the effort of accommodating. Marcus felt arousal roiling in his loins and an overwhelming urge to watch as Gaia intimately grappled with the beast, the fulfillment of some deep seated fantastical scenario that had only just been realized. His eyes dispassionately took in details they had never before cared to note despite having seen it many times before; the sheer length, that impressive girth, the coloring of it, the veins that fueled its growth, how it stuck out from that shock of soft blonde hair at its base.

All those years he spent bragging about it...it seemed he was overcompensating for something at the time, but seeing it like this, you have to give it to the bastard, if I had something like that swinging between my legs I’m not sure I could hold myself back from constantly crowing about it either.




Tiberius’ eyelids fluttered over a sea of white as an involuntary groan escaped his lips. Gaia’s cunt was tight, almost too tight, if there even could be such a thing. Even with the liberal amount of arousal that all but flowed from her like a river, the forward progress made by his prick had been hard fought and gradually won. It was hardly surprising, with her being so slight a woman in height despite her otherwise considerable assets, but still, it seemed as if the prospect of her taking him in fully was quite far off yet, she’d managed only the head thus far and already looked on the verge of collapsing from the effort.

His head turned toward the side of him where her leg was held against his chest, lips pressed to the muscle in her calf, the hardness of her shin, the roundness of the joint at her ankle, that most famously vulnerable of spots that had brought even the mighty Achilles low. Fingers dug into the musculature of her thigh as he held her fast to him, as his hips pressed forward, that unrelenting pressure inside her, coaxing her open bit by bit, her sex giving up ground to his only after having fought hard over it. Another fingertip’s worth of progress made, reversed as she squeezed and expelled from her that and more, regained with a jolt from his hips, his hand steadying him there, focusing that pressure, his massive member digging at her insides like a miners pick hammered at rock, chiseling away bit by bit, tunneling deeper and deeper, until the precious materials it held hidden inside were finally reached. The big man’s groans and grunts were every bit as expressive as Gaia’s were, his speaking to not pain but pleasure, head thrown back, shaggy blonde curls that had grown wet with sweat dancing about his head, his chest rising and falling heavily as he patiently endeavored to gradually fill her with more and more of his prick.




Gaia could feel the heavy rise and fall of Marcus’ chest against her upper back, the thudding of his heart, the throbbing of his manhood as it pressed against her back, all nonverbal signs that he found himself approving of what was unfolding before his eyes. His arms held tight to her, left hand cupping her right breast, fingers pressed into firm, bountiful flesh that overflowed between them, that resisted his hand’s ability to tame it. His right hand brushed against the soft skin of her belly with gentle, soothing strokes of his palm. His eyes still held fast to the space between her thighs with growing reverence for the thing that was providing his wife pleasure, a pleasure he could sense more than feel, for at the moment she gave scant few signs that she found it’s entry anything less than torturous. Little beyond perhaps the most important of signs, that wetness there at her sex, sourced from deep within, coating her inner thighs, soaking the couch beneath them enough that he could feel the growing damp spot where his legs met fabric. He could see it worn upon the shaft of Tiberius’ cock as it gleamed wetly every time she pushed a bit of him from her, a visual indicator of how deeply she had taken him and therefore how much progress she had made. Perhaps it was a mercy that her face was pressed into his neck, he thought, he would imagine the sight would only add to her discomfort if she could see just how much further she had to go to fully take this monster inside of her.



“Kiss me, someone, please…”



Tiberius fell upon her then, as if he were over eager to be the one to answer her call, her leg released and shrugged from his shoulder, his hands gripping her at the waist, his upper body bending forward, his breath in huffs as his pelvis still worked, more thrusting now than pressing, quick, sharp, shallow thrusts, motions that worked a finger length’s worth of lip gnashing-ly thick prick in and out of her, the head never leaving the comfort of those colorful walls that gripped so tightly, never ceding that first bit of ground they had broken together.

She could see something in his eyes as his head drew nearer to hers, some quality that was not entirely unfamiliar but perhaps unexpected from him in particular. This was more than the look of a man lost deeply in lust, even if that man himself had little knowledge of just how deeply this strange new feeling had taken root within him. He was more than mere brute, more than would-be womanizer, more than the bearer of beastly phallus, that look conveyed the presence of so much more beneath the facade he wore, that of the confident cocksman, the cocky soldier, for there was vulnerability there, deep, but a seed that had only just taken bloom.

His forehead touched to hers, the mingling of sweat, the sharing of breath a moment as he held her gaze, icy orbs searching hers, those deep, dark pools as vast as the oceans. His voice was still hoarse and deep, softer and less savage than it had been as he’d spoken of ravaging and ruining and pillaging. “Catch me, then, cub…catch me...”

A moment of sweet sincerity, an island refuge in a sea of passionate coupling, his hips still working despite the gravity of such a moment, his desire for her unmasked and undeniable, his fingers digging in at her hips as he attempted to pull her towards him even as he was prevented from doing so by the steadfastness of Marcus’ grip. His lips met hers, kissing her with such ravenous ferocity that it made their time upon the other couch seem but chaste pecks pressed to cheeks by comparison.




Marcus watched as Tiberius approached, silent as the two of them shared a moment that seemed at odds with the tone of the encounter thus far, something that was somehow more intimate than even the act of him penetrating her. Marcus’ lips were once more at her neck showering soft kisses along the expanse of silky skin there as he felt the action of her jaw working as Tiberius and Gaia lingered for a few long moments in their kiss. His hands were still engaged in stroking her, in kneading at her breast, even as they held her pulled back into the stability and safety offered her by the wall of his chest.




Their kiss slowly tapered off, little more than the twirling together of acrobatic tongues at the end, Tiberius shifting and nudging at the side of her face with his nose, urging her to turn towards her husband, to face the ever devoted Marcus so that he too might be granted the opportunity to heed her request. A cool gaze watched as the lips of husband and wife met, their heads nodding gently up and down in order to maintain connection as they compensated for Gaia being jostled about by the energy of Tiberius’ thrusting hips. He was pressing ever deeper, working what must be more than a third of his cock in and out of her now, the squelching sounds of her wet sex being continuously ravaged threatening to drown out what sound might have come as a result of their lips meeting.

Tiberius was at her ear then, grunting, the forceful snorts of a man laboring between a woman’s thighs. The intimate moment between them passed, this was the triumphant return of the foul-mouthed, confident cocksman, whispering filth in her ear as easily as he had offered a heartfelt response to her request for him to open himself to her, just as she had done for him. “Good, cub...you are doing good, taking so much of my cock up your cunt. So warm and wet and tight...mmmm...show your husband how much you love and appreciate him, I want to watch the two of you kiss while I fuck you…”




Marcus and Gaia’s lips met in as passionate an embrace as they ever had, the man seemingly unconcerned with the fact that they had so recently been locked with Tiberius’, that the shaking he felt passed to him from her, the moans and grunts and whimpers that vibrated against his lips, were all a result of her taking that monstrous cock of his inside of her. His tongue sought hers with practiced regularity, two dance partners who had by now well learned their routine, his hand at her breast squeezing as their mouths worked open against each other.




Tiberius leaned back away from her then as he straightened, that confident grin gone from his lips as if he had left it upon hers, his visage bearing only the determined look of a man who sought release, fingers digging into the soft flesh around her hips as he yanked her towards him, as the energy in his thrusting increased, the musculature in his chest firing, first one pec jumping and then the other, veins showing at the bulge of bicep in either arm, his cock pistoning in and out of her at a pace that resembled actual coupling for the first time, more than just an effort to slowly enter her, he was properly fucking her now, remembering how she had bid him be gentle, holding back enough even in his state of heightened lust that he sought to give her only half of his manhood's great length on any given thrust inward, only half, but still, more than enough to get the job done, more than some men had to offer as a whole.




Marcus’ arms tightened around her as their kiss was broken by the forcefulness of Tiberius’ rutting, his gaze returning to where battle brother met wife, his chin resting on her shoulder, the hand that had been softly rubbing at her belly venturing lower, fingertips brushing through the forest of hair above her sex, curls that gleamed wetly with her arousal, slickness that coated his fingers as they moved lower, his thumb anchored against her, his middle and ring finger pressed together as they ventured lower, rising and falling as the flesh beneath them undulated like waves on a turbulent sea. Brushing against her clit, seemingly uncaring that they had drawn so near to the thing that was causing those waves, his fingers began to lightly stroke her, in the fashion she had taught him best stimulated her, in time with the rhythm of Tiberius’ thrusts. Left, thrust in, right, pull out, left, in, right, out…

Marcus’ head pressed against the side of hers, his lips at her ear, his breath heavy, hips thrusting against her, rubbing his own prick against the soft flesh of her lower back as he watched Tiberius’ plow away at her. If Gaia still doubted that Marcus approved of what their dinner party had evolved into, little more than an orgy, then his words at her ear offered perhaps the best evidence that what he was witnessing met his approval. “My love, I want nothing more than to watch you cum as he ravages you... soak this couch beneath us... cum for him...”




Between all of the grunting and gasping and squelching and panting, Marcus' words met the ears of the lusty giant as he worked towards achieving much the same end. Recieved with a scoff and a grin from him as the pace of his thrusting increased as if in response, his eyes shifted to Marcus' face, watching the reaction from him for a few moments, the grin fading as the sight of Gaia's husband, his battle brother, watching him ravage her seemed to only add fuel to his already roaring fire. He spoke then, addressing Marcus directly for the first time since this tryst had began, crossing a line that had as of yet not been crossed. "Watch me, brother, for I will watch you with great interest when it is your turn, watch how you will please this little nymph with that fat cock of yours..." His words were near breatheless, but met their mark, as Marcus' head tilted up in response, his gaze meeting Tiberius'.

Tiberius' upper body swooped down just as it had over Gaia when she bid one of them kiss her. This time, though, it was her husband for whom the giant's lips were aimed, meeting his in a one-sided kiss that, judging from how Marcus rocked back as if he'd been struck, took the Senator completely by surprise.

There, just inches from Gaia's face, while Marcus embraced and stimulated her and Tiberius humped away at her with that monstrous cock of his, the two men whose aim it was to please her shared their first kiss.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Snow melt.

No small trickles, chipping away at layers of ice. Everything fell away, the tension of her body snapping to finally give way. Loose-limbed, she nearly collapsed into Marcus, the only resistance her body providing to Tiberius now was the firm pressure of her lips against his. Breaking through, running towards him without so much as a word passing her lips. Acceptance rounded and filled out to an overjoyed welcome, giving into taking, as her body shifted, a barrier breeched in a subconscious mind. Cunt gripped so tight to monster phallus that it stung, walls not merely clinging, but almost melding to the line of his cock. Little leeway given, despite the torrents of arousal that flowed from her. A deep breath against closed lips, exhaling hard - the shifting again of her body, a flexing of muscles as she sought to reverse the natural order of her body. Forcing herself to expel him was easy, but to relax those same muscles to accept this brute was something else. Already the pain sparked behind her eyes in pinprick stars of light - could feel the burn of walls stretched past the capacity, and, what’s more, the distant ache of her thighs, where her legs met her body, from forcing them open too, not just to accommodate the physical size of the massive man atop her, but to widen her cunt as much as possible within the confines of the couch, of Marcus still holding her.

Inch by inch, so deep so that she felt a dull ache at the bottom of her spine, where rear met back, could feel him in the clench of her ass, strangely silent, she was, a bit of the stoic there. Not out of a warrior’s compulsion to bear pain quietly, but in the restrained manner of a woman who knew her work was far from over. She held still, not out of a lack of desire, but by what she thought was best: easier to hit a immobile target than a moving one. And that’s what her cunt was; deep pink target for the pale flesh to embed into -

Forcing eyes squeezed shut, she glanced down between the tangle of their bodies. Hers a familiar field of warm brown, his tanned, but paler still, and even paler, the beast he was inching into her body. An avalanche then: low groan, not of pain, but of a guttural arousal, coaxing more, wanting more. Had she murmured a name? Some low curse in a forgotten language? Did it matter? She pressed back against Marcus, fear slipping away, the reptilian brain pleased, gnashing teeth for more. The press back wasn’t to dislodge, but to further steel herself, hands moving to grasp the edge of the couch. Awakened now, she began to cant her hips back into Tiberius’s, meeting thrust for thrust, tentative, as she had to do much more than just receive. The constant reminder in her brain to open instead of reflexively close, to welcome instead of repel, to allow the stretch of muscles that simply refused to part further. He would have tough work of it, even as she sought to accommodate him. The expression of her face would turn from shy fear, the doe-like martyr’s plea for clemency to that of a woman meeting a challenge, one that echoed to her from the ages. A distant reflection of Tiberius’s smirk then, a come on, then, come mark me, that was sweet and sour, an edge of fire there. Not pleading for him to be rougher, but to bury himself as deeply as he could.

He’d given her the kiss that she’d asked - spoke volumes, more than perhaps he understood. And she would do nothing less than open herself up as much as she could, further. “I don’t care if it comes out of my throat,” sweat tinged words, grunted through clenched teeth. “Bury yourself in me.” Heated words that would have caused her to blush, were it not for the absolute singular desire in her body that he do just that. The head wasn’t enough. The inches he worked in, not enough. She growled against Marcus’s lips, not out of annoyance, or distraction, but something altogether new and strange from her:

Possession.

This is mine, she seemed to snarl into Marcus’s mouth, and so is this, an echoed, softer huff as she kissed Tiberius again. Both of you are mine, mine, mine, mine - no matter where you go, who else you may encounter. You’re mine. Fierceness with the familiar: Marcus’s kiss came with the peppered bite of her teeth, delicate in a firm contrast to the bestial sounds that came from her. Sucking on his lower lip, catching it between her teeth, forehead against his as she let go, a huff of a laugh somewhere in there, expulsion of tension, expression of joy. Hand leaving the security of the couch to the nape of Marcus’s neck, keeping his face close to hers, even as Tiberius bid her to love Marcus more.

She would comply, warmly, gently, almost chastely, as if she didn’t have his battle brother’s cock eagerly forcing its way into her, a fact she further emphasized by lazily draping one leg across Tiberius’s back, the one that wasn’t in his grasp. Small dig of her heel into him, pressing him further.

“More.” Guttural, earthy. Somehow untangling, but keeping herself caught up in Marcus’s grasp as her lithe body bent forward, proving that the ability of her body to move beyond what appeared normal went well beyond her ability to dance. Nearly in a split she was, one leg only a part of the way around Tiberius’s broad back, the other still held by him as she reached down as best she could, to take a firm handful of his upper thigh. Alas, she was too short, too small, to get the grip on his rear that she would have wanted, but she was confident that her desire was made all the clear. Nails dug into him as she pressed his thighs tighter into her, her sex not just fluttering, but convulsing now as he was thrusting harder, jostling her, barely able to handle the half, but eager, greedy for more. “All the way,” gentler than her previous words, “Open it for you, Tiberius,” breathless, soft words against his chest, in the small space between them. “I’ll be good for you, so good…” Trailing off, unable to think clearly enough to add more. His praise tickled a different part of her mind: infantile, almost, a space that made her want to melt all the more, to be praised more, to be petted and cosseted like a beloved pet more than a woman with her own mind. Maybe if she was sober, she would be insulted. Melting more now, a thrill coursing through her, a small shiver of pleasure in those shoulders, a minuscule giggle there. “I’ll be good, a good cub,” she purred, ending on a hiccup.

How could she have forgotten Marcus?

Mmm, no, “forget” wasn’t the right word. He was there, always there, like the air her lungs struggled to suck in. Warm and comforting, his grip firm, his mouth familiar, her love, and how she didn’t have the words for how she felt for him, amplified by the wine, all encompassing, and if she was speaking now, she didn’t know the words that fell from her. A waterfall of all that she typically held back, how much she loved him, her life tied forever in his, thankful that he was there for her to share in this, not just to share, but to make it possible - was there more, some of her fears? She didn’t know. She was turned inside out, all of those intimate thoughts exposed to the air, and she wasn’t sober enough to be embarrassed or afraid. Praise from those lips, for not just Marcus, but Tiberius as well, soft, warm, weaving the three of them together. Love, not just once, or twice, but a thousandfold, as numerous as the stars in the sky, she felt was falling out of her. High, higher, higher still, her voice became a high pitched whine, the combined efforts of Marcus, him playing her body as he discovered it, a well-tuned instrument for his fingers alone, the way her body swallowed more and more and more still of Tiberius, until she felt her ass flex in sympathy for her cunt, she was being filled until she was sure she could nearly see the lines of Tiberius’s cock moving inside of her, bulging against the soft pad of flesh that was above her sex, there should have been pain, she knew he was carving newer spots, that there would be blood, but even then, that was all right - welcoming yet another piece of herself that she hadn’t known was missing. Of course there would be pain, but it was small, nothing compared to the pain if she were to lose them, lose this. If she could will her body into pulling them both in, no longer Gaia, but a whirlpool that wanted all that they were, all that they had been and would be, she would have -

“Love you, love you, love you,” sing-songed, hiccuping with each thrust from Tiberius, no longer the shallow clapping of hips against thighs, but deep, sodden damp rag to table, the squelching as each movement of Tiberius’s hips was greeted by a cunt that struggled to accept him, bathing him in fluids, the couch beneath them a drenched mess of arousal and sweat and faint traces of blood -

A laugh.

Not inappropriate, or unbidden. What caused it? Tiberius kissing her husband, the way her husband had recoiled. A laugh of a goddess of love, of Venus herself, well pleased at the events taking place, a laugh that promised greater blessings in the sharing of it. “Me too,” Gaia managed to stutter out, “Me too,” that little impish side of her swimming through the deep tangle of lust, of bodies meeting for the first time and working astoundingly well together. Not that she gave Tiberius much of a choice: the hand that had grasped his thigh shifted to his neck, pulling her to face to face with him, a gentle kiss capped by the rubbing of noses, affection in the midst of lust. The sight of the two of them kissing had, strangely enough, spurred deeper fire in her - had he not said something, years ago, it felt, about coming on to Marcus as well? Rather than jealousy, or fear, or anger, Gaia felt a flare of pride - through her body, she was able to bring the two of them all the closer. Hoping, praying, that it would tighten their bond, though the surprise of Marcus dashed that hope - just a bit. For through wine and love all things were possible, were they not?

Groans of passion melted into softer, desperate, breathy cries. There was over the top passion, exploding from being restrained, there were the screams of her first orgasm. This was all together different, a feeling that started so deep in her that it felt that breathing too loud would scare it all away. Torn in multiple directions: possession, the desire to swallow all before her, beneath her, love, yes, overwhelmingly so, more at home than she had ever felt in her life, so bolstered that she hardly believed she was still on earth instead of hanging in the balance somewhere in the skies -

When her orgasm came, it was the result of the movements of the earth. Volcanic release - shuddering deep within her body, gasping, panting breaths, her body stilling, quiet before the storm. A soft cry, so overwhelmed as to be missed, her forehead colliding against Tiberius’s shoulder. Her voice almost forgotten, so inundated was her body. For as quiet as she was, her body spoke volumes. Back arched up and away from Marcus, his hand on her clit held in place by the movement of her. Shaking that gave way to violent shuddering, a quiver deep in her stomach, and her cunt? Tightened to the point of forcing Tiberius out, he’d only be able to stay within her body if he responded with a force that could have been dangerous, but he was helped out by a rush of fluid - not a slow, lazy drool of a cunt ready and waiting, teased with a phallus, but a near literal wave, squirting, splashing, soaking - with enough force to spatter against him, her, drench the couch beneath them, wet enough to drip down her thighs to pool on the floor beneath them, slow dripping from the fabric as if a vase of wine had been overturned.

For long moments, she shuddered between the two of them, her body coming down in stages. Vision was blurred, hearing muted, even if she had been disturbingly quiet. Her body wouldn’t obey her commands, no matter how slight they were. Breathing was difficult, and she lay between the two, completely boneless, limp as if she passed out. To her, it felt that she was floating, that she wasn’t quite left on the mortal plane. She didn’t have words for her - only her breathing, harsh, labored, spoke for her, still shaking, unable to grasp for comfort. Arms lifted once, twice, only to fall back again, unable to obey her commands. Shuddering more, as smaller, gentler orgasms surprised her, one, two - a weakened, barely there third, each triggered by the soft motion of Marcus’s hand, of her cunt convulsing around Tiberius even as she forced him out.

If they were waiting for her to speak, they would both have to wait for long minutes, as Gaia’s soul begrudgingly returned to her body. What could she even say?

“…Am I still here on earth?” True confusion there, as if she’d awoken in a strange time and place. “Or am I among the Gods?” Conscious words gave way to a stream of unintelligible ones - ‘love’ repeated over and over, certainly, hands that sought to explore every facet of the men that lay with her, Marcus, Tiberius, tracing, recreating, the lines of their bodies against their own and the others, the vibration of her body in her bones, in her teeth, in the throaty purr of her voice, not entirely sated, but needing a moment for her body to catch up with the dreamy nature of her mind, and that deep, deep growl at the back of her head, the one that demanded seed until her belly swelled, until her cunt drank its fill and then some, to spill out onto the floor, onto the ground, fertility shared from body to earth to earth to body -

Head fell back, exposing the long cords of her throat, delicate, almost too fragile, brown skin caught between pale. Tongue caressed lips. Tasted sweat, wine, remnants of spices. Blinking to bring the world back into focus, luxuriate in the hum of her body, still trembling, though gentler, easier now. “My dear husband,” speaking to both, to all, to the quiet of the room, “Once called my sex greedy. I thought he was jesting.” A bit of a smile on those lips, “But she still asks for more.” A faint twitching in her overly sore sex - sore, but as if waking after a long nap, ravenous. “I don’t think she’ll be happy until she’s had the seed of the both of you….”

 

[Talon]

The grin Tiberius wore as he watched Gaia writhe and shake in the midst of her orgasmic throes was easy, something like the satisfied expression of a baker as they watched the eater partake of the fruit of their labour, or the actor who bowed to the applause of an adoring crowd after a spirited performance. To a man like Tiberius, there could be no higher honor bestowed upon him. Let other men enjoy their Triumphs and their laurels and their spoils of war...this was his own form of immortal glory, that this night might live on in her memory as the moment when she first reached true orgasmic bliss. His hands stroked the outside of thighs, gently, carefully, taking care not to overwhelm her with additional stimulation as the aftershocks still wracked her body but wanting her to be secure in the knowledge that he was still there, that he had not simply vanished after having had his way with her, that this, whatever this was that had happened between them, was genuine. A gentle laugh then, as her hand reached out to him, taken in one of his own, guided about his body, his chest, his arms, through the patch of hair at his belly, sounding not as if he was amused by her, but inclusive and warm, as if the two of them had shared in some private jest together.


Marcus’ lips remained at her ear, her body rising and falling in time with the chest of the man she leaned back against, his exhalation warm across the soft skin at her neck. “My love...that was...magnificent, you are magnificent... a gift from the very gods themselves…” His tone was soft, and although she could feel the heat of him, of his phallus, still rigid as it pressed against her lower back, his voice sounded as if he had rode that wave with her, in awe at the primal force generated by her orgasm, familiar to him, of course, but this time had seemed different. He could feel the heat of the wetness spreading on the couch beneath him, had heard the droplets falling to the marble, could see the gleam of the inside of her thighs, of where she had marked Tiberius. She’d gone off like a volcano, and he’d been there during, right there, so close he could feel the beating of her heart. It might have been Tiberius’ mighty prick that did the lion’s share of the work, but he’d done his part, had touched her there where she was most sensitive, fanned the flames of a simple fire until it roared, until it became a conflagration.

When her hand reached back to him he turned from her to nuzzle against it, almost purring as if he had been a lazy tomcat she had scratched between the ears, rubbing forehead and cheek against her as if marking her, his lips kissing tender flesh at the inside of her wrist.


“I don’t think she’ll be happy until she’s had the seed of the both of you….”


Tiberius’ grin turned sheepish as he laughed beneath his breath, a hand moving up from her thigh to rest over her belly, stroking the softness there lovingly. “Greedy, eh? How coarse…” His tone was playful as mirth filled icy blue eyes came to rest on Marcus’ visage. “...one should never question a Lady’s appetite, dear brother. Particularly not when what she seeks to satisfy it with is what hangs between your thighs…” A quick glance back at Gaia, a playful, conspiratorial wink, as if he had now assumed the mantle of protective brother. “...speaking of...come here, brother...stand beside me a moment…” Tiberius’ head canted to the side as he saw the beginning signs of protest forming on Marcus’ face. “...I’ll not bite...hard…”


Marcus grumbled as he pulled back away from Gaia, Tiberius holding her steady a moment as her husband awkwardly, drunkenly, worked to extricate himself from so intimate an embrace with what little grace he still held in such a state. Tiberius let Gaia settle back into the couch after Marcus had pulled himself away, her husband crawling on his hands and knees a moment to the edge of the couch, his backside up in the air and pointed back towards them, absentmindedly offering for both battle brother and wife a vantage neither would normally be privy to, his muscular thighs framing the the pouch that contained his testicles, the underside of the hardened shaft of his prick, his well formed derriere, round and firm. He paused for a moment there, peering down over the edge of the couch as if looking off the side of some great cliff, as if traversing the few feet down to the floor would be a perilous journey.


Tiberius risked a glance back at Gaia, another wink, before he leaned over towards Marcus, a hand reaching out for him, caressing the right cheek of his rump, an oversized hand gripping it, pulling it at, parting that crevasse than ran down the middle of it, flashing a hint of the dusky knot there at it's center. ”Mmm...well, if you’re offering…”


Marcus practically lept from the couch as if he’d felt the teeth of all three of Cerberus’ heads nipping at his backside, the slapping of foot against tile as he stuck the landing with surprising gracefulness, spinning around to face them, his hands held behind him, shielding his buttocks protectively. His prick, still half hard, swung about in the air before him humorously, at odds with the scowl he wore on his features but almost in rhythm with the swaying of his upper body, trying to right himself on legs made unsteady by too much wine. He was blushing, clearly, and stammered excitedly a moment before he was able to express himself clearly. “I...I...I made no such offer!”


Tiberius barked a laugh, looking back over towards Gaia, leaning forwards to press a soft smooch of a quick kiss against her lips, that trickster glint in his eye, a whisper as he pulled away. “Let us enjoy ourselves a moment, cub…” Tiberius stood then, carefully, bracing himself against the edge of the couch to either side of Gaia’s legs as he rose with a groan of effort, noting where the wet spots on the floor presented hazard and carefully avoiding placing his foot in them, not out of disgust or anything of the like, but merely an abundance of caution that he might slip and fall and crack his head open. Although, he thought, that’d be a hell of a story to tell the ferryman.

Tiberius now stood before Gaia, his midsection about level with her head if she chose to sit up on the couch she now lay on. She had marked him well in her own form of recognition for his efforts, the big man gleaming wetly from navel to knee in the low lamp light, the remnants of her orgasmic fluids gathering in tiny droplets of dew amongst the bushel of hair that sprouted from around the root of his phallus, his prick having receded somewhat, enough that the bit of excess foreskin at the end once more concealed the shape and sensitive flesh of its head. No longer rigid enough to stand on its own, it hung down at an angle under the burden of its own weight. Along the flesh of its shaft he wore the markings of his difficult passage, difficult to see against his pale flesh, but upon closer examination one could see her arousal churned thick there from the friction generated by the strength of her sex’s grip. As imposing and impressive as ever, it somehow seemed less agressive than it had before, less of the overecited twitching and throbbing, as if having been wrapped in the warm embrace of her insides had by some measure soothed the savage edge off the beast. At least for the moment.

Tiberius looked over to Marcus after he’d risen to his full height, that playful grin still on his lips, a beckoning ‘come hither’ motion of his head as he held open hands raised up to either side, gesturing for peace, demonstrating that he meant no harm. “Worry not, brother...come, join us…” Tiberius' tone sounded as if a man signaling to a strange animal that it was safe to approach within petting distance. Marcus looked wary, his eyes darting from battle brother to wife, then back again, his hands eventually moving out from behind his back, his head shaking lightly as he scoffed. “Very well…” He shambled forward a few steps, drawing up beside Tiberius, just within reach of Gaia’s left arm. “...so long as you agree to keep your hands and that...thing...of yours to your-...”

Marcus’ had been distracted by the sight of his lovely young wife, sitting there, basking in the afterglow of her great pleasure, deliciously nude, her warm brown flesh gleaming with sweat and arousal, her breasts, so full and ripe and heaving, still, as she caught her breath…

Marcus yelped as he felt a hand enclose around his prick, not the soft, gentle, caressing hand of his wife, no, there was too much strength there, too rough, too large. Hesitant to pull away on account of what part of him was restrained, a wide eyed gaze slowly turned to Tiberius’ grinning visage, the big man stepping closer to him, close enough that he almost towered over him with his handful of spare inches in height, not threateningly, but almost protectively, as if he stood between him and the rest of the world, between any that would cause him harm. Tiberius held Marcus’ manhood in a reverse grip, his thumb pointed in towards Marcus’ pelvis, and although it was humbled somewhat by the great size of the hand that gripped it, still, there was enough that the thick knob at the end stuck out of the other side of his fist, pulsating, pressing into the flesh of the inside of Tiberius’ forearm under his wrist, of a mind of its own, unconcerned with whose hand was doing the grabbing, only that it was being stimulated. Tiberius’ grip flexed as he stroked it a few times, not particularly gently, but looking more like the action of a farmer's hand as he milked a cow’s teat.

The pair stood in silence a moment, Tiberius’ hand working, stroking, urging growth from it’s captive, as they stared into each other’s eyes, the big man the first to break it. “It’s just the three of us here, brother, there are no other eyes to see. I know you don’t feel as I do for you, but I feel as you do for her...so let us take joy in this moment…” Tiberius looked down between them, the two of them, men, both standing with shoulders squared, with pride, fit and muscular and deadly, these two soldiers, caught in a moment of intimacy it seemed at least one of whom had long imagined but the other had forcefully denied. Tiberius’ hand opened, his thumb peeling away, revealing to his eyes, and those of Gaia should she care to look, Marcus’ fully erect phallus. Thickly stout, enough to test even the giant’s grip, with that fat vein running down it’s length, that fist for a knob at the end, that curvature along its upper half as it arced away from Tiberius’ arm, a bit of wetness gathered there at the slit at it’s tip.

“Look at this...I’ll bet you make her sing with this, don’t you? Hmm?” Marcus was silent, his brow knit, staring up at Tiberius with something resembling stoic defiance although he made no move to pull away from him. “Yeah, you do...how could you not? Look at how fat it is…”

Tiberius turned to Gaia then, opening his hips with a shift of his left foot, offering her access to the both of them as they stood before her. “What do you think, cub...should we see who would win in a duel? Perhaps for the Lady's honor...this knave did have the gall to call that lovely cunt of yours greedy, I think a sound beating is the least of what he has coming to him for such giving such offense.”

And there it was, that trademark mischevious grin of his, as he gripped Marcus' phallus and waved it about the air demonstratively as if to ensure she took his meaning regarding exactly what sort of duel he was implying they engage in. Marcus, for his part, looked upon her as well, but his expression was much harder to read, even as unsober as he was. He wasn't strictly objecting, just standing there, hands at his sides, as Tiberius had his bit of fun with that particular bit of him, and yet, it seemed, he would continue to insist on being drug along by his heels, even if somewhere deep inside he was secretly enjoying himself.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

More laughter, as her right arm went to cover her face in a gesture that was so heavy and loose that it was a wonder that she didn’t do herself harm. “Ah…” Head titled up towards the ceiling, stretching of her throat. The world was returning, bit by bit, starting with a pleasant tingling in her toes that slowly crept upwards. She seemed content to rest in Marcus’s grasp, chest heaving, covered in their sweat, as he spoke to her. Indeed, she luxuriated in the attention, a flower soaking up the sun believing that the star was only for her. Her left hand continued to rub against Marcus’s face with more dexterity than the rest of her was capable of, pressing fingertips to his lips as he spoke, turning the words into inadvertent kisses. Thumb across upper, then lower lip, to caress the strong line of his chin. All affection, the quiet humming of her body an unspoken purr, complete contentedness on the dreamy expression of her face. The expression of a woman that was happily, deeply, in love. With those same warm eyes, she looked at Tiberius, savoring the smile on his face as his hand moved to her stomach.

“Mmm; I thought I’d punished him enough earlier. Called him a complainer, a barbarian,” her smile widened, a Sphinx with a secret, “But he appears not to have learned his lesson.” A canting of her head against Marcus, giving him a how dare you look, one that had any threat of actual anger gutted from it by the wide adoration of her grin. Maybe it was her own inexperience that caused her emotions to overflow as such: maybe a more experienced woman would have been happy enough with the orgasm and considered it a night well spent. But for her, she felt wrapped in the clouds of a transcendent experience, a complete and utter understanding of what all of that ‘love’ dreck was about. A fly caught in the spider’s web, and one that made absolutely no effort to free herself. If anything, she would wrap herself tighter, not ever wanting to be let go.

A pout, a grumbled hiss of indignation then, as Tiberius bid Marcus over to his side. Though she was still drunk (and not just on the wine), it spoke volumes to how gentle Marcus was in his parting that she didn’t instantly collapse into the couch once he left his spot vacant. Laying back, she propped herself clumsily up on her elbows, her legs not quite working the way she would want them to. A distinct inability to close them: uncontrollable quivering every time she attempted to before she gave up, content to leave herself completely open to either one of them. Her cunt fairly glittered in her cum, her pubic hair appearing to have been coated in oil. Those inner thighs, too, still shaking, glistened, the occasional smear of red across her plump labia, more leaching, coloring, the arousal that still oozed from her body. The opening of her cunt slowly regaining its natural shape, actors drawing a curtain across the stage, after being forced open. Not that she could see - she could feel, of course, the strain of muscles slipping away as things returned to “normal.” “You deprive me of the warmest cushion here,” she griped, all fine airs and eloquence gone. What was it about Tiberius that brought out the bratty baby sister? She flopped back ungracefully on the couch, a toddler preparing to throw a tantrum: comically puffed out cheeks and exaggerated furrowing of her brows. “You’re as ungrateful as he is!”

The pout didn’t last long - quickly taken over by the impish wiles of a girl, freed by the wine. As Marcus bent over the edge of the couch, it would seem that in a moment, her and Tiberius shared a common thought: while Tiberius caressed the right cheek, Gaia would slap the left one with a cupped palm that made the room echo with the resounding pop. “Oh, that is fun!” She giggled, pulling herself up further, undoubtedly to do it once more - had Marcus not gotten to his feet so quickly.

“Awwwww,” she whined, collapsing on the couch again, laying fully on her back. “No fun, no fun.” So consumed had she been with slapping Marcus’s behind that the thought of Tiberius prying open her husband’s most privy of parts came to her belatedly. She bolted up - then instantly whined as the room spun. “Gah,” pressing her palms to her eyes, she rubbed hard, smearing kohl across them, “Someone tell me when the room stops spinning - either that, or give me my husband’s ass to look at again!” More rubbing then, before she pulled her hands away, squinting in the dull lantern light of the room, abnormally bright after the absolute darkness of her closed eyes. “I want to see him bent over again - no,” a wave of her hand, a queen on her throne, “I want to see both of you bent over, tables for me to prop my feet up on, and occasionally beat with a sandal.” All jest there - the words barely passing her lips as she was struck with a fit of giggles. Imagine that: both of these men, on their knees before her, while she tried to dine in peace atop them. Or even more simple than that: imagine them naked, on their hands and knees. Giggles raised to guffaws, then to outright loud laughter, capped with an embarrassing snort: which only served to make her laugh and snort harder. Not that it was helped by Marcus’s blush.

She was soon crying, laughing so hard that her burgeoning balance failed her entirely, and she tumbled off of the couch with a squeal, limbs going this way and that, taking a plate or two with her. And in the middle of broken clay, in a puddle of her own fluids, she lay on the ground, laughing all the harder, laughing until she was wheezing, rolling over to her stomach in a desperate bid to try and gain some control back. Wheezing turned into coughing, and muttered swears, Venus this, Diana that, a hail Bacchus, even, as she struggled, fumbling behind her, for the couch. Flailing arms found the edge of the couch as she pulled herself up, her laughter easing as a look of absolute concentration took over, complete with the tip of her tongue poking out of her mouth. One leg, then the other: both bent, both shaking, as she relied on the muscles of her arms and shoulders to haul her back onto the couch. “Hup!” She sat down heavily, looking so pleased with herself that it was comical.

“Marcus is a shy boy,” she finally managed, wiping tears from her eyes. Long streaks of kohl down her face made her look like a child that had stumbled into her mother’s cosmetics, “Shy, shy, shy. And I have it on good authority,” voice dropped conspiratorially, “That our brother Tiberius here has previously shown his desire-”

Words were abruptly cut off as Tiberius positioned himself in front of her. She eagerly approached the edge of the couch, sitting up on her knees. A slight wiggle of her hips that quickly turned into eager bouncing, those eyes merry and bright as her brain began to piece together what was being offered. An excited gasp, clasping her hands together. All that was missing was the thrilled “ooo!” of a child opening a much wanted gift.

“Gimmie gimme gimmie! You’re too rough,” she leaned forward, staggering, before she caught herself with her left hand. “Come closer: I’ll be the judge of the both of you.” In a moment of what one might call divine inspiration, Gaia squinted at the two of them, then looked down at the couch. She unfolded her legs from beneath her, planted both feet solidly on the ground, and with a grunt of exertion, grasped the edge of the couch. With the whine of wood scraping across tile, she bodily scooted the couch forward, using the leverage of her arms and her feet to keep her forward. She stopped only when she ran nose first into Tiberius’s cock, smashing semi-soft flesh against her face.

Not that it would stop her. “Mwah,” she noisily kissed the heavy head, still drenched in her own juices and faint traces of blood, “You lovely, lovely thing, but the loveliness of the man attached has you beaten,” she chided his semi-erect phallus, before giving Tiberius an adoring look upwards. “And don’t ever let anyone tell you differently,” she started, reaching for Marcus’s cock with her dominant right hand, “And if they do, tell me, and I’ll beat them to death, I swear by the Huntress herself,” each word bringing her parted mouth closer to the erect head of Marcus’s cock. As she finished, plush lips closed around just the tip, her tongue flicking out against the slit, reacquainting herself, though her mouth fairly watered at the sight of not one, but both of them.

The abrupt end of her words was marked by a deep, giggle of a moan as she unceremoniously tried to swallow as much of Marcus’s cock as she could. And she made a good go of it, getting about halfway in before she had to withdraw, coughing, but a determined glint in her eye, “Let me try it again,” she murmured, taking in a deep breath. What had she learned that morning? Ah, yes, she had to relax her throat, had to swallow him properly, but there was so much else to do! It would be too easy, too simple, to swallow him. She wanted to feel him properly; not just engulf him. Could she do both, though? Yes, of course she could - relaxing her throat, she took in a deep breath, and slowly, slowly, lips moved further and further down his shaft, only stopping when Tiberius’s hand prevented her from moving further, as it was still wrapped around Marcus. Not that her hands were idle: she pressed them against the front of his thighs for leverage.

She suddenly wrenched her face from Marcus’s cock, inhaling deeply, before using her right hand to shoo Tiberius’s hand away. “Moooovveee,” it was an annoyed whine, complete with that lower lip stuck out pout, “I can’t do it right when your hand’s in the way!”

A realization in those dark eyes, showing up as a spark of brightness and raised brows. Without a second word, left hand went to Tiberius’s left buttock, right to Marcus’s. And then she was shoving, pulling them both into her with her mouth open wide. The intent was there, but the execution could have been smoother. Knocking the men off balance meant that Tiberius’s cock brushed hard against her left cheek, Marcus’s only grazing her tongue before resting against her chin. But not one to be defeated, she adjusted herself on the couch, pulling her arms free and taking Marcus in her right hand, Tiberius in her left, gave both of the men’s cocks loving pecks to their heads.

“I love you,” smack to Marcus, “and I love you,” and a smack to Tiberius, “And I don’t really know what to make of you, but why not,” delivered as she gently palmed the sacks between each men’s legs with their “designated” hands. “Just so everyone knows,” she added matter of factly as she looked up at both of them, this time, a cock in each hand, pressing them into her cheek as she gave them both a look that said she was pleased beyond words. A grin that only widened as she pressed those heads against her lower lip, her chin. “I don’t even know where to start!” On the verge of giggles even as she squirmed against the couch. But somehow she was able to make the decision -

“Mmm, you taste like my cunt,” a slow, lazy lick to flick against Tiberius’s head, “And you taste of none,” a sucking kiss to the head of Marcus’s phallus, “So I think I’ll start here…” With Tiberius’s hand out of the way now, she shifted, inhaling, the moment before the movement, and sucked firmly on Marcus’s cock, taking it in a third, then half, then all the way again, this time only stopping when the sweat drenched bush at the base of his cock tickled her nose. She held it for longer than she had that morning, surely he could feel how her throat worked, trying to swallow him, but unable to. Not that her left hand was idle - she was stroking Tiberius, a bit clumsily, but with a soft hand, damp with sweat. Thumb moved to caress the underside of him, to rub reassuringly at where the head of his cock flared into the shaft, spreading her juices, the clear slick of pre cum across him. Sucking as she pulled off of Marcus’s phallus, she took in a great sucking exhale as popped from her mouth, breathing deeply. Another warm smile to both men.

Then, cheekily, she glanced over at Tiberius. “I bet you couldn’t beat that, even if you tried. I am the Queen of the Cocks, and the Mistress of Cocksuckers,” she crowed, wagging her tits in glee. “And you can’t take that from me. But I’m a benevolent Queen, eager to bestow favor and titles upon those who deserve them,” she murmured, pulling Tiberius’s cock gently towards her, her breath warm against the head of him. Her right hand was stroking Marcus softly, mimicking what she’d done with Tiberius just moments before, “And I would have no problem with deeming you the Prince of Cocks. Man in Waiting of Cocksuckers,” the last muffled as she began to suck him in, lips closing, or struggling to close, around his girth. Tiberius’s cock had the gift of not only width, but length, on Marcus’s - and even though she tried her best, she could only manage to suck in about a third of him before she had to withdraw, coughing, struggling to breathe. He not only filled her cunt to near bursting - he did the same with her mouth, blocking every airway.

But once she regained her breath, she eyed the two cocks in front of her with a determination of a lone warrior going up against a battalion. Took in one deep breath, then another, her chest rising and falling, before she kissed Marcus’s head, tongue running long, wide circles around his head, laving up beneath the underside of his cock, before her mouth opened wider, and she was pulling the head of Tiberius in her mouth as well. It must’ve looked ridiculous, with the way her cheeks bulged as she tried to take more of each man into her mouth, but clearly she wasn’t concerned about appearances. Hands worked at both shafts, left and right moving in perfect tandem as she let her eyelids flutter closed, her tongue caressing, stroking each head, whatever bit of shaft that fit in her mouth with all the adoration of a blessed worshipper.

She was in no hurry - and for whatever accidental brush of teeth against sensitive flesh, or slightly awkward place of the tongue or mouth, she would withdraw, only long enough to offer a kiss to the offended member in apology, and then she was on it again, pressing underneath each cock, both spit slickened, to rub against her nose, closed mouth that parted only to accept one phallus or the other - if not both - in a wide grin, lovingly rubbing them against cheek, chin. Her enjoyment was made clear by the hums of appreciation, the moderated and tender strokes of their flesh, when hands momentarily moved from cock to ass, pulling one man or the other in closer, as she bobbed and swallowed down Marcus’s cock only to repeat the same action to Tiberius’s, rubbing noses across wiry pubic hair, grinning, filling her senses with the dark musk of male sex, lightened only by the traces of her own against Tiberius’s.

 

[Talon]

She’s getting quite good at that, Marcus mentally noted, as a groan rumbled up from the depths of his throat, low, pleasured, for all the world like a man with a stubborn itch between his shoulders who’d found just the right instrument to satisfy it. His instrument, in this case, was the back of her throat, the stubborn itch his needy prick, as hard now as it had ever been, even accounting for those bygone days when it wore but a few scraggly hairs above its head and eagerly rose to action at so little as a shift in passing breeze.

His head tilted back, eyes half-lidded orbs of white , the lines of his well defined neck sharpening, slender, lithe, that masculine knot at the center bobbing as he swallowed forcefully before the next deep intake of breath. A ragged breath, as if he had somehow forgotten to breathe for a moment there as she consumed him, all that was him, deep, deeper, until there was nothing left of him to take. His head fell forward then, canting down, the rise and fall of his chest heavy as he looked upon her, what little of her he could see from directly above, the crown of her head, glistening in the low candlelight, the outward swell of her rump emerging from somewhere below her shoulders, her face pressed up against his middle, nose nestled amongst the thatch of finely soft hair there, her left arm raised, bicep activating as her fist pumped at the pillar of cock it currently held within grasp. Musculature there that extended to where arm met shoulder, not so obvious as to be easily mistaken for the arm of a man or a hard worked slave, but more so than one would expect to find on the frame of a pampered Patrician’s daughter. There was a softness there along the underside of her upper arm, a confounding juxtaposition, the necessary exertion spent to build a burgeoning mass of muscle coupled with the wealth and luxury that such softness was a hallmark of.

Another groan then, this one colored with more of an approving note than the first had held, as Marcus felt the wriggling of her tongue along the underside of his prick.

“Gods, Gaia…you are quite skilled at that…unnhh…maneuver…”

Maneuver? An odd word choice, he would admit, not poor but odd, chosen hastily on account of her provided distraction, his mind summoning forth the most readily available noun, choosing with the ease of familiarity one from its readily available lexicon of military terminology. Perhaps it was the presence of another there with them that twisted his tongue, that made him hesitate to spew forth obscenities as easily as he had when they had been alone.

He had called her by her name as well, and though it was rightfully hers, and not unharmonious to the ears, he found he preferred addressing her by her formal title of ‘wife’. The preference was not borne of some undue sense of possession, as an officer would address a soldier or a master their slave, not merely so, but simply because the acknowledgment of their still juvenile bond of matrimony was pleasing to him. Perhaps it was silly, it was not some grand thing, after all, their marriage, not as it had unfolded. He hadn’t needed to best some rival suitor in a duel or pen a thousand words of devotion to later shout at the outer walls of her father’s villa, he had merely needed to ask her father’s permission for her hand. It was childish, then, surely, to be proud of a victory so easily won. It was simply the way of things for those of their station, a fact he did not overly lament, for it was done as it had been done for hundreds of years before their time, and given that he was a man of, by and for the system, he would have it no other way. Still, looking upon her, even in such a state, in such a place, while performing such an act, he couldn’t help but feel his breast warm with a sense of gratitude that it had been her hand that chance had placed in his own that fateful morning. Gratitude not only for her comely appearance, or that she possessed a refined manner, or that her father’s great name carried with it great wealth, but also of things less material, of her more directly, things as simple as her sense of humor and that delightful laugh of her’s when a jest hit particularly close to it’s mark. Besides, what man would object to a wife whose idea of after dinner entertainment included a demonstration of how readily she could swallow the entire length of her husband’s manhood?

Many, perhaps, if her demonstration extended to showing her husband how well she accounted for herself when taking on his battle brother’s monstrous member.

Many, but not Marcus, and for reasons he wasn’t yet prepared to give voice to, reasons that were yet burgeoning feelings that his mind was still busy dissecting, studying and classifying. Better, more intellectually capable men than he had attempted to explain the reasoning for why any given man felt or acted any given way, and for all his skill in battle and politics, which were much the same, he reckoned, the gods had not seen fit to gift him with so great an intellect that he might hope to give a better answer than they. Why was it that he found his wife’s backside so bewitching, was it merely because it was overly large and pleasantly shaped? And how about the way she kept her hair now, or rather, the lack of it, what precisely was so appealing about it, was it merely because there was an exotic shape to her skull that he found intriguing? The answer to either was both yes and no simultaneously… a matter of innate preference, not conscious decision.

The same could be said of why he found the sight of his wife pleasuring another man arousing; he simply did.

No, that was not precisely it. It wasn’t about the other man at all, really, beyond his presence being required. He cared for Tiberius, deeply, like a brother, more than he would dare to let the other man know lest he become more familiar than he had already dared. Even so, given the depth of this care, it did not extend into the realm of things sexual. Tiberius had regaled him with many sordid tales throughout the years, some assuredly fiction, others most assuredly not, but never had the telling of them sparked something of interest in Marcus. Maybe that had been the intent, to seduce or beguile a sense of curiosity into him, but even if it had been, such tales had fallen well short of the mark.

Perhaps it was better expressed in this way, then; he found the sight of his wife pleasuring herself with another man arousing.

Better, more fitting. He had watched as Tiberius fucked her, his vantage allowing more of a look at Tiberius’ sex than his wife’s, but it was not the mere sight of the other man’s member, no matter how exceptional it was, that had made his own prick stand fully at attention. It was the knowledge of what it was doing to her that had turned him on, the feel of her body against his, the hitch in her breath as he had buried it in her, the tenor of her screams as it touched something deep inside, well beyond where even the mightiest of Marcus’ thrusts could hope to send his own. It had become something of an entity of its own in his mind’s eye, a disembodied prick, a living dildo, an instrument through which to provide Gaia pleasure, which had allowed him to enjoy the sight of it plowing the field between her thighs without deeper thoughts of what had passed between the two souls inhabiting the bodies engaged in copulation. And as such, it was not that he worried she had enjoyed Tiberius more, as if he harbored some hidden feelings of dejection at the thought that he could never hope to please her the same again, he was no more jealous than he would be if it truly had been a dildo that had been used on her. Such a thing had given her a novel sexual experience, one different from that which his own provided. Not better or worse in an objective sense, just different.

Besides, was it not in some cosmic sense, divorced from the laws of man, fair that so inexperienced a young woman, at the peak of her sexual prime, be allowed to experience different partners beyond her husband? He had, several times over, and was well aware just where she sat in terms of her sexual fitness and prowess, both where she was still learning and at which points she had already excelled.

A noble idea, and yet Marcus could not in good faith claim he was permissive of the addition of another partner into her sexual annals on account of some high minded sense of cosmic justice. Although… perhaps it would make an interesting excuse should ever well founded gossip spring up concerning their private activities. Yes…she had kept her maidenhood for her husband to lay claim to, maintained her virtue, and now that their marital sheets were stained with the blood of its passing, his seed given opportunity to take in her belly, her husband was liberal enough to be permissive of her carnal explorations. He’d be branded a libertine, no doubt, but it would perhaps give those with a mind for philosophy a bone of a thought to gnaw upon.

Not likely, at any rate, and given the current state of his sobriety, or rather lack thereof, he wasn’t quite sure he would give a care even if Caesar himself was in the know. Gaia might, given the strictness of her upbringing and the sterling reputation of her father’s name. In that interest alone he would work to quell rumors in the unlikely event they ever arose, but as for his own, he wasn’t quite sure this newfound fetish of sorts wouldn’t extend to the finding of such public knowledge to be arousing. He, the stodgy senator, never exactly known for a fair hand with women, lying down each night with a sexually liberated young wife warming the sheets beside him. Quite scandalous, indeed.

 

[Talon]

Although, maybe not so shocking as his own tastes, in the end, for even as the contemplative portion of his brain worked, weighing this, offering justification for that, his eyes watched. Watched her, how she moved from him, finally releasing him from the soothingly warm, tantalizingly wet and lip-gnashing-ly snug confines of her throat with but a brisk, coquettish kiss at the tip offered in parting, her hand quickly moving to grip where throat had held, stroking him, the wet ‘schlick…schlick…schlick’ of constricting fingers being worked over his freshly saliva-slick shaft. He watched as she first looked up to meet the man’s eyes to whom she was now turned to face, the hand that had been providing the very same sort of stimulation that her other now provided him seizing that mass of monstrous prick by the root, angling it up towards her mouth as she leaned in towards him.

Marcus had of course seen it before, Tiberius’ prick, and plenty, although never before tonight in such a state. It was hardly possible to be an acquaintance of Tiberius and not know what his manhood looked like, as if he had an oddly shaped birthmark or was a farmer who’d just harvested an especially large specimen eager to show it off at market. He’d always thought it looked somewhat odd in comparison to his own and not merely on account of its size, but also in the way it hung lazily down between his thighs and dangled there heavily. Tiberius had a penchant for showing it off, and more than a few recruits had been privy to how it looked when it was showcased just inches in front of their nose, destined to be the first thing they saw when they were roused from sleep should they dare to fall asleep at their guard post. Other times he would merely pull his loincloth to the side, tuck the bottom of his tunic up into his belt and let it hang freely, often when the men had gathered for a common purpose such as to dig a latrine trench or line up for mealtime, only to accuse anyone who pointed it out of being a ‘prick peeper’, subjecting them to a playful ribbing from all gathered for daring to be so base as to draw attention to it. Then there were the casual moments, gathering for a command meeting with the centurions late at night or early morning, the lot in a tunic or at least loincloth save Tiberius, attending in all his unclothed glory.

Marcus had never been one to participate in such foolish acts of depraved nonsense, not directly, for after all, it was at the end of the day just a prick, every man not a eunuch had one, it’s size was merely an oddity to be observed and commented on, like seeing an especially tall man walk past, and so it held the subject of his thoughts and musings little beyond that once Tiberius had seen fit to tuck it away back under his tunic.

It certainly held his attention now, however, along with that of his young bride, and even if Marcus had never imagined he would one day be privy to so intimate a demonstration of it’s capacity to provide pleasure, for the second time that evening, standing but an arm’s length away, he watched with rapt attention as his battle brother’s oversized prick was offered up as if in sacrifice to appease his wife’s ravenous carnal hunger.

Not Tiberius’ prick…Gaia’s dildo…

Marcus’ pride throbbed in her grasp at the thought.



It was Tiberius’ turn to groan, then, as he watched those dark, pillowy lips of Gaia’s wrap around the tip of his prick, as that splash of color along the bottom and at their center was obscured by slickened man-flesh, pale against the darkness of lips and hand, yet gleaming with her arousal still fresh from the source, reeking of her, of her cunt, of her innermost depths to which it had been made to forge a path through and back out again. His prick wore it well, it’s prideful coat of her spendings, churned thick around it’s middle along where her entrance had gripped to it so tightly, still untouched by questing lips that had yet to become confident or capable enough to take him down into her throat deep enough to clean it from him. He had tasted her before they coupled, and thus was familiar with what flavor her tongue must be transmitting to her senses. He’d told her then, and meant it, but given their shared moment here, he thought his message bore repeating.

“Mmmhmmm…good cunt…”. Hummed as much as spoken, with a slight nod of his head in acknowledgement as he held her gaze, both to the quality of what lay between her thighs and the pleasurable actions of her mouth as she serviced him.

Her words swirled at the back of his mind, there where remembrance of that first kiss still lingered. There had been others, such as while they coupled, that perhaps rivaled it, but even with memory so fresh, he was quite sure it would never truly be bested. Where there had been embers formed that morning in the baths, his lust for her the thick smoke of a fire that had yet truly begun to blaze, smoldering, that first kiss had been the catalyst for what had sparked in him now, for the flames that burned away all the dead wood of seasons past, allowing space for new growth once the ashes had finally cooled. For now that inferno still roared in his gut and shone in his eyes, though, as the big man stood towering above her from where she lingered at his middle.

She’d sung praises to him and his prick, offered him protection from what tongues might hurl insult at him. Silly girl… still too young and inexperienced. She thinks she needs to care deeply for every man she lets lay between her thighs, lest she be branded a whore. Surely she doesn’t mean it…so much wine, the ghost of her maidenhead passing still a vivid memory… she’s lust drunk. That sharpness of tongue and glower of eye will return as the sun rises, surely…

Right?

It seemed prophetic, for how could one such as she think of him as anything other than dirt beneath her heel? She has all that she could want and then some, hells, her husband is apparently content to allow her to wander where her passion takes her… an odd thought, that Marcus would be so inclined. The man was stoic to a fault, and had always been more ‘suffer in silence’ than ‘rejoice in revelry’. It wasn’t merely the influence of wine, couldn’t be, there was something deeper at play here. Tiberius knew firsthand how bewitching her cunt was, but surely even that force was not powerful enough to move the mountain that was Marcus.

On the other hand, perhaps it was, for had not but a single kiss moved him? Laughable, really… he’d plundered a King’s bounty worth of backsides and half again as many cunts, and it was down to a simple kiss from this spoiled brat that had finally brought him to heel. Sure, they were nice lips… plump and tender… his mind fumbled then as he sought to downplay them, to call them ordinary enough, for it was difficult to discount them when he could feel just what they were capable of as they played along his flesh.

A whisper, breathless, at the back of his mind. More than just a kiss… she looked on you with the very same eyes she had for Marcus…

She had. She had bid him fall…and she had caught him.

His own voice now, disembodied. Silly cub… why did you have to go and kiss me like that?

A rhetorical question, one that he would never ask aloud, for often the questioning of one’s good fortune would lead to the ruination of it. He was reaping far more than he’d sown, perhaps owed more to an arrow from Eros’ bow than the skill of his powers of seduction, but either way, it was time to sit down and enjoy the eating of his harvest's bounty.

“Mistress of cocksuckers, eh?” A playful chuckle, booming, colored with the heat that roiled off the blaze of his fiery libido. He jerked his hips back, then, enough that the head of his cock was pulled from between her lips with a wet pop, abutting against that plump bottom, sliding, first off to the left, pulled back, centered, pressed once more before sliding off teasingly to the right, a wet trail left in its wake, as much of her as it was of him. “Perhaps your husband would agree to that claim, but thus far you’ve still got a ways to go before you manage to convince me you’re worthy of it…”

“Although… you’ll have to teach me that trick later, the one with the sword swallowing.”

An impish wink from gleaming eye even as a mighty paw clamped down at the back of her skull, bare as it was, smooth, silken, darkly earthen flesh against the callousness of a battle-tested man’s grip, strong, forceful, commanding, just as it had been as they tussled that morning amongst the tendrils of steam in the waters of the bath. Tiberius’ mood turned somewhat serious then, even as it still bore along the edges something of his customary mirth.

“I warned you about a sore-jaw, cub…you got yours, now I want mine.”

 

[Talon]

Her stolen subligaculum, now once more the property of its rightful owner by an act of clever counter-theft. He was being purposefully obtuse in front of a mixed audience, and perhaps in her drunken and lust riddled state his meaning would pass beyond her ken, but the message conveyed was clear to him; he hadn’t forgotten, a soiled up pair of underpants was no prize in comparison to what had been lost, and given the opportunity, he fully intended to take the difference in value by way of the foretold method of repayment.

The hand at the back of her skull held fast, a bulwark against the thrusting of hips, slight, more a nudge forward than his motions had been between her thighs when he sought to bury his prick in her hole there, but this was an easier target, more malleable, more accommodating, even so he still felt teeth lightly scraping past flesh in testament to the challenge of his girth, forcing her jaw open wider, flexing her lips outward as enough of his prick had passed through the portal between them to fill her oral cavity fully from front to back, giving her as much as she had taken previously by her own efforts. And it was much, to be fair, but comparatively little to what remained of the whole, a third, perhaps a little more, perhaps much less, warmed itself in the humid conditions within her mouth, cushioning itself atop her tongue, the head brushing against the back of her palette as if knocking at the door, content for the moment to merely assess her limit.

Another nudge with his hips, the head pressing against the farthest point back before it would need to bend in order to be taken down into her throat proper, fingers pressing into the skin at the back of her head as he applied suggestive pressure there to signify he expected her to take him deeper. A retch, then, as he delved too deep and triggered her gag reflex, a pull back to allow the intake of breath, at least as much she could given the obstruction of his prick, a breath, a heartbeat, and then his cock was prodding again, hips pushing, his testicles swinging pendulously between his thighs, still a far cry from colliding with her chin, the shaft of his prick bowing slightly under pressure, not as firm as Marcus’, whose was like a length of rigid steel, there was a give to it, perhaps a byproduct of it’s massive size.

He held her there, a pregnant pause as the only sounds upon the air were of Gaia’s unintelligible gurglings, the hallmarks of someone being made to take oral rather than merely give it, Tiberius’ hips bucking a few times, packing as much of his cock into her mouth as his efforts and her limits would allow, seeking to leave not even a fingertip’s worth outside if it could possibly be made to fit. His free hand moved to join its twin then, gripping where the base of her skull met spine at the back of neck, his hips gyrating as they gradually applied more force, like a pressing hand trying to seat a cork into the mouth of a stubbornly tight bottle. She could surely feel a jolt from his prick pass through lips and over tongue, his anus clenching, firing that muscle that traveled along the pelvic floor as the cheeks of his muscular backside flexed, all parts of his body working in tandem towards the performance of this one singular task.

“Ahhhh…fuck!” A roar as Tiberius’ head was thrown back, the bark of some great beast, the muscles of his upper body just as engaged as his lower, pectorals firing, biceps straining, his core tightening beneath the soft layer of cushion at his middle, fingertips pressing into the back of her head and neck, fingernails shorn mercifully close to the quick so as to not be felt biting into her there, the strength of his grip enough already to lack comfort.

A sudden whoosh, then, as simultaneously his hands relented their irresistible pressure and his hips pulled back, air rushing in to fill a vacuum, Tiberius’ cock resting just upon her lips a moment, agleam with fresh saliva, viscous, that which could only be sourced from deep in throat, strings of it connecting those plump lips to their invader as it parted from them, only to be swiftly snapped as the hand that had held fast to her neck now gripped his cock by the base and swung it about, a truncheon, slapping playfully against her cheeks, the head swirled about the outside ring of her lips, across the top just under her nose, leaving a mess of wetness behind as it passed, an artist’s brush upon the canvas of her visage, ruined, but artfully, beautifully.

“Fuck!” Another bark to no one in particular, a joyful exclamation. “Mistress of Cocksuckers, indeed!” An incredulous laugh then, something of a playful chuckle, even as he continued to manipulate his cock to drag the head of it across her chin, tracing its outline, his laughter morphing into a contented hum as he worked, his head canting to the side as he looked down at her to meet her gaze. “I haven’t had my cock sucked like that in a dog’s age…” Up from her chin, the head of his cock was made then to smack lightly against her lips. “Your throat is almost as tight as your cunt. Speaking of, I can see drool forming at the corner of your husband’s mouth even from here…what say you let him have a taste while we find out just how deep your throat goes, hmm?”

Tiberius’ head turned towards Marcus, a questioning eyebrow quirked, a challenge of a smirk on his lips. “...that is, if he is not too frightened that he might taste something of me while he is down there…”



Marcus cleared his throat, stirred from his lustful daze by the attention of the man to whom Gaia’s dildo was attached, his battle brother. The sight of her taking on the challenge of it had been as mesmerizing as the thought of it promised, and so great was the distraction of his voyeuristic pleasure, it took him a healthy moment to register the words Tiberius had spoken before he was able to offer a response. “I would ask the same of you, brother, but I think all three of us already know the answer you’d give.”



Tiberius’ smirk deepened into a grin. “Damn right you do…”



Marcus sighed, more to maintain the facade of his tiredness with Tiberius’ inappropriateness than any true expression of his mood, for although he had not been drooling literally, the thought of tasting her womanhood had brought along with it a fresh sense of wetness to his tongue. As if stricken by the thought, Marcus stood with a frustrated frown, as if presented with a confounding puzzle he had no solution to.



Tiberius’ grin widened as he looked back down at Gaia, tapping the underside of his prick against the tip of her nose as he spoke. If he had to lead Marcus along by the nose in order to see this thing through, then so be it. “Come, oh wise and powerful Queen of Cocks…surely you must have some idea how best your husband’s mouth can please you… me? I’d love to see what that rump of yours looks like when sat upon his face.” His hips pulled back a bit then, once more offering the head of his cock to her by placing it upon her lips, the hand at the crown of her head still lingering there possessively.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

A muffled giggle - caught somewhere between girlish and a snort, at Marcus’s awkward praise. It still warmed her heart all the same, and so, when she pulled her face away from his cock, it was with a wide, appreciative smile as she looked directly into his eyes. The fact that her mouth was fairly glittering with spit, her slick fingers moving to give his cock full attention now that her lips were away, didn’t lessen the expression. Wine had added an extra shine to her eyes, true, but it had also knocked down that wall of hers that kept her self-conscious, that kept her hesitating and doubting her true feelings. Now, lost in the depths of her cups and overflowing from the pit of her soul, she felt that everything in these moments was nothing less than the Elysian Fields tangibly within her small hands. To see Marcus like this, though his language was still stilted, was a treasure - the flush of his cheeks, the knitting of that stoic brow, the lust and desire and humanity of him shifting from one expression to another, and to think, she was responsible for it, this kaleidoscope of openness. If she could capture those expressions, be it in glass, clay, or paint, and keep it close to her at all times, she felt that it would be enough to get her through the most miserable of times.

Warmth - something that she felt she’d been missing in her life; that marriage meant the absence of this. This feeling that bubbled over, poured into her and outside of her, that she could fairly see being lavished on Marcus and Tiberius, regardless if her mouth and tongue were caressing their cocks or her hands. Was her message getting through to them? Did it feel as worshipful to them as it did to her? From the way that she let Marcus’s cock slip from her lips, graze against her cheeks as she closed her eyes, content just to feel the rigidness of him, so different from her own sex, to marvel at him as a miracle of flesh as she’d wanted to that first night of their coupling. To admire a body that was so differently built from hers, but completed it so perfectly, not just from the contrasting of their skin, or the way that his sex had carved its own path into her own, but thinking of how their bodies simply drew one another near, like the moon following the sun in its path across the sky.

A press of the tip of her nose to the tip of his cock. A gentle kiss to follow it, trailing lavishly down the sides, tongue flickering out to dance across the top of his sack, through the tangle of dark hair, kisses that would vary in their depths, some as faint as a moth’s wings, others deeper, leaving her suckling on the skin. A dip of her head there as she came back to the bell shaped head, balancing it, comically, playfully, on the tip of her chin before taking him in again in a lascivious kiss, dark eyes darting up to him with a whiff of the devil in them.

This truly is splendid, a breathless sigh of a thought in her head, feeling as sated as if she’d just completed her favorite meal. It wasn’t the act itself (though she was rapidly learning to enjoy it - and, worse, beginning to understand a bit more of those household whispers that were never meant for her ears, of such high moral standing, of course), but it was who it was with - something that she knew she couldn’t express, not in words. Why, and open herself to ruthless mockery, to be thought of a simpleton, little more than a slip of a silly girl? It had pained her before to think of Marcus’s first wife, to be constantly in the shadow of a ghost, and perhaps it would pain her more once the wine had faded away, leaving behind memories and a vague sense of shame. Now, though? There was just her, and him, and Tiberius -

How could she have forgotten that great man?

Sure, he was rough around the edges, and crude, and all of the foul things she had been warned away from, had offended her sensibilities. Perhaps he saw her as nothing more an exotic conquest - not just for the richness of her skin, but for her new station - his new ‘sister’, as he’d called her. ‘Sister’ certainly not in the way she was used to it (the thought of such carnal closeness, or even a whisper of it, was enough to make her want to vomit. Lucius was many things to her, this was true, but the object of some unknown sexual desire - the stars would sooner fall into the ocean), but in a way that invoked…something foul. Marcus had looked upon her with desire, this was true, but in a cradling way, careful not to startle a sparrow in the hand. This man, this Tiberius, openly looked at her as if she wore nothing.

Which, to be fair, when they first met, she didn’t have on a stitch. But even then, he seemed to be looking past sheer nudity. If it had only been that, perhaps she wouldn’t have been so open to what she was doing now, scooting closer to him, closer to that massive member of his that had been so mind-boggling before. It was of great curiosity, interest, even, just in how different it was from that of her husband’s, but beneath the thick syrup of sexual interest, there was childish curiosity - how could he manage with such a large thing between his legs? Did he ever accidentally sit on it? Could he wrap it around his thigh?

The sudden, unbidden image of Tiberius wrapping his cock around his waist like a belt and posing this way and that with it like it was the latest fashion was too much for her - and she snorted, even with a face-full of that very same cock, her attempts to pleasure it disrupted by the laughter that suddenly spilled from her, and she had to rock back on her heels, laughter turning raucous as crow cries as she tried to gather herself back together. The wine had made it that much easier for her to laugh - something she was known to do quite a bit as a child, but had been scolded for severely after her first woman’s cycle. Unladylike and crass, she knew, but damn it all now, it didn’t matter.

Catching her breath in great gasps, she would continue, clumsily, to work both of their cocks in her hands, Marcus with her left now, Tiberius with her predominant right hand as she was turning to take him into her mouth, but laughter would crimp the corners of her mouth again, and she’d lower her head, giggling to herself, the deep belly laughs tapering off into a surprisingly coquettish sweetness, one more befitting of her station, but still, beneath its lightness was the seed of that deep laugh. “Oh, Venus,” she managed to breathe out, looking at Tiberius, then over her shoulder at Marcus, her smile beaming bright without a hint of maliciousness or lewd joking, “I never thought in my life that I’d have such an experience, or even want one!” Well, that certainly was more about herself than she typically offered - it went without saying that a woman of her standing was to look at sex as a transaction with her husband, something to promise heirs and to be endured, and, if she was of ‘that’ nature, perhaps she’d find pleasure with a willing slave, or, even worse, would have sexual partners picked out specifically for what they could grant her - power, more often than not. That was Cassia’s way - at least it was with her husband. For Gaia, sex wasn’t something that even occurred to her, so remote was what could be called a ‘sex drive.’ She simply hadn’t felt desire before, and, wanting so desperately to earn her parents approval, it seemed that her utter ignorance of it was the one bright spot in her relationship with them as she grew older. “This is truly from the gods - and they’ve blessed me to share it with my beloved husband,” a look to Marcus, brimming with fondness, “And his battle brother, to whom I hold in great affection,” a nuzzle to that pendulous cock of Tiberius then, as she shifted further to face him, holding his pale blue eyes with hers. There was an openness there, a pure confidence in that she would continue to catch him, should he continue to grace her with his fall.

What was it about him?

Was it that he’d shown her kindness, or that his large size suggested some wild creature, like a bear, that she’d always wanted to hold, if not tame? She couldn’t figure it out, and clearly was in no state of mind to do so.

Her own taste on him was acrid, but familiar - a troublesome thing to continue to lick away, like the bitterness of a fruit on the cusp of ripeness. Beneath her was him - not just his member, but him, the man that she longed to pick up and cuddle close to her heart, like Juno when she discovered the dampened Jupiter in the guise of a bird caught in a storm. Maybe that could have been it - Tiberius was close to Marcus, his battle brother, responsible for his life, and therefore ensuring that Marcus had made it to this moment - so it would be only natural to instantly fall for him. His love had presented her with her love, and it was only fair that she returned it, that she would cherish him all the same. And though his words were coarse, and though, somewhere, she knew that she looked ridiculous with her cheeks and mouth puffed full of his cock, she held his gaze all the same, smiling tenderly up at him when she had to withdraw to catch her breath, a secret passed between the two of them. “Good cock,” she’d simply quipped back, her nose wrinkled impishly, the looming threat of that gut laugh hovering near. “But better man,” she placed her right hand against the swell of muscle of his thigh. His skin was deceptively soft, a counterpoint to the thick steel that lay beneath it. His musculature was something too, to be lost in.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“It would be nice to touch you all over,” she mused aloud, more to herself than to anyone - though wine plays tricks with the ears as well as the mind, for as quiet as she thought it was, she might’ve well have shouted it. “Touch both of you all over, laying there…” her eyes grew a bit distant as her mind began to turn over the possibilities - to see all of the differences, the marks, the hair, the smell -


She was brought back to the moment by Tiberius’s words, and she snorted, taking on mocking, imperious tones, “If the Queen deems you worthy of learning how she governs, maybe she’ll take mercy on you,” she managed, though it was clear she was struggling to keep a straight face through it all. A smile that quickly fell - a slip of fear as his hand came round to the back of her head. In that moment, his largeness ceased to be a novelty and presented itself as a very real threat. No one had touched her like this before - and without the thickness of her hair, she felt very vulnerable indeed. Eyes darted quickly to Marcus, seeking his approval, then back to Tiberius, unashamed of the fear there, but also…was that curiosity? What was it that he was threatening her with, enough so that he felt he needed to hold her in place?


The smallest of tremors, one he could surely feel as she somehow found courage and steeled herself, looking up at Tiberius with the bravery of any centurion, and yet, an outpouring of trust. He wouldn’t hurt her. It wasn’t that he couldn’t - he could’ve ended her life in the bath - but he wouldn’t. His strength, his largeness now, was on display for him to take what he wanted. And…oh.


He wanted her.

The realization was plunging into a cold pool, the shock of the ice water quickly followed by heat. Her cunt fairly clenched in on itself, the muscles spasming so tightly that she knew she was bleeding arousal down her thighs, thick and slow as honey. There was no time to truly contemplate why her body had reacted - he was forcing himself in her mouth, and she was suffocating, just for a moment, before her jaw widened as far as it possibly could, as she braced herself against his thighs for equal leverage, to find some easy rhythm between these dueling parties to prove that she was willing to work with him, but not just that, best him, that little hint of the devil again. Clumsily, though - the deep, almost comical sounds, thick glucks glucks as she struggled to swallow him, to swallow and breathe through her nose, him testing to the limits skills she’d only recently learned and her, doing her damndest to keep up, to prove that she was still a worthy and apt pupil, though once or twice, she felt on the edge of losing her dinner, and would, in the universal language of calling quits, tap his massive thighs once, twice - not giving up, but a signal to allow her more time to get adjusted to him, to allow her to suck in more air -


Though, to be honest to herself, she was, more and more, holding her breath in her eagerness to accommodate him, not just to swallow him all, to take that pliant cock down her throat, but to bring her tongue and lips in on the action, fluttering the former against him where she could, using the latter to form a tight seal that would audibly suck in air if allowed - oh, gods, she was so hot, he was using her so debased, like a common whore, and he had the strength and the power to force her to his will, and he was going to simply take his pleasure from her mouth regardless if she wanted it or not -


Black spots began to flicker in the corners of her vision, suddenly vanishing as he pulled his cock out of her mouth with a pop so loud it was almost like a slap. She staggered back, not out of fear, but from her oxygen deprived body doing the best that it could to suck air back - then the almost lovingly smearing of her spit across her face, Tiberius looking down at her, and her looking back up at him, trying to figure out the swirl of emotions that had suddenly taken place. Tiberius had treated her like…a misbehaving whore. And look at him now, rubbing his cock against her face, smearing her own spit and tears and ruined kohl across cheeks, her lips, and she could do little more but to kiss where she could, as tender as ever, smiling as he rested the head against her lower lip, her poking out that lip a bit more in a playful pout. Would there be time to explore what that feeling had been?


One moment she was sucking him, taking him as much as she could, the lack of air making her head dizzy, and then, she was on the edge of that cliff, a blink and she would’ve missed it moment. How had that happened? She was merely sucking on his cock, not having her own sex licked or fiddled with. “I almost came!” she said, quite taken aback as she looked up at Tiberius. What on earth was that?! Sure enough, her body was aching, every nerve alive as she’d been so close. She leaned back, parted her thighs brazenly. “Look!” She pointed to herself, like she was showing them a strange new plant. The lips of her sex were flushed and plump, swollen with desire - and completely coated in new arousal, thick and clear, matting down her pubic hair in ornate loops of black against the brown satin of her thighs.


Her words tumbled over Tiberius’s, and she blinked up at him, squinting a bit, as if clearing wool from her ears to better hear. Once realization kicked in, she staggered to her feet - shaking knees betraying her, and she fell down (though, thankfully, not very far), heavily on that rear of hers. Blinking, completely shocked by her body’s inability to manage such a simple task, she coughed out a laugh, then, imperiously, held out her hand, tilting her nose in the air. “I’m glad you’ve come to recognize my regality,” mocking imperious tones there, clearly not her own, and made all the more ridiculous by her current predicament: stark naked, legs splayed wide, and hardly able to stand, “I am indeed the Queen of Cocks and Mistress of Cocksuckers! And my throat goes all the way to my ass, I’ll have you know - now, help your Queen to her feet. If I still have them.”


With Tiberius’s help, she was brought to her feet, stumbling, falling into him - his large chest providing the perfect place to stop. She simply laid against him, her full body weight pressing into him: both out of necessity, as she was rapidly trying to get the world to stop from spinning, and out of childishness: how hard could she lean before he was knocked over? And oh, he was still so warm -


Curling her fingers against her chest, she gently laid her forehead between the great pectorals, listened for the pulse of his heart. Took in a deep breath, and as suddenly as she’d steadied herself against him, she actually gave him a hug. Well, as best as she could - her arms could scarcely encircle his body. Standing on her tiptoes now, a slight bounce here and there, as if she could close the distance between them, she asked, without a sound, for him to kiss her. To release the brat, for a moment, to go back to her indulgent husband.


With her kiss granted, she turned, unsteadily, but struggling to maintain some composure, to face Marcus. “My love,” she all but purred, feeling a flicker of that beast again - could she command him as Tiberius had silently commanded her? Could she simply order Marcus on the floor, to do her bidding? A fun thought, one that twisted her mouth, not unkindly, but perhaps now wasn’t the time. Something to be discussed between the two of them, perhaps -


“But I don’t want his mouth,” she sniffed, looking over her shoulder at Tiberius, “I want all of him,” it was added with no small amount of heat. “You once said that you had a part of yourself that I, the she-wolf, could easily devour….Could I have him now?” The last bit added sugar sweet, a hint of the brat still there. Asking him, nicely as she could, to take his cock inside of her body, where she was veritably burning, needing the feel of him, more than his tongue, to continue to push her further. As she stepped forward, she wrapped her arms around his neck, still uneasy on her feet, knocking him over a bit, as her lips found his and pressed softly, startling gentleness, a far contrast from the heat from before. “Please take me,” sighed against his ear, meant for their own world, “Take me, breed me, my dear husband…Love me. It doesn’t matter where, could be on this floor, on my dress….just join us, before I die of this heat.”

 

[Talon]

Tiberius’ left eyebrow contorted atop his thick brow as its twin furrowed, an amusedly quizzical look as he gazed down at where she had landed on her rump on the floor from his towering height above her. “‘All the way to your ass’, then?” Quirked brow straightened as his lips broke into a warm grin. “... If I didn’t rightly know better, I’d think you and I were separated at birth given that tongue of yours…” Not a critique or admonishment of her ribald manner of speaking, not at all, if anything it sounded like praise coming from her giant lover.

Tiberius had pulled her to her feet then with something of a sharp tug of her arm, not roughly so as to risk jerking her shoulder out of its socket, but playfully, as if he were the elder brother pulling his younger sibling to their feet just a little too forcefully. She could surely hear and feel the rumble in his chest as she pressed her face there, something of a mirthful hum as he pressed his own lips to the crown of her head in a quick peck of kiss, his arms wrapping around her, the thick lumps at the head of his biceps pressing into the caps of her shoulders as his forearms crossed somewhere behind and beneath her shoulder blades, enveloping her in the shadow of the mountainous man. It seemed she found comfort there as she lingered a moment, a feeling he obviously shared, for he made no move to hasten her departure or widen the distance between them, if anything it was him that kept her there a moment longer than she intended, the force of his own hug inhibiting the performance of hers, but it was only a moment, and within the span of a few beats of his thundering heart he was pressing another impish kiss to the top of her head and lessening the clinch he held her in as he pulled back from her just the slightest bit, a grin that touched his eyes splitting the lower half of his face.



From Marcus’ perspective he watched then as his wife pressed herself against her lover, the body from whom her living dildo sprung forth. Wish as he might, he could not deny that there was something more that was shared between them than merely lust. He had known Tiberius almost as long as she had been alive, surely, and yet he did not know him as intimately as she now did. While he wasn’t as seasoned as Tiberius in the realm of meaningless sexual trysts, not nearly, he was no stranger to them. No matter how well a prostitute sucked your prick, or how well you paid her in turn, rarely was there an occasion where you embraced afterwards to whisper sweet nothings in each other’s ear.

Even as his prick throbbed, as he watched Gaia with hungry eyes that spoke to his deeply held desire, still he remained standing there, hands clenched by his side.

Act, Marcus! Do something…prove to her your willingness to share, not that you intend to give her over to him wholly! He might have caught her eye with that monstrous prick of his, but he does not know her body as you do…

Marcus’ brow furrowed as he watched her rise up on her toes to beckon a kiss from her bodily much larger lover.

Act, Marcus!

Marcus!



“Marcus!”

Thwack!

Marcus sucked air between his teeth as his struck left hand recoiled in pain before it was enveloped protectively by his right and clutched to his breast. That one will leave a welt for sure, he thought, … he hit more flesh than knuckle. Perhaps if it turns purple enough Mother will finally take pity and send this old fool back to Athens where he belongs…

Thessalus, his aged tutor, striker of young boy’s hands, whipped the offending instrument through the air demonstratively before his young charge. It was a thin rod of pale wood, meant to serve primarily as a means to direct attention, but young Marcus found it struck flesh as well or better than it drew eye, never mind that the old man wielded it like a soldier did his blade.

“Take heed, young Dominus, there will be time for daydreaming once your lesson for the day is complete.”

Thessalus was a Greek, a devotee of the Aristotelian school of philosophy and stylized in his image. A man surely well beyond the prime of life, weathered, gray of hair at his head, where it grew only along the sides and back in the shape of a horseshoe, the top barren and gleaming in the midday sun. His beard was a stark white, trimmed well but kept long, and he was dressed in a classic Greek fashion, a length of fine cloth wrapped around his middle with the end pulled over his left shoulder. He was an overly serious man in manner, as if seeking to give a lesson or impart a parable with the exiting of every breath.

Marcus rubbed the back of his hand as he favored the older man with hard set eyes. He was a man, or almost a man, at fourteen summers. His mother had instructed their grooming slave to remove a seedling of hair from his chin just last week. Hardly a child, to be rapped across the knuckles. “...I’ve forgotten the question, teacher…” Marcus intoned, perhaps more sheepishly than he would have liked.

A sigh from Thessalus as the pointing end of his rod stabbed at the dirt between them from where they sat upon two hewn sections of log. There was a demonstrative scratched out there in the earth, battle lines, one side’s formations consisting of rectangles and the other triangles. There were lines of movement with arrows at their ends to signify direction, the recreation of a famous battle, maybe the most famous battle.

The Battle of Issus, Alexander’s first great victory against the Persians.

“You are Darius the third…great Persian God King, the King of Kings. The barbarian King of Macedonia, this whelp who dared invade your realm, has against all odds broken through your lines and slaughtered your retinue of royal guard…” The stick drug across the dirt, from where Alexander and his Companions had formed up, across the Persian lines, through the rectangle that sat before the star that was at the rear-center of the formation. “...you have naught but a handful of guards directly around your person standing between him, his Companions and you. He leads the charge from the front, rallying his man with his bravado, to dare move directly against you, a God…his spear, destined for your breast, gleams in the morning sun…what do you do?”

Marcus frowned thoughtfully, remembering well the lesson of this particular battle. “Darius turned and fled like a coward…”

Thessalus frowned in turn, his a register of his disappointment. “Very good, Dominus…” His tone was thick with mocking sarcasm. “...only I asked not of what he did in truth, but of what you would do in theory, if it were you in his place.”

Marcus’ eyes moved from the shapes in the dirt to scan the features of the older man’s visage, as if expecting further instruction to be forthcoming. Finding nothing but hardened stone, Marcus’ focus shifted back to the lines in the dirt, pointing to the right flank of the Persian side. “I am winning here…”. Then to the middle. “...and holding here…”

Thessalus shook his head as he chided his charge. “This is not a lesson in battlefield tactics, young Dominus. You have no time to account for the state of your men, Alexander is atop horse and at the charge, a scant fifty meters to your front and closing fast. What remains of your personal guard are looking to you for orders…”

Marcus frowned once more, his brow furrowing in contemplation, studying the scrawlings in the dirt as if he expected to find the answer spelled out there amongst the shapes. He pointed to a rectangle off to the left of Darius’ position. “What of the reserves, here? Could they not shift their formation…”

Thessalus’ tone heightened and the pace of his words quickened, the message imparted with a cadence of time induced urgency. “Could they, now? Twenty five meters… Do you send a messenger to your reserves, then? Twenty…and what of your chariot? It will take some measure of time to turn around, should you decide your honor is not worth your life. Fifteen…”

Marcus growled in frustration, shooting up from his seat impertinently, a sandaled foot scuffing away the rearmost section of the Macedonian battle lines. “Permit me the answering of a single question, at least! What sort of test is this, that it’s taker is badgered into giving it’s answer?”

Thessalus sighed, himself standing but with more measure, still taller than the soon to be man who had yet to undergo his final growth spurt. “That is the point entirely, young Dominus. Darius the Third was not permitted a question, nor would he be given the answer even if he had.” The tip of Thessalus’ rod scraped harshly at the earth then, drawing a line from the shape that represented Alexander and his Companions straight through the star that signified Darius, bisecting it. Point made, the old man straightened once more, his rodless hand stroking the long whiskers that sprouted from his chin thoughtfully as he considered his charge with a discerning gaze. The coloring of sarcasm was gone from his voice, now, tempered by the measured tone of timeless wisdom he assumed when imparting his true lessons. “There are times where one must take measure and times where one must take action. In the case of the latter, inaction is a choice unto itself. Your enemies will seek to catch you off guard; do not permit them to easily find you so. Train your thoughts to flow freely in times of duress, for there is something of a muscle there…” He tapped the side of his head demonstratively with a gnarled finger. “...much like those that strengthen the swing of your sword. Hesitate, and it will mean the blow from the barbarian’s spear will score a hit squarely on your breast.”

 

[Talon]

Marcus grunted lowly as his head lowered begrudgingly, eyes cast once more to the dirt at their feet, drawn to that star at the rear of the Persian lines, grumbling beneath his breath. “...I still wouldn’t turn tail and run…a true Roman would rather die in defeat than live in dishonor.”

Thessalus scoffed, moving to take seat once more upon his stump with all the grace of a wizened old man. “I’m quite sure ‘true Persians’ would say much the same thing… young men of every color, creed and nation can often be counted on to so lightly court death. Speak to me again when you’ve something to lose beyond your honor, young Dominus. We’ll see how readily you leap to meet the spear, then.” He let the implication hang heavily in the air as his young, headstrong charge bent to redraw the lines his earlier display of petulance had seen erased.



It took no more than a suggestive look from her to draw Tiberius in for a kiss, his neck bending forward, his face lowering as hers rose up to meet him. It was brief, but deep, familiar, not as hungry as those first few had been perhaps, but neither as shallow as the peck of a passing friend or family member. She could see the effect of the evening's activities worn plainly on his features; that mess of blonde hair atop his head that haphazardly curled at the ends, not in the way that hers did innately, tightly, but owing more to the fine softness of his hair, that strands would come together, clinging to each other in sweat dampened wetness, and strike out in what gave the appearance of a disorderly grouping of spikes, something like thorns along the stem of a rose. His rough nose, not as sharp as her husband’s, not as wide perhaps as her father’s, but maybe somewhere in between each, not large enough to dominate his face, but solid enough to look well at home on his craggy visage. A thick brow harkening to his people’s roots, at their earliest dwelling in the caves of the frozen north, eeking out an existence from a harsh land that at every turn sought your demise, that tested its people, never providing enough for the whole of them, that every meal came at the expense of another, be they man or beast. Eyes a timeless window into that rugged terrain, hauntingly pale, the very color of cold, a shade that evoked a chill in the observer, so light they bordered on white just before they turned black at the center. Dark, stubbly growth along cheeks that seemed neither gaunt nor plump, just as his cheekbones sat neither particularly high nor pronounced, lines etched into his cheek where his smile often creased them, lines that ran down to his squared jaw and framed his sturdy chin.

Two very different men, her husband and her lover. Marcus stern and serious, but handsome, in his way, perhaps even dashing in his prime, which was not so far off that it was easily forgotten. Tiberius intimidatingly large and fierce, but with a playfulness there just beneath the surface, he might not be what most women considered handsome, not classically so, but there was something about him, about the way that he spoke and carried himself, that gave the impression he wouldn’t let that stop him.

They shared as much with their eyes as they did with their lips, Tiberius’ visage holding something of an eager look, as if he encouraged her active role and wished to see what exactly she had in mind for her next move. There was something of reluctance in the way his fingers brushed against her flesh as she turned and moved away, though, but not so much that he held her or impeded her movement. He stood, turning his head to look over her left shoulder, and watched as she made to move for Marcus.



Marcus was stirred from the fog of recollection by her, his wife, as she turned towards him…her movements the flow of shallow water through a gently burbling creek, fluid and graceful, naturally imbued as she was with something of a dancer’s trained grace, as if she moved to the melody of a tune heard only by her ears, her arms wrapping about the tops of his shoulders as they encircled around his neck, her face, still gleaming from where Tiberius’ prick had scrawled out it’s sordid graffiti. Perhaps it was no longer hesitation that slowed his thoughts, but instead bewilderment, that even so, as …

A chortle, then, as she stumbled and careened into his chest. She was slight but still sturdy for one her size, no mere feather to be brushed aside if she did not wish to be so, but her added weight would not normally be burdensome had he been not so easily lost in the admiration of her features. The quick shuffling of feet, his and hers, before balance was regained, no great task for so practiced a swordsman, even deep in his cups as he was. Perhaps he could not move to the music as she had that morning of their wedding, nor did his walk display a sensuous sway of his hips as hers did, but on the battlefield often to lose one’s balance meant to lose one’s life. The stakes were not so high here, and yet, he found it comforting that he was able to brace her fall. She might be fierce, and capable enough in her own right, he had seen a sliver of such, even if he knew nothing of the whole, but still he wanted her to know that while in his shadow she should have cause to feel no fear.

His arms wrapped about her middle, beneath her own, around the outward swell of her hips, the insides of his forearms resting in that nook there where her waist drew in, where it curved outward both above and beneath, the soft bulge of her lower belly pressed into the hardened area just above his groin, his hands resting at the counterpoint of that bulge, there where her lower back curved inward above her buttocks. He was gentle, his touch, questing fingertips that brushed soft, blemishless skin, that sensually stroked down the shallow groove at the center of her back that marked her spine, stopping where the entrance into the valley below that ran the length of her backside and split it down the middle. She pulled him down just so, just enough that she might whisper in his ear.

“Take me, breed me, my dear husband…Love me.”

More had followed, sweet where he might have otherwise expected filth given the mood, but it was that first bit that lingered on in his ears. He pulled back from her, just enough that his gaze could meet hers, his own smoldering, searching hers, brown irises darkest at the center, brightening to near hazel around the outer edges, shifting back and forth as his focus moved from her right eye to her left and back again. Her own were dark pools capable of drowning in, a fear he had apparently overcome, for the hesitation which had stifled his action just moments prior was banished now, his moment of pause borne of appreciation more than indecisiveness. Marcus pressed his forehead to hers then, the sharpness of his nose set against the width of hers, his voice coming in a hushed whisper that mirrored her intimate tone.

“Gaia, my wife…my love…”

Marcus could feel the spongy nubs of her teats against his chest, her breasts pressed between them, compressed by their closeness, their firm flesh made to spill over at her sides by the force of his hands pulling her body against his. She could surely feel him too, in particular that part of him that was primed to carry out her directive, pressed along the right side of her pelvis, hardened, as rigid as steel and warm to the touch, as defiantly stubborn as the firmness of her breasts to the prospect of being restrained so, throbbing, pulsating, alive.

Breed me…

Silly, that so simple and base a command could move him so. But it did. It thundered inside his skull, pulsating, the hair at the back of his neck and down his arms standing on end, nostrils flaring, a warm flush spreading from the center of his chest outwards, radiating throughout his limbs. It was as if his senses had been heightened, for every where they touched his flesh warmed, he could smell her, her sweat, clean, her arousal, distinct and earthy, and even her breath, the air expelled from her lips carrying upon it the scent of fermented grape, that substance which had led them down this path, that had brought the three of them together here this evening, that they would be sharing freely of each other’s pleasure.

Marcus was not sure he had ever been more aroused in his life. Perhaps that first time, when he had awoken to see her sat beside him in that diaphanous yellow nightgown, the sight of her body through the sheer fabric, of nipples the color of a moonless sky…

He pulled her into him, offering no further answer or statement, for surely his lips spoke to his thoughts and feelings better than any words could hope to. They pressed against hers with a ferocity, a hunger, as his head canted to the side just so, allowing him to deepen the kiss. His tongue sought hers, wrapping about it, swirling around in her mouth, seeking nothing more than to be knotted with hers, so tight that no manner of pulling would ever free them from each other. He was pushing her, the influence of the weight of his body against hers, slowly, so that she might not stumble, but with enough force that she would need to brace herself if she wished to resist his movement.

 

[Talon]

Or perhaps it had been there in the carpentum, when he had awoken to discover it was not a pillow upon which he’d laid his head, but her breast, two breasts, to be exact, a pair sure to be the envy of every woman and girl in Rome, peerless in his estimation given their perfect combination of both shape and size. It was the first time he had seen them bare, when she had so helpfully pulled down her stolla to free them from the confines of her strophium, big, round, perky half-orbs that sat stubbornly high on her chest despite the removal of their supportive undergarment, that only gave the slightest of wobbles in response to the jostling rhythm of the carpentum’s movement. Crowned by dark nubs, dainty, particularly when compared to the bounty of flesh they sat upon…

He was moving then, leaning back away from her wordlessly, his left arm at her left shoulder, pulling her, steering, guiding as he twisted her around before him. There was strength in his grip, not harsh, as if he were angry, but as if he acted with urgency, with intent to satisfy an urgent need. Her back to him, his left hand still at her shoulder, his right joined in the effort, sliding down her hip to grip the front of her right thigh. She could feel him, his manhood, pressing into the small of her back, not the slightly spongy give of the flesh around the head, but the rigid hardness of lower along the shaft, down near the root, there where the patch of soft hair sprung up around it. It was incidental, the contact, owing more to the closeness of their bodies than an effort made by him to penetrate. Still, it felt good to him, for any part of her to touch him there, particularly when the rest of them were otherwise preoccupied with the repositioning of her body.

Maybe it was when she’d propositioned him to take her back passage, to deflower her for the second time. When she had bent over before him and reached back to spread herself open…even the memory was enough to rob him of all of his good senses. That gentle, beckoning sway of her hips, her hands pulling apart those two shapely half-globes, offering up to his eyes the sight of that which lay at the center of the valley between then, her anus, tightly clenched, unspoiled, dark, his deepest and most devious desire to put his tongue there, to spoil it, to feel that tight muscle clench around the tip of his tongue in protest as he sought to probe there, to lick around it, to make that dark crinkle of flesh shine with his spit…

Marcus could feel her rump against his thighs as he pushed against her shoulder and encouragingly pulled at her thigh, lifting her right knee up onto the couch as the whole of her upper body was bent forward over it. She could feel him too, then, slight thrusts of his hips, eager jolts that further pressed that bit of him against her, that proudly thick prick of his grinding uselessly into her back, seeking purchase as if it thought it could be found there. Satisfied with the positioning of her shoulders, his hand slid down, pressing his palm into the small of her back at the base of her spine, applying insistent pressure there, forcefully encouraging her to arch her back more even if she already had.



Tiberius, idle for the moment, watching the two of them together with hungered eyes of his own, his gaze lingering most on Gaia but not reserved for her entirely. She was the main course, the highlight of the meal, the part you asked for seconds, maybe thirds, of, but there were other dishes served alongside it that beckoned a sampling of their own. He was idle, insomuch as he did not interfere or even offer comment, a true showing of respect for the sanctity of marriage from one such as he, but there remained something of his own desire burning there. He stroked himself as he watched them, long, slow, deliberate strokes of that massive fist up and back down the shaft of his prick, positioned in a reverse grip, pulling away from his body, not masturbating, not precisely, but keeping himself primed, ready at a moments notice to step in should his services be required.



Maybe it was the first time he had slipped down between her thighs that had seen Marcus the most aroused. To be fair, how could he not have been? He was but a mortal man, as subject to lustful desire as the next, and she a woman grown, and this was her cunt, formed as the gods made her. Desirable in its own right, independent from the woman it was at home on, the woman he loved with all of his heart and soul. In truth she could have been hideous to his eyes down there and still he would hunger for her. Could have been, perhaps, but she wasn’t. There was perhaps some element of curious exoticism to it, sure, in that she was the first woman he had lain with who bore a skin tone darker than that of native Romans, but that had not been it entirely. A circumstance of their differing heritage, one that became familiar as quickly as initial curiosity was enlightened.


In the present, faced once more with such a sight, Marcus wasn’t quite sure what he had expected exactly when this time he looked at her there, perhaps that her earlier romp with such a well endowed partner had altered her, left her entrance noticeably agape, but in truth she seemed no worse for the wear, at least from what he could see from such an awkward angle as he looked down between them. She, her womanhood, was in bloom, that much was true, although it seemed more a function of her current position than her previous choice of partners. The prominent outer lips of her labia majora, where plump was not fitting enough a description and fattened too vulgar, framed her lower entrance, outlined by the dark edges of her labia minora, where night blossomed into the purple and pink hues of dawn, pinkest at its center, there where her flesh pulsed invitingly, where it clenched in on itself, as if to beckon his entrance, to beg him to offer her something to feed her insatiable hunger, to fill that void that lie just beyond.

The hand that had been at her hip slid across the right cheek of her rump, stone against silk, as it moved back towards him to seize his member by the root, brandishing it, manipulating it to point down between their bodies, jerking it up roughly…thwap, thwap, thwap… the sound of wet impact as that thick knob at the tip slapped at her flesh, somewhere unseen by him, perhaps by her if she bent her head enough to look between her, but where it met skin it was wetted, tickled by the coarse, tightly wound curls that covered the top of her mound and down between her thighs, stimulated by the soft flesh here when it lingered a moment to rub before being used to bludgeon her once more. Peering down at her upturned rump, there where her entrance bloomed, where the crinkle of her anus clenched just above it, Marcus felt a heat once more spreading through his chest, the muscles of his chest and arms firing, lust creeping along his veins, the sight of her feeding it, of her most intimate area, a feast for his eyes, gleaming with the proof of her arousal. It was almost too much for him to take, the sight of her, the smell, the feel…almost enough to overwhelm him once more, to strike him dumb, to paralyze him not from fear, but lust…

Almost. Splendorous, she was, but this was a matter of instinct, a drive to grant her wish, to fulfill nature's directive, to deposit his seed deep into her belly: To breed her.

 

[Talon]

Marcus’ nostrils flared as his hips moved back to permit him enough room to raise his phallus once more. Eyes cast down, not daring to miss the visual spectacle about to take place, he watched as if again he were the voyeur, his movements undertaken as if by instinct alone. He watched as gripping hand squared his prick up with her entrance, angled slightly downward, the head of his prick veering left as the portion of the shaft within his grip pointed straight, his buttocks clenching, hips flexing, the fat, bulbous, distinctly rounded tip of his cock pressing against her flesh, the ruddy reddish purple of him there where her pink inner walls clenched in on themselves. Pressure was applied as his left hip cocked out to the side, correcting for that natural curvature to his manhood, the application of force aligning with optimal angle and finding purchase, that thickly swollen head seeking entrance, stretching her, reforming her to permit its shape, gaining a fingertips worth of progress before he relented, a momentary respite as his hips pulled back just so, the pressure at the point of his attempted entry relieved…

Thump-bump…thump-bump… the thunderous beating of his own heart echoed in Marcus’ ears…

Brapt!

The wet sound of air forcefully expelled from her cunt around his invading member overpowered the echo of his heart, as well as that of his flesh meeting hers, of his thighs impacting with the outward swell of her rump, jolting her forward as the force behind his trust was transferred from his body to hers. One moment she was agonizingly empty, and within the blink of an eye, she had been made to take all that he had to offer, to accommodate within the svelte walls of her inner passage a stout phallus that was undoubtedly a challenge to bear the passing of, that threatened to tear her asunder by way of it’s stubborn rigidity, steel hard and unmercifully stiff, that filled every inch of her insides as if plaster poured into a mold, spilling forth at the seams as if neglected by the hand of an inattentive pourer.

No longer needed to assist so directly, his right hand moved back to her hip, fingers biting into the softness of her flesh there where the small of her back met the clench of her waist, it’s twin moving likewise to her left side, her body free to move and contort as she wished so long as she made no effort to pull away, for as and if she did, a quick, forceful thrust of his hips was his only response, an aggressive rutting that served to keep himself seated in her fully until such time as he saw fit to withdraw. There was a shuffling of feet as he sought optimal leverage by widening his stance, then the grinding of his pelvis into her, the churning of his prick through her insides in response, no more than a fingertip out and back in, a frustratingly small movement, but something, something to tempt her, to sate him, to keep the flame stoked for the flurry of motion that would come next once his position was set.

The next thrust would come as no great surprise, then, as he would have to withdraw from her first. Slow and deliberate was his retreat, as for him the journey was just as pleasurable as the destination, maybe more so, for a good as it felt to be seated fully inside her, there was that spot inside which she had once acknowledged to him, that section where, owed to some detail of his anatomy or hers, he felt the grip of the inside of her cunt most distinctly. Not a fist, not quite so large, but maybe a finger and thumb, working in tandem to constrict around his girth, tight, beyond tight, just at the point where it would almost be unbearable if not for the pleasure its stimulation provided. A grunt from him, sharp, like a bear scratching its back against the coarse bark of a tree, as he felt that particular spot slid over the sensitive rim around the edge of his prick's head as he pulled it free from her depths.



Tiberius chuckled at the crass sound that resulted from Marcus’ sudden thrust, not a snicker, not derisive, but rather the joyful expression of a man quite thoroughly enjoying the show as it played out before him. He seemed on the verge of clapping if his right hand were not so busy stroking himself, tugging more like, still with that odd reverse grip, the motion resembling something like the milking of a cow’s teat, the fingers of that hand undulating as they gripped through the tug and then released before his hand slid back up until thumb and first finger were encircled about the base. Tiberius shifted a bit to gain better vantage, not even attempting to mask his interest with subtlety as he leaned head and shoulders over Gaia’s left side. The centers of his eyebrows rose as he whistled beneath his breath appreciatively at the sight of Marcus’ now freshly arousal slickened prick being slowly exposed to the open air as the other man pulled it free from his wife.

Gaia could feel another hand on her, then, one she could be sure was not Marcus’ as she could feel each of his own still gripped tightly to the flesh about her waist, fingertips biting into the soft flesh at her middle, thumbs pressing into her back. Besides that, this one was larger, more calloused, more brazen, fingertips and palm pressing into the center of her back, brushing down, following her spine, further down and up over the swell of her rump, a lone finger gliding through that valley between, the smoothness of that fingers nail bed as it brushed across that intimate tract of skin above her anus, flicking past it, his hand stopping upon locating that notable landmark, gripping into the abundant flesh of her rump cheeks there, squeezing a handful, a daunting task for even a man with hands as large as he.

Tiberius looked up, then, nearly face to face with Marcus now that he was bent forward, not so close, but close enough. He wore that mischievous look that was uniquely his own upon his visage, equal parts curiosity and mirth, as if there was something humorous to be found from all of this that only he was capable of discerning. “It’s a wonder the poor woman can walk at all, what, with you drilling that fat bitchbreaker of yours into her like her cunt owes you money and she’s late on the interest…Gods…” That finger that had slid down her crack flicked back and forth a few times, first the smoothness of his nail and then the roughness of the skin at the tip of his finger alternatively teasing at the pucker of her anus playfully as it softly brushed against it. His tone suggested that he was about to deliver feedback critical of Marcus’ technique, but the words that followed spoke differently.

Tiberius’ devious leer met the stone serious gaze of Marcus, sparks nearly flying between them as if steel had met flint. “Again, brother… I want to see it from up close…”



Marcus’ hips shot forth like someone had touched a hot iron to his backside, his hands gripping to her hips and forcefully pulling her back to meet him, his pelvis colliding with her rump with enough force to snap her head back, the resulting wet squelch still hanging in the air as he reversed his thrust and pulled back out until only the head of his prick remained inside her. Again, forward, his prick mercilessly carving its path through her, back, his pace building, as soon as he was almost out of her, that fat fist at the tip of his cock beginning to widen her entrance from the inside, he thrust again forward, and it was instead seeking to plumb her depths. Marcus settled into a rhythm, one she was beginning to recognize as something relating to his preferred technique, not the quick, energetic, frenzied thrusting employed by some men as they hurried to the finish, but neither was it slow, a canter where some trotted and others galloped…thwap…thwap…thwap…thwap…the clapping of his pelvis against her rump, strong enough to jostle her forward each time, rhythmic enough to time a beat to, the steady beat of some sordid song, the sort barbarians might chant along with as they twirled about some idol fashioned after their fertility god.

It wasn’t only the hands at her hips that worked to assist with Marcus’ thrusting motions, pulling her lower half back towards him at the onset of each thrust with no small measure of strength, both forceful and insistent, but there was also the third, it’s finger still occasionally playing around the rim of her anus, sometimes pressing at the deceptively pliant ring at center of that tight pucker, otherwise just flitting about the ring of muscle there as if he found the feel of it to be intriguing. That was not the hand’s primary reason for being clutched there, simply to allow his finger to play at her rear hole, for he was also engaged in manipulating the position of her backside, as Marcus pulled her towards him as he thrust in, Tiberius likewise pulled her back towards him as Marcus pulled out, his body shifting to press against Gaia’s left arm, her shoulder colliding with the trunk of his left thigh each time Tiberius pulled her forward by his handful of rump meat, his incessantly tugging hand, the one pulling crudely at his prick, felt by her in the brushing of his knuckles at her upper arm as his hand worked.

 

[Talon]

If a servant were to enter the triclinium just now and observe the debauchery taking place between its walls, it’s likely that the Domina’s honor could well be maintained despite the shocking event taking place within, for surely it was that these two men had forced themselves on her. Perhaps she’d had too much wine with dinner, her defenses down amidst mixed company while in the presence of her physically capable husband, but if she truly were willfully compliant, then why would these two men need to be so actively engaged in restraining her so, in keeping her positioned as they wanted her, as if in furtherance of their own pleasure, not hers?


Marcus grunted as his hips worked, a forceful vocal exertion, the language of dominance, not between him and her so much as him and him, this brute whose hand was helpful to Marcus’ efforts but still brazen, to be gripping his wife there before the eyes of her husband, seemingly without regard for whether he was permissible of such a thing or not. He didn’t need his help to properly rut his wife, he’d done as much without assistance before, but still, given the events of the evening thus far, was it any great offense for him to touch her there?

Let him touch her… and let him also see what it is to truly please her…

The force of Marcus’ relentless rutting noticeably increased as his pace began to gradually quicken, still measured… thwap..thwap..thwap… the clapping of flesh now drowning out what other sounds might have resulted from each of his pricks individual forays into her sodden depths, the set of his features hard, his breathing labored, his lower belly occasionally brushing against Tiberius’ knuckles, something he didn’t shy away from, as when it did, that meant his prick was deep inside her, an infinitely pleasurable state of being he could neither deny him or herself from experiencing merely on account of wishing to avoid incidental contact with another man’s flesh.



Tiberius grinned as he watch with marked interest the range of pleasurable emotions warring for prominence on Marcus’ features, at how his ever stoic battle brother’s nostrils flared, that twitch at the corner of his lips when he thrust his prick particularly deep, the hard set of his brow, his look of stern determination. His gaze flickered back down, to watch as Marcus pulled himself free, the man’s middle a mess of slick arousal, there in the soft nest of hair at his pubis, along the tops of his thighs, and of course, along that stout length of shaft his movement slowly exposed, that peculiar feature of his, the prominent, puffy vein that ran nearly the length of it, particularly notable from this angle of view. There were some women whose flow of arousal was so sparse that one needed some external source of lubrication to make copulation comfortable, others from whom it flowed like a river. Gaia seemed squarely among the latter, in that she marked her lovers with the signs of her arousal liberally.

Poor woman… Tiberius thought, his eyes casting about her lower body and Marcus’, assessing the state of wetness… she expends so much, surely she must be parched…

The probing finger that playfully stroked at her anus traced out one final circle, pressing at the center before tapping there once, twice, thrice…something of a sort of sordid salutation, his hand pulling away quickly after, his body shifting from its proximity to hers as he suddenly moved away.



Marcus’ head followed Tiberius’ movement until he passed behind him and beyond his sight, his hips still thrusting, his jostling of her now more pronounced that she lacked the previous source of stability Tiberius provided. Whatever he was up to, it was not more important than this, than fulfilling her directive, and so it passed from his sphere of concern nearly as soon as he was out of sight. It was for the moment just him and her, husband and wife, and Marcus endeavored to do what it was that husbands and wives were ultimately brought together to achieve. Although he held no great driving ambition to produce an heir, in truth he’d often thought he would enjoy having a daughter when on rare occasions he did give thought to the subject of children, the idea of planting his seed in his wife’s belly… it did something to him, something primal, and she could feel his response to that feeling conveyed by the power of those unrelenting thrusts of his, in the way he was not content to merely fill her, but how, at the top of every third or fifth thrusting motion, there was no exact pattern to it, his hips would grind forward, a jolt passing through his prick as it was forcefully pressed into her further before he pulled back to make way for his next.

It took the fingers of two hands to tally how many times they’d coupled since the first the evening prior, and even with something of a large sample size to begin to understand his modus operandi when it came to matters sexual, something about the way he moved this time was different. Perhaps it was the presence of another, or the wine, or what she’d said to him… something had inspired in him the ability to provide a performance for the ages, for even as Tiberius lingered wherever he had gone, as beads of sweat formed at Marcus’ brow, as the knuckles of each of his gripping hands turned a pale, bloodless beige… still his hips worked, his pelvis pounding out that incessant rhythm against her upturned backside… Thwap…thwap…thwap…thwap…



Tiberius did not tarry in his self appointed task for too long, to fetch a goblet of water from the table near the back of the room, moving with a sort of surprising grace for one as stout as he, stepping over a capsized plate here, beside an overturned goblet there, negotiating a safe path through the detritus of what was once carefully arranged dining decor. He paused then, turning back to watch the activity of Marcus and Gaia as he raised the goblet to take in a refreshing gulp or two of water. He punctuated his act of refreshment with an audible “Ahhh…”, echoed by the bowl of the goblet, lowering it, a jolly, mirthful tune hummed beneath breath as the sight of the rutting couple once more met his eyes. He sauntered back across the room towards them, his cock, still half-hard as if kept in that state by the aire of sex about a room that positively reeked of it, swaying as it hung down heavily between his thighs, occasionally bouncing off those tree trunk thighs of his if it swung too far in one direction or the other. He came up to stand behind Marcus’ left shoulder, causing the man to pause at the top of his latest stroke as Marcus observed him enter into the range of his peripheral vision. Marcus’ gaze was hard, questioning.

Tiberius lifted the goblet between them, calling the other man’s attention to it with a swirling of the liquid inside the cup. “Water, stud?” His question was punctuated by the great, booming clap of his open paw against the left cheek of Marcus’ backside, one that evoked for at least two of the rooms occupants a memory of when he’d chastised Gaia with a smack to her rump as she hung lifeless over his shoulder outside the baths. Even without looking he knew that Marcus would surely bear a print of his hand tattooed on his flesh for the next few hours or so.



Marcus rocked forward with the force of the blow, carrying Gaia along with him, pressing his phallus into her there where their bodies met. To his credit he bore it without retort, although, if looks could kill, surely Tiberius would have that moment fallen to the ground clutching at his chest. A huffing snort, then, from Marcus as the sharp sound of the smack faded from his ears. “No need…” A pause… long, thoughtful, before he nodded sharply towards the proffered vessel. ”...but thanks.”



Tiberius shrugged, what would be well described as a dung-eating grin by some worn plain on his features, the big man taking the opportunity to slip past Marcus, the fingers of his free hand brushing first against Gaia’s rump, announcing his presence, before gliding up her body as he passed, flitting up her side, past her ribs, fingertips dancing on her shoulder just before the man spun around and flung himself carelessly onto the couch beside her in a flurry of motion. Water from the goblet he held sloshed over the rim, splashing against his chest, as he chuckled. He leaned up and forward, towards Gaia, offering to her the goblet still half-filled with its precious cargo. “Y’know, cub, I’ve heard there is a beast that dwells down south… two great big humps on its back. Apparently it can go a fortnight without a sip of water…” Tiberius’ gaze flickered up and over her shoulder to consider Marcus a moment, making the subject of his inference clear.

 

[Talon]

A chuckle from the big man as his upper body leaned back and away from her, his left arm, hand still clutching the water goblet by its rim, folded in on itself as he raised it, armpit and wrist set upon the wooden rim at the back of the couch, his hand dangling freely, his body positioned at an angle so that his middle was kept close to her, his hips opening as his right leg hung over the couch and his left tucked away under her. She could see now up close not only his cock, ever present and prominent as it was, draped lazily across the top of his left thigh, but also previous details that had gone unnoticed. Puffy, jagged scars that had healed to nearly the same tone as the surrounding skin at various points on his chest, most notably on his right side above his hip, which, judging from its size, was surely the healed remenant of a wound from an arrow or spear tip. A slash on his right forearm, just below the elbow, roughly the length and thickness of a thumb. On the outside of his left bicep, so old that the mark was hardly visible, was a section of raised skin that formed the Roman numerals V and I, together, six, in what had likely been given as a brand to mark him as a member of that particular legion. There was the visually evident strength of his upper body, shoulder and arm muscles flexed by virtue of the position he currently sat in, to go with the soft bit at his middle, his hairy stomach rounded deceptively as if to conceal the mass of muscle at his core. He was not quite fat, would likely never be given his frame, but there was something of excess there, of one too many goblets of mead imbibed with regularity.

Tiberius looked something of a king astride his throne as he sat there, legs splayed open, his sex gratuitously bared before her. She had seen it now on two separate occasions, and in various states of arousal, while not so much to be familiar, of course, it was likely unsurprising to see the already oversized member growing further as it pulsated, little jolts of expansion here and there as it slowly began to fill with blood. From this angle she could see it from underneath, where the sagging pouch of flesh that held his testicles hung down beneath his thighs from its point of attachment just at the root of his prick, the two orbs it contained currently resting upon the cushion of the couch beneath them. His musk was strong, overpowering what little remained of her own, decidedly masculine but not unclean, for despite stereotypes of his mother’s people and how well he fit them, she had direct proof that the man was no stranger to a warm bath.

Tiberius’ grin was wickedly crooked, positively debauched, as he canted his head in an attempt to catch and lock eyes with her. “Tell me, cub… how do you feel about sticking a finger up your man’s arsehole as you suck his cock…hmmm?”



A groan not of pleasure but of protest from somewhere behind her, Marcus, as the motion of his hips resumed, once more assuming that slow, gradual pace that was his base. “Leave it to this one to like a finger up his arse…”



Tiberius’ grin only widened, his eyes remaining squarely on Gaia’s visage. “I can’t help if I’m a man of refined tastes… besides, don’t you have enough to keep you busy back there?”



Unseen by the two in front of him Marcus rolled his eyes, sighing exaggeratedly as he banished the thought of Tiberius and his hairy arsehole from his thoughts, looking down between them once more to where his and Gaia’s bodies met for inspiration, to where his eyes were treated to the sight of an infinitely more desirable backside, one far more worthy of being featured in his mind's eye as he worked up the passion to resume the ferocious pace of his thrusting once again.



Tiberius shook his head. “Don’t mind him, cub… So what about it, hmm?” Tiberius’ weight shifted over to his right hip, his eyebrows waggling suggestively as his left rump cheek began to lift from the surface of the couch cushion beneath it.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Her feet were heavy and clumsy; moving through mud. How she was able to move one in front of the other would remain a mystery to her. A marvel, really - one that she expressed in a short laugh of incredulity. From one harbor of warmth to the other, she nearly melted in Marcus’s arms, the only thing missing an over the top romantic sigh. He was so warm, smaller than Tiberius, yes, but it didn’t change how it felt to be this close to him, like her body had been poured into his. Fingertips to fingertips, hands clumsily reaching for his, capturing them, pressing battle worn knuckles to her lips in the briefest of moments that she could wrestle her mouth away from his.


His voice, rippling through her ears, thunder rolling over a dry plain. Her, the dry earth, waiting, holding her breath as he spoke again. His wife; his love - things she’d never thought that would be assigned to her were now chasing ever broadening circles in her head, and without fully knowing why, she felt hot tears overflowing. She’d steal another moment there to wrap her arms around him, squeezing him so tightly that she nearly stole the breath from his lungs.

“My love,” she echoed back, breathless as if she’d been the one that was squeezed, “my love,” the word rolled around her tongue, folded back, tasted; reveled in. Perhaps if she had her wits about her, she’d be frustrated, if not completely taken aback, at how completely besotted she felt. How completely at this man’s beck and call, who until recently, had been (and, in several senses, still was) a complete stranger to her. Not that she had many other words to draw upon, for once he was in her arms, their lips pressed together, tongues dancing as familiar partners, there was no need for them. She moved, pliant as a reed, in his hands, her heart thudding in her chest, somewhere, dully in her mind, there was recognition that spurred excitement. He’d heard her; she’d made her desires clear, and she was about to receive him. He’d scarcely have to touch her further to get a response; she was overeager, in fact, to position herself for him.


A brief stumble over the couch, tumbling forward and grasping the back of it with that effervescent laughter, one of pure joy, untainted by the sardonic nature of an adult that’s world weary, or the nerves of those out of their depth. One leg up, the other, up on the ball of her foot to provide some anchor. Some connection to her namesake. The tapping of his phallus, the responding wiggle of her hips: partially out of annoyance, capped off with a huff of breath from her - why wouldn’t he just do it already?! - and partially out of being playful. He didn’t give her what she wanted right away so now was the time to make him work for it. A shifting here, a surprisingly deft twist of the hips there - enough to put doubt in the mind if it was deliberate. Or it would’ve been, had it not been for her muffled laughter, her leaning forward, trying to stifle the sound behind the right hand while the left clung to the back of the couch for dear life - laughter that erupted into a loud cry as he forced his way in, loud enough to dampen the squelch as he entered her. It was no cry of pain, but rather one of surprise, a breathy exhalation that wouldn’t have been out of place in a high end brothel. Her spine curved, pushing her rear further back into him, and those dark eyes closed, brows knitting in pleasure as that gasp died down into a long, satiated moan -


“Finally…” Was it for her own ears, or his, or their audience? Did it matter? Sucking her lower lip between her teeth, she pushed back, grinding against him, keeping him deep within her, savoring even as her cunt leaked copiously around him. Desperately, she flailed behind her, trying to grasp the back of his thigh, his rear, anything, to pull him further into her. The effort, though made gamely, was for someone with a clearer head and a better sense of balance. It was only his firm grasp on her hips that kept her somewhat upright after that attempt, and too lost in the sheer ecstasy of finally having him within her again, the meager attempts she made at trying to right herself were abandoned. Marcus, having some presence of mind, seemed to take the unprompted adjustment in stride. A wordless dance, then - her shuffling forward, a bit to the side, a bit there, and Marcus was positioned behind her, her ass raised high in the air, her leaning forward on her arms, though in truth, with his steady drum beat of his cock within her and his thighs against the backs of hers, there was no point in her attempting to hold herself up. Her cheek rubbing firmly into the damp fabric of the couch, her senses were overwhelmed - the spilled wine, the lingering smell of her sex all seeped into fabric, pushed in invisible clouds around her face. Not that she was helping with the sodden fabric, her mouth had been open, drool pooling beneath it as she moaned wantonly with each thrust, well past the point of anything resembling modesty. There would be no point in even attempting to hide the pleasure he was pulling from her core with each stroke -


Past the point of words, of forming coherent thoughts; nothing in her world but the feel of him, the steadiness of it, the thudding of her pulse in her ears, the distant sound of her cries. The way her weight shifted as she reached between her legs to rub at her swollen clit, so wet that her fingers slipped, once, twice - had to wipe her hands on the marginally drier couch just so she could get purchase on her own skin. At the first successful stroke, her eyes nearly rolled back into her head, a groan issuing from her that seemed to come from the depths of the earth herself, deep and completely sated -


She was vaguely aware of Tiberius flopping down beside her; glanced up at him. If he thought he’d seen her ruined before - she might as well have been as fresh from the baths compared to her face now. Hot tears of joy still trailed down those cheeks, stray drops now, as she forced her eyes open to acknowledge him. Drunkeness on wine couldn’t compare to this face, one with flushed cheeks, eyes glazed, a sloppy, love wasted smile. One that spoke volumes, a clarity that suggested that this, right here, being bred like this, was her true purpose in life and her only joy. Blissful there, too, eyes focusing and unfocusing in tune with those thrusts. Still, she managed to bring enough clarity to those dark eyes to focus on the goblet he had - a primal need to drink, to wet her lips, seeping through the haze of pleasure.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

A slight pursing of those lips, monumental effort to close her mouth, though whimpers still leaked through, Marcus, a man undaunted, still thrusting carefully behind her. One primal desire - survival vs. procreation - finally won out, and, reluctantly pulling her right hand from her clitoris, she shifted to put both hands beneath her, before reaching out with the left. But rather than grasp for the goblet itself, she ran her hand down the front of Tiberius, deliberately avoiding the merely dozing cock, her eyes finding his, that lower lip caught between her teeth particularly in the corner, a sheepish grin even as she struggled to find that focus again.


“…Please.” A loaded answer without having been a question. A slight suggestive quirk of those lips. A freedom of imagination passed between the two, aided by the puckering of those lips. “Give me some.” Demanding, but soft - teasing. A slight undercurrent of steel - would he risk offending her highness, what, with her face so close to his lap and her hands ever closer? They gripped onto his thighs now, broad muscle providing the perfect steading while she inched closer. The familiar quirk of that blonde brow, a pout from her. She knew he was teasing her; wanted her to beg, to struggle to form the words but how could she, not when Marcus’s cock was touching a new spot inside of her, and had he not teased her ass before, a sensation she found herself missing more now, with more of her rear displayed, beyond wanton, really -


Something in the crease of her brows must’ve made her case, for Tiberius took a long drink, and with his spare hand, slipped it under her chest, cupping one jostling breast in his hand as he lifted her. Their lips met; he pushed water into her mouth. It overflowed around the seal of their lips, trailing down her throat, the sides of her mouth. Scarcely had he given her her mouthful that their lips parted, tongues dueling to the last. Thick fingers closed around her nipple, tweaking it, making her gasp in pain, opening her mouth again for another mouthful, sloppier this time, what, with her small yelps as he continued to pull at the small nub of her nipple, delighting in the sounds she made, as well as the punishment she doled out - pressing harder into his mouth to grasp his lower lip not too gently with her teeth. A minor miracle that she did not draw blood - either that, or a well-timed thrust from Marcus making her gasp again, her blonde prey forgotten for the moment.


Not that the blonde Bacchus wasn’t inspired - a small trickle of water, enough to make her look up again, to focus. Then, oh, that grin she gave him! It wasn’t that cock drunk sloppy grin from before. This had a touch of deviltry in it, a flickering of realization in those dark eyes that suddenly brought home all of those lessons about women with hungry wombs and how men should beware. She lurched forward, her eyes never leaving Tiberius’s cool blue, and as he drizzled water from the goblet, she turned her mouth upwards, catching scant drops, content to let more fall upon her, splash on her - then, leaning to lap it from the broad expanse of his stomach, a playful dip of her tongue into his navel, collecting the water that pooled there, before slipping lower, to dutifully, daintily, pretty as you please, lap at the long runnels that flowed down to his awakening phallus. Kisses or sucking, so light to be imagined, as she moved this way and that, breath hot against him, forced out in tune with Marcus’s thrusts. Between the endless movement behind her, she rocked back and forth, slowly at first, then gaining some confidence in the movement of their bodies, the ancient familiarity of man and woman that allowed her to move forward now, to kiss the tip of Tiberius’s cock, deep inhale now, and to plunge further down on him, willing herself to take in a third, then half, of that massive creature between his thighs, more familiar now with the process, and somehow, aided by the steady push of Marcus’s hips.


In, out. Breathe. Capture the loose skin at the head with her lips. Gently, gently there. Run her tongue along the ridge of the head, exhale hot against him as she couldn’t contain a moan. Right hand between her legs, slipping between those folds, brush lightly. Can’t forget about Tiberius in front of her, the pillar of flesh that filled her mouth to bursting, watch the teeth, hollow her cheeks. Close tightly with her lips, suck as she pulled back - have to let him free so she could cry out at a particularly well timed thrust from Marcus that made stars shatter behind her eyes. Look at Tiberius, look at his face while his cock was buried in her mouth, making its way down her throat, bulging against the thin flesh. Try to keep his eyes held with her own, pull herself from his cock to smile up at him, enjoying the taste of him, but more than anything, feeling that her entire body was being broken apart and pulled back together, brought back to a new level of life with each stroke from Marcus. Her left hand slipped, slid, down Tiberius’s body, to fumble as she tried to stroke him with her left hand, her mouth still covering, her right still trying to manipulate her clit through it all.

Left hand covered in her fluid - water, spit, sweat. Pulling off of Tiberius’s cock with a deep breath, she gave him a wink so slight that it could’ve been imagined. Trailing her fingers from her left hand across her mouth, she let her lips part, and in a slow drag, ran her tongue from the base of her middle finger to the tip, drawing the finger into her mouth to suck, to coat further in her.



With her “work” done, right hand steadied herself as she slipped the left under his sack, rolling the heavy testicles in her fingers, leaning down to press her nose into the seam of flesh; a cute little apology for her earlier injury. Surely he’d forgive her - and if the gesture wasn’t enough, there was the hot press of her tongue there as well, lapping a long stripe from close to his seat to the base of his cock - a delightful distraction as the left hand snaked further under him.



Bit by bit, she wormed her left hand further under him, coaxing him to sit up a bit with a light nip to his thigh. Blind and in unknown territory, she let her hand be her eyes. The heavy muscle of his thighs, meeting at his rear - a place so intimate that she hadn’t dared to even question, or ask, Marcus for further information (not that she would have had the opportunity to look) - so she let her own body be her guide. They were both human, were they not, and surely the circle of flesh that she was looking for would be similar to where her own was -



A gentle poke against the cleft of his rear - too high, really. A snort, muffled by his sack, then a slip lower. She pulled her face away from his sack, the base of his cock, to glance up at him through a hazy of corn silk hair. Brows raised, she was silently seeking his approval, that she was moving closer to what he’d requested. Funny thing, that: in any other circumstance, she might’ve been horrified that such a subject was even broached to her. But in this position, so warm, all either man had to do was ask and she’d do her best to fulfill it. A finger up his rear? He’d requested it, and clearly Tiberius knew a thing or two about what made him feel good. And had she not enjoyed the same treatment before?



Has he taken a man’s prick there?



The thought was enough to increase the heat in her belly, the dampness of her sex, mingling with a low sigh. What sort of deviant was she turning into, that the mere idea of a man buggering another was…of interest? Was she truly a cock starved slut, now having been introduced to pricks, now couldn’t get enough of them? Bah - such thoughts could be pushed aside till later, if ever addressed again, flights of fancy as her senses were filled with the musk of men and she was being bred, yes, her sex begging for more and yet more of Marcus, until he exploded into her, spilled out of her, and he would still try to fill her further, she knew it, until she would overflow with his seed, the dry earth inundated with life giving rain.



A press of her middle finger against the puckered ring of Tiberius, a question in those eyes again, curious but not quite entirely lucid, still drunk on her surroundings, of her husband laying claim to her and relishing in the fact of how fallen she must look, tears and sweat and spit on her face not enough to mask that silly grin of hers.

 

[Talon]

Tiberius watched as she playfully and teasingly set about wetting her finger in preparation to fulfill his unspoken request. How he felt about the imminent penetration of his backside by her finger was quite clear, evident by the upward curl at the right corner of his mouth, the gnashing of his teeth into his bottom lip, the forceful huffs upon the exhalation of every breath. His partner hardly needed further demonstration to gauge his present state of arousal, it was right there before her eyes, unable to stand up straight on account of its own weight but clearly still hardened. Fallen back to lie against his belly like a tree felled by the bite of an ax, this novel view of the underside illuminating the difference in structure there, where there appeared to be a secondary supportive column of flesh, a bulge that ran the length of his shaft from where it emerged from above his testicles until it met the cleft that marked the split on the underside of his prick’s head, distinctive enough that to each side there was the appearance of a shallow groove that ran beside it, that one could trace the tip of a finger or tongue along, like travel worn paths that ran along the underside of his cock. The seam of flesh that her tongue would later lovingly trace marked the center of this pseudo-column as well, originating from down below, down near where her finger would soon find purchase.

A slight shift in his hips as the tip of her finger poked too high, a light prod, the fumbling of an inexpert hand. His rump lifted further from the couch as if in effort to guide her, a light gesture with the bottom of his rump angling towards her demonstratively. His smile widened as he held her gaze, his expression portraying mirthful understanding but the set of his eyes betraying the underlying desire for her finger to reach its intended target. Odd perhaps, a first among many for her this evening, that it was she to be the penetrator and him the penetrated. The feel on her finger would be nothing like the pleasure conveyed by the squeeze of a tight orifice around an entering phallus, hardly the same species of sensation at all, but it would perhaps impart to her something of an insight into the feeling of dominance it gave, to be the one whose flesh invaded the other’s intimate space, even if for her the feelings of returned pleasure were almost entirely in the realm of the psychological.

A light groan beneath his breath as the tip of her finger trailed down to press against the pucker of his anus, the flesh feeling perhaps not familiar but neither alien, smooth, distinctly hairless where otherwise it was surrounded by a slightly more coarse version of the hair that covered his pubis. Tightly puckered but not timid, surprisingly pliant, as if the man it was attached to was himself relaxed and not at all unaccustomed to this sort of stimulative venture. Her well lubricated finger easily found purchase, sinking a fingertip’s worth inside to the bottom of the nail bed with no more force than that initial exploratory push. She felt that ring of muscle clench around her fingertip, then, a sensation she felt there but also where her lips met skin against that fleshy sac that hung beneath his cock, and saw in the simultaneous jolt that caused the fleshy pillar of his prick to stir from where it sat against his belly, as if there was a muscle that ran under the flesh there that was activated in the process of clenching his anus.

“More…” A hungry growl, forcefully encouraging, more demand than request, not dissimilar to the tone her urgings had held when she’d bid him to sink more of his cock into her.

Another clench, then, as her finger slid deeper, past the first knuckle, his prick again twitching against his belly. Tiberius nodded as he held her gaze, shepherding her along this unknown path as surely as if he held her hand as they walked together down a dark passageway.

“Good, cub…” The clanking of the goblet could be heard as it impacted with the ground somewhere behind the couch, his now free hand moving to clasp the back of her head again in the same manner as he had done when he attempted to drill his prick down deep into her throat. There was none of that here, though, as he was instead pulling her closer to him, that wicked mouth of hers working at the fleshy sac between his thighs, her nose pressed against the root of his cock. “Push it deeper…all the way in…”

There was not much more to go, but that extra inch or two of finger seemed to make all of the difference for him. As the invading digit fought against the natural tightness of him there, notable, but not excessive, the tip of her finger brushed against something firm and smooth, distinctive from the flesh she felt clamped about the rest of it. Another jolt from the big man whose rump her finger was buried in, this time one that shook his entire body, that sent his shoulders pressing back into the cushion behind him, his eyes half-lidded as they for a moment threatened to roll back into his head.



Marcus, ever the workhorse, as if he had been strapped with harness and set to field, plowing his way down one row and then another, consistent, undaunted, his prick drilling into her with that same steady pace as before. The man was human, he bled, of that much she was sure, but his stamina seemed something of legend, to keep up this rigorous pace, to not begin to feel the burn in his muscles, for the clapping of his pelvis against her rump was not without force, jostling her forward into the lap of the man who sat before her without a care for what activities this movement might disrupt. Despite outward appearances, perhaps that he was made of stone, that he could keep going all night and day and then some if that’s what it took, he was no spring chicken, and the stitch he felt forming in his side and the burn running down the back of his thighs was no small reminder of the state of reality.

This must be what it felt like to have fought at Marathon… Marcus scoffed humorously, a sharp snort of an exhale amongst the occasional growls and deep huffs of his labored breathing.



There was a fresh sense of urgency about Tiberius as, with a forceful shake of his head and a warm smile cracking his lips, showing the white of his teeth beneath, he sat forward more, hunching over somewhat, his other hand, the one not currently tasked with keeping her head and face pressed between his thighs, reached across his body to grasp his prick and lift it, up and to his right, gripping it in that strange underhanded way, his thumb extended towards his groin, pulling it helpfully aside so as not to break his line of sight with her. His hand tugged at his prick, that monolith of flesh hardened but still somewhat pliant, even as the other more forcefully pulled her face into him.

His gaze held hers, in command even if their roles had somewhat been reversed for this small moment in time. “That’s it…there, cub…rub that spot there with the tip of your finger…” Schlick, schlick, schlick…the sound of his hand stroking his cock but a scant few inches away from her left ear, momentarily dry fingers working spit slickened flesh. A hiss from between his teeth. “Watch the nail, use the flesh of your finger…yes. Good…don’t be afraid to press with some force…” A hitched groan beneath his breath, as if the action of her finger was scratching at his deeply felt itch. “Fuck…” A snort of hot air from flared nostrils felt at the top of her head as his own canted forward, hunching further down, the speed of his stroking hand increasing,

“Fuck…” Again, as if he were compelled to speak but had nothing of note to say. His stroking hand stopped suddenly, releasing his prick, reversing itself before gripping his cock once more to properly stroke it with the full range of motion this position offered, the hand at the back of her head releasing it’s grip, allowing her to pull back, his stroking hand tugging forcefully at his prick, pulling at that massive pillar of flesh as if to yank it from his body, masturbating there inches from her face, shamelessly, with uninhibited pleasure even, as he desperately sought his first release of the evening, her finger stroking that spot inside him he had directed her towards, buried to the last knuckle inside his rectum.



By way of cosmic providence, perhaps, or some function of either man’s subconscious, or hers, it was clear the man behind her, her husband, Marcus, the man whose hands held firmly to her hips and whose prick filled her cunt to overflowing, was approaching his own orgasmic release. The signs were clear, as it was not her first time experiencing what it felt like for him to expend his seed with her depths. There was the cadence of his breath, measured, focused, with small grunts beneath every exhale that came with the forward motion of his hips. The biting of the tips of his fingers into her flesh where they held fast to her. The swelling of his prick, not so much that it truly split her in twain, but enough that it threatened to, that it would have required more effort from him to drill it into her should the force of his thrusts not already have been increasing in ferocity as he sprinted the last few meters towards his goal.

 

[Talon]

At her front, right there beneath her gaze, was the other, vying for attention with the one presently carving a path through her insides, dominating the space between them in its way, with it’s sheer physicality, with the way it seemed absurd in every dimension, not least of which it’s length, a burdensome task for even the overlarge hand of its owner to traverse up and down in the stimulation of it. That knob at the tip with its distinctive bell shape, flared along the rim, his hand catching there on each upstroke before gliding back down, the fleshy part beneath his pinky audibly striking against his pubis with a dull thud before reversing itself for another upward stroke.

“Fuck!...Here it comes…open your mouth, cub…open!”

His hips pulled back then, trapping her hand beneath him, beneath the muscular cheeks of his rump, the ring of muscle around the inside of his anus clenching down against her finger, the weighty orbs of his testicles coming to rest on the inside of her forearm, displayed there like baubles set in some gaudy bit of jewelry, precious indeed, for until this moment they had carried as cargo that which his stroking hand sought to offer her in delivery.

Tiberius’ hand gripped tight to the base of his cock, angling it towards her, the head of it pulsating as that slit at the tip came into view, squaring up with the lower quadrant of her face-

Splurt!

A thick rope of cum shot from the tip of his cock as an arrow from a bow, with such force that the first volley was audible, impacting against the roof of her mouth with a wet splash of warm fluid. Another in quick succession, his unsteady hand failing to maintain his aim true, the second impacting at the edge of the right side of her upper lip, past the nostril above, against her cheek, just missing her eye but leaving a trail at her brow as it streaked up and past to land somewhere on the couch beside them. A third, this one squarely on her lips, warm, wet, voluminous enough to drip down onto her chin. A fourth, growing weaker in succession, its trail a streak to the left side of her face above her lip and across her cheek. There were others, masked as he pressed the head of his prick against her lips then, his head and shoulders slumping as he sat somewhat hunched over, his head hanging to hover over and above his crotch, almost level with hers, eyes downcast, his shoulders working as his breath came in pants, his hand releasing his prick before moving to press the heel of his palm into his thigh to stabilize himself.

“Whew…” A light chuckle as Tiberius’ face slowly turned upwards, his gaze darting back and forth across her visage as it swayed to and fro before him under the influence of the forceful thrusting of the man at work behind her.


One final thrust from Marcus, the most impassioned of all, so much so that it sent him off balance, sprawling forwards, his grip on her hips releasing to free his hands, his full weight pressing against her rump, shifting her forward closer towards Tiberius, Marcus himself only just managing to plant his palms into the couch at either side of her to prevent himself from falling fully atop her. From somewhere behind her head she could hear his laughter at his own moment of clumsiness, even as she felt deep inside the most intimate expression of all; his prick firing off its load into her in Marcus’ typical fashion, thick, heavy, hot spurts one after the other, resolving to little more than twitches of his member where he left it to linger inside her as it began to gradually diminish.