Caveat Emptor (Closed for Apollo Wilde)

[Apollo Wilde]

Well, at least he’s helpful!

A brief thought, one that cut through the pleasurable fog that her mind was wading through. Not that it showed on her face; that silly drooling face lost in joy creased for brief moments, struggling to concentrate on the instructions that Tiberius gave. Easy enough, right? Even though his cock, large and heavy, loomed so close to her head that it seemed that he could brain her with it. Was it always that big? By the gods, how did this ever fit inside of me?


Not that she had too much time to further contemplate what was in front of her - Tiberius had asked her to do something, and by Venus, she was going to do it. She wanted to see that face break, crumple, under the weight of bliss. To see his true face, the way she’d seen and loved from Marcus. To watch him completely melt - well, she’d work until the dawn to see that on this large man.

Huh. He felt…strange. She was inside him - yes, and was pressing here and there in tune with his requests. But it was strange! Once she’d gotten past the tight seal (which she had been reluctant to press through; it seemed that it would be impossible to do so without causing a significant amount of pain) - it felt…vast. Empty, really. Warm, yes, hot, even - but not wet, like it had been when she slipped her fingers into her own sex. The only pressure she felt on her finger was at the base where his entrance clenched tight against her. Curious wiggles, pressing this way and that within him, exploring as she learned. She’d prove, here again, that she was an apt and eager pupil. If a particular press caused him to murmur in approval, she’d do it - growing in confidence enough to explore, twist her finger, slip it a bit out, but opting to drive it in further, until her wrist began to ache with the effort.


With Tiberius’s stroking of his own prick, it was difficult for her to get her mouth on it. Though, again, it was not for lack of trying. It must’ve looked ridiculous, like toying with a dog by offering it a choice piece of meat, only to yank it away last minute. Here she was, chasing after his cock with her mouth partially open, trying to time catching Tiberius’s cock in her mouth in time with Marcus’s thrusts and the exhalations that her husband’s cock was forcing out of her. Every third stroke or so, she’d manage to swipe her tongue a bit higher than the sack of flesh between his lips, a kiss against the mid-shaft, or a quick suckle to the head, slobbering over his fingers, adding her own spit to his. Multi-tasking such as this would’ve been a bit easier if she’d been sober, or if she wasn’t getting slammed from behind, but deep within her, she could feel the swelling of Marcus - now becoming a familiar feeling. The swelling that seemed to fill her more than before, pressing against her walls, making her so full that it was a wonder that he was able to actually drag himself out of her. She was sure that she wasn’t helping by how she was clenching on him, to keep him buried deep within her. Only then could she feel him rub up against that spot high in her sex, that spot that was added with the rubbing of her clitoris, certainly, but now…was a combination of the wine, of her earlier tryst with Tiberius, or the sheer will and arousal that stained the air, emanating from Marcus, but she was feeling like she was teetering on the edge, not needing too much more -


It must’ve been a strange sort of kismet - Marcus’s last thrust was timed with Tiberius’s barked warning - one that was heeded with a mouth open. Not from command, but from her announcing her own release, a high, keening howl that rang out, echoing in her ears, against the walls, against the plush flesh of Tiberius’s phallus as he now pressed it against her lips. Not even the acrid taste of his own cum - the first spending of a man that she’d had in her mouth - was enough to take the edge off of her own orgasm. She clenched so tight on Marcus that she nearly forced him out, aided by a tidal wave of her own spendings, mixed with his own thick, milky seed. The mixture, forced out around the stopper of Marcus’s cock in minor waves, timed with Marcus's own spurts, oozed thickly down her thighs.


As Marcus lost his balance, tumbling over on her, she, of course, lost her balance, plummeting face down into Tiberius’s sack, smearing spit, cum, and tears along the way.


She seemed to be quite overwhelmed - if she was speaking, it was muffled against the bulk of Tiberius. Indeed, a low, strange murmuring was coming from her, in time with the rising and falling of her torso, overly exaggerated in her need to not only catch her breath, but to find the strength to somehow get to her hands and knees. Tiberius, surely, could feel hot breath against his sack, a sucking that came with an inhale, and her struggling to lift her face and only managing to turn it to the side, away from the both of them. A beat, then - there it was.


Laughter.



Hoarse and rough, but laughter all the same. Her right arm flopped down uselessly beside her, hanging over the edge of the couch. Somehow, she managed the energy to turn her face back towards the couch - back towards Tiberius, craning to look back at Marcus. Or at least register his body, to show that she hadn’t forgotten him. She didn’t trust her arms to support herself, so she continued to lay there, panting, rubbing her face, her cheeks, against Tiberius’s thighs. She thought she’d caught most of his seed - and the bitter taste was still lingering in her mouth, enough to make her nearly gag - but it was rapidly cooling, and she somehow felt, intrinsically, that she shouldn’t get it in her eyes or near them.


For long moments, there was no sound other than heavy breathing and the slow drip of fluids from the couch to the floor. The occasional sigh from her as she tried to get comfortable, but not having the coordination to move. In the post-orgasmic glow - that still had her loosely in its grip; every flutter of her cunt around Marcus’s deflating erection seemed to be small shadows of orgasms - she felt that she was floating. She’d thought taking Tiberius had been an intense orgasm; how little had she known, not even that long ago, that even higher heights were possible! Her head fairly swam, and her vision was growing dark around the corners of her eyes, threatening to pull her under.



“By Venus…” was the only thing she could muster, thrown into the air as a simple reaffirmation that she was still alive. How could she describe how warm she felt, how she hadn't thought that her body could even begin to feel this good? Or how close she felt to Marcus, how she longed for him to stay buried in her like this, but for her to see his face, to be able to caress his cheek, to kiss him? And Tiberius...with her left hand, slapping a bit too much force against his thigh - not out of malice, but out of lack of finer motor control - she rubbed the soft flesh of his inner thigh.

 

[Talon]

A moment of shared mirth between husband, wife, and lover as they basked in the afterglow of their near-simultaneously achieved orgasms, the former two still engaged intimately at their center, there where he had spilled his seed into her, the remnants of which leaked out around the base of his flaccid phallus as its diminished form no longer filled her such that it would be sealed tight within her depths. Marcus was gradually regaining his breath by way of deep huffs, practically panting, the sounds of a man both fatigued and pleasured, such though as if in those last moments as his orgasm drew he had forsaken the intake of breath in favor of concentration. The sound of her laughter echoed in his ears even as the spendings from her orgasm still cooled against the warmth of his skin. Both were strong outward signs of her enjoyment, each nearly as gratifying to him as the sensation of his own orgasmic pleasure had been. Besides pleasure, there had been something of a personal point to prove, that even though this new, oversexed male had caught her attention, a rival of sorts, Marcus would not simply lay down and surrender in the face of such competition. Never mind that he had enjoyed watching her with him, had been aroused by the sight of her being pleasured by another; Marcus was her husband, and Gaia his mate.

It was not entirely altruistic, his desire to please her sexually, for there was for him great pleasure to be taken from the act itself. Beyond that, rarely was she more beautiful than in those moments she was deep in the throes of orgasm. The Gaia he had met that day in her father’s domus was the daughter, the woman who strolled through this, his villa, now her household, the wife. In those rare moments where it was none but they, in the cabin of the carriage, in their bedchamber, that morning in the baths… that is when the woman emerged, the sexual being, his lover, instinctually wielding all the power imbued to her by her sex, equal parts curious and confidant, brimming with life and love and warmth and readily sharing of it with every touch. Her expressions, the sounds, the sensations, of feeling her grip tightly to him, intimately, for a brief moment all worldly concerns forgotten … it was breathtaking to bear witness to, and deeply satisfying to be the cause of.



More…

The tone of Tiberius’ inner voice matched the satiated growl that droned lowly from deep within in his throat, his lips quirked in that deviously playful grin of his, eyes sparkling with mischief as he watched her, his look something akin to when they’d first crossed paths that morning, equal parts cocksure and conspiratorial, as if he alone knew the answer to some great cosmic riddle he had no intention of divulging the answer to. A fresh sheen of sweat darkened the mess of blonde curls about his forehead and temples, stray strands clinging wetly to his flesh here and there where others curved up and away from their kin like the half-moon blade of a sickle. Still sat up, his head hovering up and above her own, that fat phallus of his laid lazily across his left thigh opposite where her hand slapped at him, neither erect nor fully flaccid, both the organ and its owner seeming yet to have entered a state of total satisfaction.

“You’re quite beautiful when you cum, cub… did you know that, hmmm?” Booming bass colored darkly by lusty rasp. Rhetorical, perhaps, but the sentiment was genuine, lacking that bite of sarcasm that typified his less sincere statements. Another contented hum as an oversized hand moved to stroke a thick thumb across her right cheekbone; fine, dignified, delicate almost, the hallmark of fine breeding, of blue blood. Such things mattered little to him, to the man who sat before her, uninhibited by his nakedness, seemingly unashamed of the fact that he had just been brought to orgasm by the assistance of her finger wriggling about inside his rump three knuckles deep.

For a man such as Tiberius, there was nothing to hide. Not the scars that marked his body here or there, nor the beginnings of a slight pudge at his middle that threatened to form something of an unsightly roll there at his gut as his body contorted so, nor the signs of his insatiably overactive libido, his prick still from time to time stirring as it again began to slowly work itself tumescent. For all his bluster and bravado, the man’s true nature held very little in the way of guile. He’d not sneak around your back nor conceal his true intent behind flowery innuendo, nor would he take shame in reveling in the enjoyment of sensations that brought him pleasure.

Tiberius’ thumb traversed her cheek to trace a path down the line of her jaw until his fingers could cup her chin, trailing through a thick streak or two of his own cum in the process. Stout fingers, roughly calloused, connected behind the wrist to a forearm with as much girth as most men’s calves. A tightening, there, the seizing of her throat, playful, mostly, though not without some semblance of strength that even his intention to be gentle could not entirely mask. He lifted her head then, chin cradled in the valley of flesh between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her visage up so that he could bring his own face down nearly level to hers, head and neck craning down in the process. The ice blue of his gaze hardened as the tip of their noses nearly touched.

“Beautiful indeed…” His eyes never left hers, conveying depth behind the shallowness of his words, roiling with newfound emotion that had never before accompanied the spending of his seed. Similar, and yet altogether different, from the feeling aroused by the sight and thought of Marcus. The older man, what had once been his mentor of sorts, in some regards, was friend first and object of desire second. He had taught him much of what it meant to be a soldier, a citizen, even if the lessons towards the latter had most often gone without regard. The voice inside, the one that discerned right from wrong, was his.

The same was not exactly true of her, the Amazon from the Baths. A woman in age if only very recently in experience, what could she possibly teach him of the world that he hadn’t already learned? He was not as old as Marcus, not nearly so, although he was nearer in years to him than he was to her, so much so that she might not think it much of a distinction. And yet, there was something of her voice within him as well. Not chiding, nor directing, but guiding, soothing him along as if a rider calming spooked steed, urging him to fall, to allow himself to be caught, to let not her hands take his reigns, but her heart…

The tips of their noses touched just then, his nuzzling at hers as if a wolf nuzzling against it's mate. “I’m not satisfied yet, cub…” The rasp was enough to make the hair on the back of one’s neck stand on end, not from fear, nor excitement, but both. If the tone of one’s voice could convey a sense of carnal hunger, his surely did in that moment. “I want to taste of your golden cunt once more…” The fingers around her neck tightened just so. “... to scrape that fat load your husband just dumped in you out with my tongue… make room for my own…” A deep hum, then, as his chin jutted forth, his teeth nipping playfully at the thickness of her bottom lip. “... send you to bed for the night with a belly full of my seed…” To your husband's bed no less… he added to himself as soon as the words had left his lips. His prick throbbed as if to demonstrate its support for such a statement, a quick bobbing movement in the lower peripheral sector of her vision as the beast between his thighs began to stir once more, rising partially up before falling back against his belly with a quick surge of energy, the truly boundless depth of its, or rather his, nearly insatiable libido readily apparent even so near the explosive release of his orgasm.

Another low, wordless hum as his nose nuzzled at the tip of hers. His eyes, those expressive, savagely cold orbs, betrayed a depth and range of emotion beyond mere lustful desire as they locked with hers. It was as if the sky above and the earth below met in their gaze, sparks flashing, the strike of the blacksmith’s hammer to iron fresh from the forge. He had made a request of sorts, even if it hadn’t sounded like much of one judging from his tone, and before she’d even been given the chance to offer support or argument to his suggestion his lips were on hers. Never mind that her face was covered in fluids, some his, some hers, some likely Marcus’, or that in particular her lips had not been spared from the onslaught of thick, viscous cum that his orgasm had produced. He wanted her to feel him, to know that this hunger he felt was real, that whatever this was and would come to be between them, his lust for her endured, for it was not the mere fleeting sensation of a man desiring to bed her and move on to his next conquest. Further yet, it masked something stronger, deeper, more powerful than even lust, something he understood even less of than she. If his crass words had failed to convey the conviction of what lie beneath, perhaps the passion behind his kiss would.

 

[Talon]

As if on cue Marcus stirred at her back, still splayed out atop her, his pelvis and middle pressed against the cushion of her backside, the arms extended to either side of her still engaged in holding his upper body aloft. He had heard something of his battle brother’s whisperings to her, after all, they had hardly been issued with the caution needed to convey an expectation of remaining private between them. What words he was able to make out cooled the warmth of laughter that yet still rang in his ears. His gaze flickered to Tiberius.

Again?... Would she want it again… with him?

Marcus’ eyes fell from Tiberius’ face down to Gaia, to the back of her head, to the smooth expanse of her naked scalp that glistened wetly in the low-lamp light of the triclinium. His eyes fixed there as if he could hope to see past flesh and bone, deeper, to divine her deepest thoughts and emotions and desires. A flash of memory… of being pressed behind her, jostled awake by the residual force of thrusting hips as ripples of transferred energy worked their way through her body… of looking down, over her shoulder… of seeing exactly what it was that was causing her to be rhythmically rocked back into him…

A sharp intake of breath, leaning upwards, his palms pressing into the cushion of the couch beneath her. He could see it, there, just over her right shoulder, that thing which he had seen invading her womanhood, the thing which he had coined ‘Gaia’s dildo’ in order to divorce it entirely from the man it was attached to. It wasn’t quite as primed for action as it had been when they had been standing side by side, but far more so than his own currently was. Not Tiberius’ equal in appetite by any means, but Marcus was a virile man, particularly so when considering his age. Still, even the siren song that was the tightness of his wife’s cunt, still gripped around his phallus even in its now diminished state, could not coax from him another erection so near his last. When accounting for the activity of the day and the intake of the night, it was something of a feat in and of itself that he had managed to perform as he had up to this point of the evening.

Marcus’ pulse quickened as his upper half bent forward, his head tilting, his lips pressing a kiss into the place where her neck met her shoulder, to that nape there, savoring the smoothness of her earthen brown skin, detecting the faintest hint of the sweat that caused her skin to shine in the low lamplight. “Mmmm…” A low, contented hum. It was not that her sweat tasted either foul or pleasant, unlike the fragrance and flavor of her womanhood it was without distinction from any other’s, but it was of her, and as such, to him it was pleasing. She could surely discern his energy, from the gentle movement of his lips, the slight grinding of his pubis down against her rump, the twitch of his manhood inside her, only just the tip and a fingertip’s worth of the rest, not the powerful surge of blood filling it, perhaps instead the twitch of sensual excitement coursing through it. If her husband had an objection, surely he would give voice in just such a moment? Surely he would not simply revel in the taste of her flesh, of the feel of her body against his, of the thought of her dildo filling her once more, testing her limits and pushing her beyond them, providing her with that sensation of tearing apart at the seams that she seemed to desire deep in her heart that only an object of its impossible dimensions could possibly provide. She had given voice to it before when they had been alone. He wasn’t sure what repercussions would come from the events of this evening, whether she would ever want to indulge in such debauchery again. The damage had already been done if there was to be any, what harm could come of allowing her to indulge once more if that was what she truly desired?

Never mind that it was what he desired, that he could scarcely stop himself from imagining what bevy of sights and sounds his senses would be treated to should she opt to go another round with her new lover. His ego, his deep sense of masculine pride, still stood in the way of allowing him to openly admit as much. It had to be her decision made, else what did that mean for him as a man, a husband, that he openly desired such? Heated whispers of filth as they coupled were one thing, this… this was entirely another. In his way, with heated kisses across the expanse of her neck and shoulder and the prodding of his hips against hers, Marcus offered his wife silent signals of assent.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Laughter echoed around her - different from her own, braiding into hers. Was that the sound of Marcus’s laughter? Rare enough that she wasn’t sure that she’d recognize it; let alone pick it out in a room full of others. Tiberius’s was easy enough, discerned by the vibrations in his core, radiating into the air, slipping through his skin. Still fumbling, she was greatly aided by Tiberius’s hand on her face - and for the briefest of moments, she nuzzled into it, enjoying the caress on a primal level. An unspoken assignment of praise, well-earned and pleasing - one she lapped up greedily, even if not fully cognizant of the reasons. His hand moved lower, to the slender column of her throat. Time stilled. Before, she had been afeared of his size - for good reason. A stranger in the bath, one that could’ve easily broken her several times over. And now here was a shadow of that strength, a reminder that sex had not dulled the power within him.


It wasn’t quite a shiver that went through her. It was a sudden tightening of her cunt, deep and instinctual, enough to force Marcus free from her, a torrent of their mixed fluids spurting behind, one harsh burst before trailing into a lazy stream. There was a stilling of her breath, anticipation, a flicker of that fear, as she watched Tiberius: well unable to look away at this point, not with the way that he cradled her. Their eyes met. She heard his words - he’d called her ‘beautiful’ - but they were heat shaped by lips, air that dissipated into the aether beneath the exchange behind those eyes. Spoken solely in pheromones, perhaps - an acknowledgement of his immense strength that dwarfed her own: a strength that was no longer a challenge, but that of an innate victor. And unknowing to her own mind, the submission that followed was immediate; not from someone who was cowed before the fight even begun, but a shift in dancing. He was the victor - for now.


Heavy brows relaxed, eyes grew half-lidded and dewy, the gaping mouth twisting into the form of a smile so slight that it could turn on a heel into a smirk. She knew something, deeply: two animals speaking to one another, agreeing to silent terms. Truce signed before their noses touched; deal further solidified. A coquettish sound, not quite a giggle, not quite a purr, nor a growl, but some mixture of all three as his hand tightened on his throat. Unexpectedly her right hand moved to cover his own on her throat. Feather-light clenching of her hand over his -

Do it. Own me.


Her eyes found his again, all uncertainty banished. She knew the foundation was there; did nothing in her mind to question it. Against all odds, she trusted him, lost on an ocean of wine and her gut that was tugging her forward. Coaxing her to a new door, long hidden.


A long trace of her tongue against her lower lip, tasting salt, semen. Flicked against his teeth in the space of time before he bit softly on her lower. A deep hum, contemplating his words, thinking on how best to answer. With his hand securely on her throat, she shifted, limbs unsteady, but finding their own strength as she leaned, her right hand slipping between her legs.


“…I think,” a thick whisper, partially out of the gymnastics her voice recently went through, partially out of some hesitation, “That I’m quite content with my husband’s seed where it is. But …” she trailed off, letting her eyes slip to the side, feigned innocence to her next action. “I think I can arrange for you to have a taste nonetheless.” Fingers that had slipped between the swollen lips of her cunt, dampening them quite easily with the combination of her and Marcus, and as dainty as she would apply rouge to her lips, she traced the lines of Tiberius’s mouth with arousal dampened fingers. If she was hoping for there to be a white cast on his lips due to the sheer amount of fluid that still eased from her, she would be disappointed. If anything, her ‘paint’ on his mouth was clear, if not redolent of her cunt and the deeper, almost sea foam spray of Marcus’s cum. She seemed to hum as she went about her work, only pulling back to admire her handiwork for the briefest of moments. Leaning forward again, it seemed that she was going in for a kiss, but her lips stopped below the rounded lobe of Tiberius’s ear. “My cunt is hungry enough to accommodate both your seed and his. In fact,” a flick of the tongue against that very same lobe, “I would be disappointed to leave here not fairly sloshing with the two of you inside of me, as overfull as a wine skin.” Those words were for his ears alone, an aureus surreptitiously dropped into a closed palm. “Keep your hand there,” she said, a bit louder this time, reassuring him that the largeness of his hand against her throat was okay. Desired, even. “Because as you requested…I expect you to do most of the work.”


A smile, light-hearted, then, girlish as she shifted with a slight hup! “Pardons, my love,” tossed back to Marcus, not that she’d forgotten him, “I’m going to move a bit…ah, don’t go too far. Please.” An edge to that teasing: the cat with the mouse between her paws. Somehow, with the aid of both men, she managed to finagle herself into her new desired position - having, with some great reluctance, moved Tiberius’s hand away from her throat.


“Now,” she said, beaming with pride at her accomplishment, “Let’s try this again.” She was now facing Tiberius on her knees, the added height of the couch making it so that they were nearly eye to eye. “What I think,” winding her arm up (and barely avoiding hitting Tiberius in the process) in the grand gesture of an orator, “Is that I should mount you,” a tap to Tiberius’s chest - and her tone was that it wasn’t open for debate. To further drive home her point, it was now her turn to mimic his hand on her throat - her right hand, still slick with cum and spit, barely enough to pose any threat to this giant of a man, clutched at his Adam’s apple. It was no mere pretty hold, either: there was enough force in those fingers to suggest an unspoken and uncommon strength; nowhere near his own, but enough. The feel of his throat, bobbing as he swallowed, beneath her hand, made her nearly visibly shudder. “My Venus,” hissed low, as she leaned forward, eagerly capturing his mouth with her own. So hard that teeth clacked, arms flailed, as she kept that hand on his neck, squeezing a bit harder, “Seat yourself within me, Tiberius,” a low growl beneath his ear, her teeth finding thin skin between his ear and where his neck met his head. She shifted, the world reduced to her and this massive man.


Long legs folded, unfolded, around the hips of Tiberius. A roll of her hips, dragging sodden cunt lips against the rapid swell of his cock. “Go on, then,” a grin of bared teeth, a challenge, still with that hand on his throat. I trust you, said those dark eyes, beneath all of the bluster, the curves of her mouth still a secret bond between them. Show me.

 

[Talon]

Tiberius lingered with her perched there upon his lap for a moment longer than his overactive libido strictly demanded. She had called him to action, beckoned him using the most effective seductive tools in the arsenal of any woman; a suggestive smirk and the siren song that was the promised tightness of her cunt. It had been effective, of that there could be no doubt, for she could feel the rigid length of his prick throbbing in response to the grinding of her sex crudely against the underside. Still, golden cunts and eager pricks aside, he had enjoyed kissing her, or rather, had enjoyed her kissing him, and in that moment, with her hand still wrapped tightly about his throat, that sparkle of mischief in her eyes, her thighs wrapped around his middle… something just felt… right.

He was more than merely some oversexed maniac who desired to stick his prick in anything that moved… he was her man, just as much as the one to whom she addressed with the enviable moniker of ‘my love’. The kisses were not especially deep or meaningful on the surface, particularly not in comparison to what had been their first, but there was something more complex being conveyed through them. Something alien that was slowly becoming known, a sensation much more than simply drunken lust, as if she sought to signal that she wanted to feel him inside her not merely because the act promised pleasure, but because that is where he truly belonged. All the trials and tribulations of his life; the battles, the carousing, the whoremongering, all of it had played out to prepare him for this singular moment in time, to make him worthy of bedding such a woman as was Gaia.

And so he held her kiss, the rumbling of a hungered growl from low in his throat reverberating against her lips through his own. Such feelings had often paralyzed her rightful mate, her husband, for a seasoned man such as he better understood the ramifications, but Tiberius, her lover and companion in lust, he knew not how serious such things could be, would be, when sober heads prevailed. What did it mean to fall hopelessly in love with the wife of your best friend, your battle brother, your superior, militarily and socially? What did it mean to have that feeling returned, that this woman could make room in her heart and in her bed for another man?

Not to mention; what if it was his seed that eventually took root in her womb? A woman such as her; glowing, nubile, voluptuous… nature would surely take its course should eager pricks continue to spend their load inside that golden cunt of hers.

Such concerns might nag at the mind of a less focused man, but for all of Tiberius’ faults, of which there were undoubtedly many, lack of determination was not among them.

It was with rabid hunger that his lips continually met hers, as if he sought sustenance from her in return, as if their intimate connection sustained life even more than the air that each belabored breath drew into his lungs. His tongue was bold, wrapping about hers in imitation of erotic dance, tasting of what all she had taken in through her mouth that evening, of his own seed, of wine…

The kiss was broken, somewhat reluctantly, if judged by the look of longing still plain on his visage, by the sudden upward bucking of his hips, jostling her up and forward, his arm encircling her waist, its hand seizing a handful of plump rump meat, the musculature along his left side activating as he used it to hold her aloft, her head and shoulders above his own, the randy giant maintaining eye contact long enough to playfully smirk up at her with a cocky upward curl at the right corner of his mouth.

A grunt then, deep, guttural, like the snorting of a bull as a stamping hoof bit into the earth, as Tiberius’ face suddenly pressed directly and purposefully into the crevasse between her breasts. Such substantial endowments proved to be not so easily displaced as to allow entry there without some measure of force, their firmness pressing against his cheeks, her bosom stubbornly fighting to retain its proud shape as if not deigning to relinquish its state of fullness merely on account of his whim. Some women were notably soft there, particularly so when they grew to such a size, such that the removal of the undergarment designed to retain them upright would result in some measure of sag, hanging downward under the force of their own weight. Some men perhaps might not strictly favor such a thing, but in truth, it did not bother Tiberius… bodies were built differently, each with its own unique sort of appeal. Such was not the case with Gaia, however, as if when the gods had formed her, as they poured into her mold from the goblet of endowment, they had allowed it to almost overfill, just to the point where her breasts would be over-large but not obscene. They were full, each half-orb large enough to perhaps rival even his boulder of a head, but densely firm still, stubbornly so, so much that it took him some effort to deform their rightful shape enough to permit him to press his face well between them.

The hand that held her aloft at her backside did not remain idle as his face battled against the self-imposed facial captivity of her chest at her front, for as the considerable musculature of those thick thighs of her’s activated to help him keep her aloft, it too was questing, roaming against the one feature of her otherwise petite form whose size was capable of humbling even him, he whose hand could encircle the entirety of her throat with ease was not quite up to the task of conquering such an expanse of flesh by merely seizing a handful of it. Shifting over, fingertips sliding into that crevasse that split it down the middle exploratorily, not lingering, though, just as if taking the measure of the entirety of her rump with something akin to reverence, oddly respectful in his queer way, forceful, as in not strictly asking or even seeking her approval, and yet without the physicality of a man taking a woman against her will, as if it were assumed that if he himself wanted to fondle her backside, then that is what would be done.

As the hand at her rump took the opportunity to fondle and grope its way across her backside, so too did he take liberties at her front, with Tiberius’ face now firmly wedged into the cleft between her breasts as deeply as it would go, eyes fully covered, cheeks hugged, the point at the tip of his craggy nose pressed lightly into her sternum. She could feel the heat of his exhalation, a fresh breath drawn deeply, nose and mouth alike pressed against the softness of her vulnerable bit of flesh there. Never exposed to the harshness of sunlight, dark not only through the absence of light but by virtue of the natural tone of her flesh, warm where his was cool, sun-ripened, yes, but not nearly as to rival hers. Compared to him she was dark, yes, but not like the cold darkness of a northern night, that crispiness in the air that could be seen on your breath. She was warm, delightfully warm, particularly so here where her breasts met her chest and stomach. Warm like the earth, her namesake, which from her soil all life sprung and grew and prospered. To be so near her, her core, touching, tasting and breathing in of her scent… it was utterly intoxicating.

Tiberius desired nothing more than to be within arm's length of this woman for the rest of his days, to lay entwined together basking in the heat of the sun, to let its rays warm their bodies as it rose to its midday zenith, chores and duties and callings left unheeded, servants to feed them and bathe them and witness them as they continuously coupled, his sex never leaving hers if only long enough to relieve himself as nature demanded, only then to be washed and primed and pressed into her again as if in renewal of an eternal cycle…

His lust boiled over then, a snort of air from the face between her breasts, his hand at her rump seizing a handful and pulling her towards him, into him, a shaking of his head, disturbing the peaceful state of a bosom that had only just begrudgingly settled into its new shape, reluctantly jiggling orbs that fought against his boyish actions as if too stodgy to participate, only just drug along by the forceful tug of a hand as he pulled them into the circle to dance. Warm kisses, the drag of teeth against blemishless flesh, the deep laughter of the carefree chuckle that characterized his playful mood…

All at odds with the sudden, sharp crack of his right hand, the one not currently engaged in holding her pressed up against him, as open palm connected with the firm flesh of her rump. It bore a similar measure of force behind it as it the one had from that morning in the bath, well enough to fill this smaller room with the sharp crack of flesh-on-flesh impact, to carry with it a feel of having been disciplined, to leave in its wake a tingling sensation where his flesh had met hers.

 

[Talon]

Tiberius’ face pulled back then, face flushed red, sweat marking his brow, hair disheveled particularly at the front, a hard, determined set to his eyes as his visage tilted up to meet hers.

“Fucking’ fine set of teats, cub…” The forceful emphasis of his pronunciation and the addition of profanity made the proclamation sound sordid, what otherwise might be seen as complimentary, if not a bit forward, was made lewd by virtue of the color of his tone. Without breaking eye contact his head shifted to the side, a slight tilt to bring his mouth in alignment with the dark nub that crowned the center of her magnificent left orb. “The finest I’ve ever seen…” High praise from a man like him, even if the receiver of such praise was blissfully unaware of exactly how many pairs of breasts he had seen and fondled and suckled at over the years, of all shapes and sizes and colors, such that his opinion might be considered particularly authoritative.

A dark growl, menacing, as his mouth suddenly shot forward to wrap his lips around her nipple. Suckling like he expected to find sustenance, one long, forceful suck, drawing in much more than just her nipple by force of the suction generated, the area of the aureola that encircled it, the dusky flesh that lightened just beyond that, suckling then as his mouth was drawn full, the tip of his tongue dancing across the dainty nub of her nipple, encircling it, flicking it, pressing against it as if to flatten it.

His hips bucked,then, her sex no longer in contact with his given its newfound elevated position, still she could feel it as it slumped over to rest heavily against the inside of her right thigh near where it pressed into his middle.

Crack!

Another slap to her rump, another throaty growl as the level of his suction around her breast increased, pulling at her flesh as his head moved further away, suspending it between them, her orb gradually elongating into a teardrop shape as he pulled at it, suckling, his tongue thrashing at her nipple as it remained entrapped within the confines of his mouth. The force of his pull gradually increased, more and more of her captive breast slipping free from his oral grasp until finally he held little more than the nipple and its surrounding aureola captured between his lips. His teeth encircled the sensitive nub then, the flatness of his upper and lower fronts clamping into the spongy flesh, not enough that they met, but something akin to what his hand had been at her throat, a threat, subtle, dangerous…

Crack!

Another smack to the rump. Different this time, however, as his hand remained pressed down against her flesh rather than immediately pulling away to prepare for the next strike. That hand slid down and back, seeking out the cleft between her cheeks, sliding down, down, perhaps providing something of a tickle were it not for the distraction of the efforts of his mouth at her front, blindly searching for her lower entrance and exit both, a satisfied groan from around his mouthful of nipple marking his success even as fingertips brushed past the puckered ring of her anus. Wet from the multitude of fluids, sticky almost, Gaia could feel what must be his thumb press against the crinkle of flesh there, judging from both the thickness and the fact that other digits had continued lower, rubbing past the mess of fluids that soaked the plump mound of her most intimate area of flesh.

Another grunt as his teeth finally released their grasp on her nipple, popping free from his oral cavity with an audible, wet smack. His thumb pressed menacingly against her anus, probing it, assessing its tightness as much as to tease her.

“You like it up the ass, cub?”

The force of his relentlessly pressing thumb increased, slowly working its way inside as the tight pucker reluctantly gave ground to the questing digit. His face pressed once more into the flesh of her breasts as they hung there before him, sensual kisses whose tone was directly at odds with the filth that spilled forth from his lips. Two fingers had been pressed together, middle and ring, perhaps, and they gradually rubbed down the slit of her sex, sodden as it was with the combined spendings of husband and wife both, forcefully pressing between those thick outer labia, over the splash of color there, down until their tips pressed against the dainty little nub of her clitoris.

His thumb pressed further as the combined fingers traced a circular pattern over her clit.

Her answer, if it came at all, didn’t seem to matter. Her participation was welcome but unneeded. His intent was to have her climbing the walls before she climbed on him, and he set about stoking that flame further.

“Yeah, of course you do… any hole to please your man, right?” A low growl as his fingers worked and his lips pressed kisses against her breasts. “I’ll bet you’d let me take you up the ass right now if I demanded it… wouldn’t you? Your cunt is spoiling for it… so wet I could get half my arm up you before you’d whimper a complaint…still, you’d give it up for me to take my pleasure from your ass…wouldn’t you, cub?”

Tiberius’ head tilted upwards then, leaving behind the bounty of her breasts, reluctantly, craning his neck to the side, his mouth at her throat now. A deep, sucking kiss to the flesh beneath her earlobe, a nibble along her jawline as his thumb pressed its way fully inside her anus, well lubricated enough by the gathering of hers and Marcus’ fluids that it surely went without much pain beyond potential discomfort. His fingers at her clit were somewhat restricted in their range of motion now that his thumb was now an anchor, and given the circumstances, they simply stroked at her clit as best as he could.

“You’re lucky…” A growl, deep, his visage no longer visible to her as his affections pushed her head back, skyward, his teeth nibbling at her throat. “If not for that golden cunt of yours I would bend you over this couch and have you like I take men I lay with…” Another long, suckling kiss as his thumb pressed deeper into her anus, fingers stroking. “... on their hands and knees…” The answer to the unspoken question. “... you wouldn’t walk straight for a week, cub…” A nibble. “... ram my prick so deep into your ass that the head comes out your throat…”

His head pulled back then to allow her to once more look down, to meet his eyes, smoldering as they were, enflamed, impassioned…

“...if not for the finest cunt I’ve ever had…” He leaned up, a hot, bordering on desperate kiss pressed against her lips, his tongue seeking hers, broken only a moment to allow him to speak. “Hold yourself up a moment, cub…”

The hand that had been engaged in holding a handful of her rump and keeping her lower half elevated relinquished its grip, his other still continuing its pleasurable actions as its twin returned to her front. Reaching down between them, blindly, he seized his cock and maneuvered it toward her, the head pressing into the soft bit of her belly beneath her navel, the warm wetness of a fresh drop of precum that had formed at the tip transferring to her flesh as they met.

“Up…” A simple command, intuitive, for surely she could feel it, the urgency with which his potently hardened prick pressed at her middle, prodding once at her navel as if it mindlessly, of its own accord, even, fruitlessly sought to penetrate her there.

The hand directing his prick kept it steady and pointed towards her, such as when her hips rose up, that bell-shaped head at the tip pressed wetly against her flesh as it trailed its way down her lower body. Down past her pubis, across the forest of tightly curled little dark hairs that framed her sex, down, over where the fingers that had been flicking at her clit had worked their trade just a moment prior, having pulled back as if to show deference to the more important appendage as it drew nearer. That hand now pulled away, the thumb gradually wriggling its way free of the tight grip of her anus, his hand now once more gripping her rump and helping to hold her aloft.

“Tell me you want it, cub. Tell me you need it… tell me you need my cock to ruin this tight little hole of yours…”

Finally, the head of his prick was pressed against her outer labia, sliding down, gathering fluids as it passed, positioning itself at her entrance… pressing in… spreading… threatening... promising...

 

[Talon]

Marcus had taken a seat on the couch behind them after having helped Gaia maneuver into position atop Tiberius. It felt odd, to be watching them from so close a vantage but not participating. Most odd, perhaps, that he felt not the burn of jealousy or the sting of regret, but that the scene unfolding between the two of them beside him was… arousing. His prick did not stir, not yet at least, but as he watched Tiberius’ fingers work their way into her intimate areas, that which should be for him and her to explore, only… there was something about it that brought a tightness to his chest, the good kind, something akin to when he’d first seen Gaia as he lifted up her wedding veil.

It was an odd sensation, no doubt, looking upon them as Tiberius’ thumb played at her anus, Marcus remembering what it had felt like for him to have done so, to have put his tongue there, his fingers, how she had complained of it hurting after but during it had seemed to provide her an altogether different sort of pleasure as when they engaged in more traditional forms of coitus.
It was like a dark secret being uncovered again, taboo, and perhaps not as enjoyable as having done so himself, it was of the same species of feeling.

And then there was… that beast, Tiberius’... Gaia’s dildo, his brain forcefully interjected. That mass of flesh looked impressive and daunting every time one laid eyes on it. Perhaps Gaia too would feel similar and second guess her decision should she have the virtue of this vantage, for, despite his eyes being fixed on Gaia, with both her sex and her rump pointed squarely in his direction, in his peripheral vision, that mass of flesh towered up over the pair of thighs Gaia sat astride.

Marcus watched as the pair worked together to align it with the entrance to her sex, his view obscured. He scoffed under his breath. He’d hardly seen more than the shaft of the thing when he’d peered drown from over Gaia’s shoulder. But this, this was as close a view and as prime a vantage as one could possibly hope to get. It looked ridiculous… it didn’t seem made to fit in anyone’s orifices, let alone one on a woman as petite as his wife. She was stout in the hips, sure, ‘healthy’ one might even say, voluptuous… but he knew from first-hand knowledge, ‘down there’, as it were, she was… well…small, for lack of a better descriptor.

Accommodating, yes… that much he had also learned. He knew from what she told him and past experience that he was not hindered by his own size, it was nothing to be ashamed of, and he wasn’t. Walking around with something like what Tiberius swung around seemed… overly cumbersome, to say the least.

Still, he knew, also from first-hand experience, that Gaia had her own desires, little seeds that had only just begun to take root. If experiencing something like this was borne of them, then he shared it with her, and wanted to be a part of the pleasure she would surely feel once she explored it further.

Which meant putting that thing in her, again…

Marcus drew closer to them, unconsciously, remaining well away from the range of kicking foot should a limb haphazardly be thrown but still closer. A hand worked its way between his thighs, stroking at his still-slumbering prick as he watched the head of her dildo press against her entrance…



Tiberius’ hips bucked up with all the force he could muster, the head of his prick finding purchase, spreading the svelte walls of her so recently well-used cunt around them, packing her full, stretching her open anew as if it were the first time of the evening, as if her husband had not spent the better part of a quarter-hour hammering away at her as if she owed him money. There was some measure of progress, however, whether due to the liberal flow of her arousal, the presence of her husband's seed, or her cunt not having fully recovered from the last thick prick to spread its walls, this time was not as difficult as their first. That had been like trying to squeeze an overlarge cork into the mouth of a too-small bottle. This was different, she took more of him, more easily, fully a third of his monstrous appendage sliding into her on the first go.

She might have accommodated him more easily this go around, but there was no great change to the sheer force of her grip.

A grunt from Tiberius as his head jolted back, little droplets of sweat flung into the air behind him. “Fuck!” Another thrust, less forceful, his hand releasing its hold on his prick as it was no longer needed, snaking around her side to join the other, his massive forearms biting into the tops of her thighs.

“Gods, woman…” His head snapped back forward, his voice ragged, throaty, deep, his head turning, leaning upward enough that he could press his lips to hers. His tongue sought hers hungrily, eager to express himself in ways that his capacity to form words simply couldn’t at that moment.

The kiss was sweet, eager, warm… the drilling of prick into her cunt, however, was relentless, nothing less than savage lust in the workings of his hips and arms. He was continually pulling at her, tugging her downwards with that strength of his, dwarfing her own, hands gripping tightly to the outside of her hips there where it clenched in at her waist, forearms pressing down against her thighs, grinding her down into him even as his hips shot up towards her with all the force their limited range of motion could muster. All efforts combined to sink more and more and ever more of his seemingly endless prick into her, mercilessly spreading her open around the sheer girth of such a specimen, offering neither quarter nor mercy to a cunt surely never meant to accommodate such an oversized organ.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Perhaps, if wine had not addled her senses, perhaps if she was more familiar with the core of Tiberius (instead of only having met him mere hours ago), she would see more within Tiberius’s eyes, and could’ve been tenderer. There would have been more of an effort to dissolve herself into him, or to fully wrap him up in endless fields of affection. To rip open her heart and let everything pour out, much like she had with Marcus.


But there was something there; something that goaded her forward, that allowed her to take those first steps with the kiss. That tugging in the depths of her stomach, at the bottom of her heart, that let her know that this was okay. It went beyond the ideals of a proper Roman wife; beyond whatever it was that she was trying to figure out with Marcus. Fumbling in the darkness, this was a rope of light, one of the few things she’d ever felt sure about. And with her legs around the width of his waist, she paused, hand still on his throat, to pull him closer, to touch her forehead to his. Pressing until there was a faint dull ache, like trying to forcibly merge the two of them together through this one focal point.


Broken in its own time, by his mouth finding hers. Where Marcus was gentle, Tiberius was rough, nearly feral. Childish, almost; the greed there, the mine mine mine now now now that she could feel herself grinning about. In those brief moments where both would have to part merely to breathe, that small grin, hesitant at first, began to grow in confidence. Not smugness; she hadn’t earned that yet. Confidence in that there was more than what was floating on the surface of her brain, that this had been the meeting of two animals that understood each other without any trappings. And, as a devotee of Diana, was it not her proper role to understand and have a great affinity for wild, untamed things? Her kiss would be her lasso, then - snaking round vulnerable legs, his throat, all the better to bring him to heel to her. The wild ox lured to her side by soft words, by a deep understanding of his power, and not the desire to lord over him, but to be of mutual benefit to one another -


She laughed, loud, suddenly, as he buried his face between her breasts, nearly losing her grip around his neck. Accommodating him, she leaned her body back a bit further, opening up her chest to him, her legs forming the seal to keep her in place. And as natural as anything, she ran her fingers through his damp blonde curls - from a different angle, it was less an image of sexual debauchery than that of a doting partner, the shadow of a mother comforting a child. Her cheek would rest against the crown of his head, only for a moment, those dark eyes of her closed as she simply hummed, letting him ravage the space between her heavy breasts, small as it was. Her shoulders, broad for a noblewoman, would only reveal their “true” nature when she was naked - to be a better frame from those large breasts. Rather than project outwards, mountains on a plain, they made up their size in sheer fullness and in weight - so much that there was scarcely a hair’s width between them as they sat uncommonly high on her chest, even without the support of her strophium. Deep within the crevasse between them the flower of her perfume bloomed, coating him with the sheen of her sweat and the animal fat and oils caught there, her skin gilded with the woody medicinal taste of it all. Myrrh and sandalwood and spikenard, all expensive, all speaking of her higher status, still, mingled with her own deep musk, was otherworldly, peering into the depths of a cave nearly discovered.


This close to her, he could feel the tremor of her laughter through her chest, softer now, then the faint hummingbird beat of her humming, coupled with her fingers through his hair. Without words, she was comforting him, smiling down at him, doting on him without fully knowing why. A heavy rush of overwhelming tenderness took over her, nearly snatching her from the cradle of damp sex and lust that still hung heavy in the air around them. This too, felt natural: felt another way of communicating with the beast. Her breasts heavy around him, molding to his rutting, occasionally he would grow too fierce with his pressing, catching delicate flesh between the weight of his head and the fold of her chest, pinching - a common problem for her - creative maneuvering from her to avoid the worst of the pain and not to dislodge him.


His hand brazenly trailing over her rear wasn’t enough to quite tear that tenderness from her, either: her fingers, rather, caught into those deep wheat colored curls - idly, at first. Stroking turning into curling loops of hair around her fingers, experimentally - a stand off between what his hand would do versus her own. His breath exploded against her, and she joined in his laughter -


“I’m surprised you could even breathe,” she managed, breaking the loud silence of mere exhalations, of sharp inhales, the sputtering of oil lamps against wicks that had gone too long without tending. Their shadows grew longer as the light died down, painting the walls behind them in long shadows of entangled bodies. Still her fingers kept in his hair, inquisitive, acknowledging the wandering of the hand against her ass. And as his hand cupped her, so did her fingers tighten in his hair, a streak of cruelty that spurred her cunt to dampen further. A gasp at the first slap - and she retaliated. Her grip in his hair tightened, and she pulled - but not hard enough to dislodge his face from her breasts. On the contrary, she seemed to delight in only hearing him hiss in surprise, his mouth parting to let a stream of hot air out against her. Her grip in his hair seemed only to guide his head upwards as he spoke -


“Fucking’ fine set of teats, cub…”


At that, the play that she’d unknowingly stepped into seemed to drop from her face, and she looked down at him, truly baffled. Like the wine had once more reached her head, and he was entreating her in a foreign language. This was praise; something she’d had scant of until Marcus, and only within the same capacity. Odd, if she were in her right mind, and something that she’d chew over endlessly had she been sober. Instead, all she did was, once she recovered herself, aided by the second compliment, was snort, half in amusement, half in incredulity. Not that she had much time to give even that response, as he buried his head between the swells of her breasts, forcing a valley between the two of them wide enough for his head to fit, for his mouth to blindly connect with her nipple and suck. ‘Suck’ would be too soft of a word, for his mouth was as rough as his slap had been, at least to her, and pleasure quickly crossed over into a sharpness of pain that no amount of moving could alleviate her from.


Well, sometimes creatures needed a firm hand.


“Then treat them nicely,” the words came to her throat like smoke as she jerked his head back none too gently now, from her grip secure at the back of his head. Like a petulant child, his mouth refused to let go, taking with him her breast, and she had to laugh at the ridiculous view. A laugh that was cut off into a high yelp as he slapped her ass not once, but twice; the imprint of his palm surely bright red against the deep brown of her. A slight squawk of indignation: had she not just told him to be gentler with her?


“If you’re not softer with me, I’m going to go home,” an affect of a spoiled child, complete with a pout. Nevermind that she was actually at ‘home,’ or that her threat was truly baseless, considering how wrapped around Tiberius she was. It wouldn’t be merely a matter of her untangling herself from him, but his loosening of his own grasp, which she doubted would happen any time soon. But, still, turnabout was fair play, and so releasing his hair, she reached between their bodies, difficult as it was, and pinched his left nipple - hard, before lightening and rolling the firm flesh between her fingertips. The graze of his teeth across her own nipple, a quiet warning, was returned by the soft bite of her nails into his pectoral; she was kinder than him, sparing his nipple the same treatment.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

So much for softness - the last slap to her ass, sweat slick as it was, caused her to jerk forward - a soft whimper leaving her as his thumb ruthlessly probed her anus like it was his gods-given right to her, to her body. A brief moment of defeat there; of a tugging desire to fold under this large man and to give him what he was so clearly intent on taking. A further spurring of heat below the waist at the thought of it - of him simply manhandling her into how he wanted it, how he wanted her, to split her open until his seed spilled from her -


A low, guttural moan as he pressed his thumb in further; her cunt clenching tightly on nothing, fluid spilling from her. If he was expecting a more articulate answer, he wasn’t going to get one. She could barely feel the stroking of his fingers higher up on her sex, with how wet she was, it’d be difficult for him to find a good purchase, merely slipping against the hot, smooth flesh of her. Her head lowered, she seemed subdued, quite unsure how to take the intrusion behind her, the flaring heat that was building higher and higher, her hands completely stilled against him as she shuddered under his touch. Her body seemed no longer her own; merely existing for him to play out his own pleasure, to touch, caress, probe in manners pleasing only to him -


Her heart beat rapidly, enough so that it seemed to throb against his lips, even through the dense wall of flesh that her breasts provided. She wanted to wilt, to give into him, to have his teeth drive in further into her throat, to leave her bruised black and blue - if only because it would make her triumph that much more rewarding. Catching a second wind, borne on the laughter of Venus from her dream, she put one arm around his neck, her right, dominant one going to grab at that fine hair at the nape of his neck, and drove his face deeper into the column of her throat that she openly bared for him. The angular bent of his nose was nearly pressed flat, making it difficult for him to breathe, his mouth slipping against the oil spill of her dark skin, still dancing under the fading lamp light.


“Not nearly as much as you need to bury yourself in me,” A slip of fire in that voice as she used her grip on his hair to pull him away from her neck, to look further down into those blue eyes, chill as a December morning, despite the heat there. Eyes as clear as the ocean, eyes that she wanted to scoop out and cradle, wear around her neck, to always have on her. It seemed as if she wanted to say more, even as she ‘obeyed’ his command to lift her hips, to slowly start the final act that had started between them, perhaps started as far back as that initial meeting in the baths. Her legs unfolded from around his waist, helping her gain purchase as she gathered herself into a bit of a crouch over him, the dampness of her sex fairly dripping down onto his own cock, so much that it wouldn’t be clear what was from him and what was from her.

They were at a sort of stalemate, one she knew and clearly relished in. She knew how she felt; she was certain he knew as well, that deep within the tangle of her feelings there was a burning desire to be used by him, as roughly as a rag doll, but he hadn’t earned it. She wanted to see something in him absolutely break, if only for her to cradle every piece and for her to put him together, soothing each crack with a touch of her lips, to breathe back life, affection, into that large frame, for him to be as bound to her as she was to Marcus, not to be at her feet, but at her side, the other half that she could still be wild and run free with the beasts -

Kismet.


She dropped down as he thrust up, and a sharp, high cry was torn from her. A mix of pain, pleasure, of fulfillment. In this position, he felt so much larger than before, and tears of exertion slipped from behind tightly closed eyelids. There would be no mercy, no time to adjust, as his heady swears were nearly drowned out by the wet sound of his hips slapping upwards, each thrust burying himself deeper and deeper into her, until her legs gave out and she had nowhere else to go but down, and carried by gravity, fell entirely onto him, burying him all the way inside of her. She felt that her womb was fit to burst, that the shape of him would be impressed on her from the inside, and could let out little more than a shocked gasp, her body trembling.

Shocked still, she sat splay-legged atop of him, fairly boneless until her brain snapped into place. She had to move. She had to secure herself. With a well-timed partial draw of his cock from her depths, she shifted, though her legs failed to move as quickly she wanted them to. Twice, three times, she attempted to retain her purchase, the third time the charm as she fell into him, her legs wrapping around his waist, her arms around his neck, and she buried her face there, only surfacing to kiss him, to let their lips and tongues speak in words they no longer had, her body jostled atop his. There would be only the most meager of attempts to keep up, to find a good pace between the two of them, but her own inexperience and the sheer size of Tiberius made it impossible for her to truly keep up.


And what of her sex?


Stretched fit to bursting, she felt pressure from all points within her, strangling her, feeling that his cock had traveled from her cunt into her throat, struggling to draw air in her lungs, but yet, but yet - so full, and her eyes simply fluttered back into her head, her mouth hanging open, saliva trailing out in a glittering trail against the side of his neck, those firm shoulders, her cries little more than air being forced from her. Choked off sobs, her hands grasping for purchase against the broad wall of his shoulders. Each stroke was carving a new path into her, as if he was the first phallus she’d ever taken, and still, each time he was able to withdraw, her cunt closed as tightly as before, forcing him out, reluctantly taking him in, all the while her clit was swollen and wet and rubbing against the ridge of his belly -


She’d thought of herself past the ability of being able to reach that orgasmic high, not after so soon taking Marcus’s cock, of wetting him, of dimly being aware that her body was sore and the pleasure that followed was growing weaker, wringing water out of a rapidly drying cloth, but oh, she wanted it, wanted Tiberius to fill her full to bursting, to where her stomach felt full and she could hardly move, and like a marathoner with the finish line within eyesight, she steeled herself. Grounded herself on the thick steel of Tiberius’s thighs, and leaned back, pulling her upper body away from his to give herself a bit more leverage. Rather than leaving all of the pleasant work to him (gods, the feeling of his large hands on the small dip of her waist, jerking her body up and down; would she be able to ever look at him and not think of that?), she was able to walk back, just a bit, on her hands so that she could untangle her legs, plant one foot firmly on the floor, and use that bit of leverage to work herself up his cock, made easier by the way her walls tried to force him out, had to struggle to let him back in. And not for the first time in that night, she remembered the wild dancing from her wedding night, the jumping up and down, the rolling of hips, the lascivious roll of buttocks - all a fun mockery, a satire, of what she was doing now. And through those dances, she learned - how to read Tiberius’s body; the tensing of an upward thrust, the relaxing of a withdraw. And so from a mere doll, she became an active participant, panting, her voice still little more than soft whimpers, cries, leaning into sharp howls as they met an upward thrust perfectly, working him so deeply in her that she was truly afeared of his cock coming out through her open mouth -

 

[Apollo Wilde]

It would’ve been easy to have lost herself in Tiberius, to keep pushing her tired body forward, to ignore the way she was shaking, fatigue building in muscles too newly used and some never truly used until now, and then - oh -

Warm lips on her left shoulder, the small touch of teeth there. The bracing wall of Marcus behind her, the caress of his breath against the nape of her neck, teeth following, as his weight dipped behind her on the long couch, the fumbling of his callused hands against her rear. Reverent in their touch, extra tentative in his drunken state, a quiet counterpart to the roughness of Tiberius. A touch that spoke of firsts, of knowing how to coax a blossom open than forcing it. The same spread of her ass, her too far gone to be embarrassed by the broad display of her most secret of places, now completely wet from her spendings, and…rather than the probing she’d expected, the second opening, a slip of a softened member between those cheeks, a slow sawing back and forth, using her, her body, as a way to bring life to his cock. Soft murmurings against her shoulder, nearly drowned out by her continual howls, words that cut through the haze like a knife, exceptionally kind, not cruel, reminding her of this, that first touch of love, the first time her heart lurched and became something other than her own. Soft becoming firm, waking up - an impossible craning of her neck, for her mouth to meet his, sealed shut from animalistic uttering for the moment.


Consciousness returning, the flicker of a memory. Another shift; it was possible, wasn’t it, to become a conduit between the two of them? Her eyes closed, searching behind the closed curtains of how to make this happen. And, as inspired as before, it came to her - as sure as an answered prayer.


She worked her hands from around Tiberius’s chest, placing gentle palms against the expanse of his chest. The warmth of that smile suggested that the end of their play; it was time to move to the next thing. Where she would be in control - but even that wasn’t correct, for in this moment she felt that she was little more than a clay doll, the spirit of Venus poured into her and moving her the way she needed to be. To place her precisely where she needed to be - here, aware, alert, in the moment with these two men who had completely captured her heart.


The great mass of Tiberius lay down before her, the broad expanse of the earth beneath her, and Marcus, her sky, hovering above, and her, the ocean, perhaps, caught between the two, wedged tightly between them, split open from below, and now, with another gasp, from behind, Marcus finding the way to her anus already paved and welcome for him, and that fullness, ha, what fullness, what she’d thought was fullness before a mere joke as Marcus’s cock began to push forward, slow - and Tiberius, him, too, slowing down, perhaps in deference to the somewhat pained expression on Gaia’s face as she struggled to relax herself, her muscles, to consider the two men inside of her as welcome guests instead of intruders to a newly opened body. Her breath was unknowingly held as Marcus continued to push from behind, his lips firm against her shoulder, murmured words broken by kisses against the flesh, a reassuring caress up the slick curves of her back, cradling shoulder blades, drawing meaningly symbols, looping circles, tight curls, until he bottomed out, the mesh of his pubic hair tickling her sodden and plump labia lips, fairly split to bursting around the massive girth of Tiberius.


She wasn’t sure how long they worked together, brothers in arms moving in tandem as naturally as falling in step beside one another, and her, powerless to do little more than to be rocked back and forth, a boat on the sea of their bodies, time no longer holding any meaning. Her body moved past the point of exhaustion, she was running on fumes, her voice no longer obeying the commands of her body, having been yanked past the point of normal use, leaving her nothing but hoarse cries, hot tears coming from beneath her eyes as her body was taxed beyond any previous believing. She had spoken of this, Marcus hopping along that journey, describing things she hadn’t quite seen before, had thought of, but this, this was what she wanted, no better configuration, forced open until she was breathing nothing but them, exhaling the tangle of their bodies, the braid of the three of them. Through them, they worked her, through them, she worked them, winding tighter and tighter and tighter still -


Tiberius was the first to cum, his voice an echoing roar in the room, the force of him shooting into her nearly enough to jar her loose from him, only his arms around her and the forceful thrust of Marcus behind her keeping her in place, only to feel Marcus behind her shuddering, warmth filling her bowels, and she was overflowing, too much, far too much - and when she finally came, it was tumbling over into darkness, her body spurting around the cork of Tiberius’s cock, nearly sending veritable sheets of her spending, of Tiberius’s cum, across his thighs, down her own, spilling over the cushions of the couch.





She vaguely remembered being carried, being surrounded by the arms and smells of the men she loved. Flashes came back through shuttering eyelids, the hooded blue eyes of Tiberius, the small half-hook curved smile of Marcus swimming before her eyes, the same smile she could only return in full, the dark outlines of her hands encircling his face, pulling him close to her and rubbing her nose to his as their lips touched, light as memory. The heat of a large frame behind her, a heavy arm draped over her middle, fingers curled against the curve of her stomach.


With these fragments, the night fell away, lost behind closed eyes.

 

[Talon]

Gaia’s form proved little burden for her two men to carry and they did so with something akin to reverence, or at least, as much as the two drunken men could manage. Careful not to bump head or let drag feet, she was fully in their charge, unconscious, bodily, drained as she was by having played her part in that final performance, by taking the both of them, all of them, of what they had to give of themselves, of what they could give unto her. They stopped for a moment in the privy near the master chambers, at the basin that was kept refreshed at all hours of the night with fresh water and cloth for drying. The water was tepid, but if she minded they did not notice, cupping handfuls of water each to enable them to crudely wash from her the multitude of fluids both hers and his and his with long strokes of their hand down each of her limbs in turn. Quick and crude, likely enough to earn the ire of body servant and Mother alike should either be in a position to judge, nevertheless, the two managed between them to at least cleanse from her the proof of their spendings.



Marcus was unsurprisingly utilitarian in his approach, though, in her husband's defense, his manner was due in no small part to the effort it took for him to remain upright himself, steeling himself against the spinning of the room, against the urge to empty the contents of his stomach. Still, cold in manner as he may be, there was proof of care in how diligently he cleansed her, ensuring neither her visage nor her lower half bore signs of the evening's activity by the time he was done. And although acting on urge was perhaps the last thing on his mind, in truth he was trying his best to override a great many of the less pleasurable variety at just that moment, he couldn’t help but be struck by the powerfully intrusive desire that crept into his mind as his hand scrubbed at her thigh. An almost overwhelming desire to fall to his knees between them and clean her rather thoroughly, there where that dark patch of hair marked her sex, using only his tongue. Never mind that their makeshift bath was not so thorough as to rinse from within her the spendings of both men, he wanted to taste of her again, still, as if they had not spent the better part of the evening going at each other. The rogue thought invoked something akin to a giggle only decidedly more masculine, or so he hoped, but if his partner-in-cleansing noticed, he offered no commentary towards it.



Had she been fully aware of her surroundings she might have been taken aback by how gently the giant’s hands stroked her flesh in their mission to cleanse it. Tenderness, if such a word could ever be used to describe the actions of one such as him, a far cry from the crushing clutch at her throat, from the iron grip with which they had held tight to her hips. There was warmth there in Tiberius’ touch, heat that even the slight chill of the basin water proved unable to quench. It was probably for the best then that her eyes remained blissfully shut, desensitized by the depth of her slumber, for all of the emotion such a moment might have inspired would have been lost had she seen just where his eyes lingered overlong. Tender as he might be in the moment, fallen, caught and cradled, still he was him, and the sight of her nude form was too appealing a subject to let go unadmired. Yet if he felt some lingering carnal urge beyond a stirring in his loins and a heat in his belly the care in which he took to clean his half of her was unaffected by it. Hands sized perfectly for the cupping and groping and fondling of such a fine set of breasts instead took care to wash and wipe across and above, between and beneath, in the nook under her arms, down arms to the backs of each of her hands, down her back, beneath her chin where a stray streak of his ejaculate had cooled and already begun to crack and flake against her skin just below her jawline.

Where fingers did pause to stroke were at spots not notably sensual; shoulders, biceps, the inside of her forearms. Strength admiring strength in silent wonder at the juxtaposition between smooth, blemishless flesh and the firmness of the distinctly unladylike musculature that lay well hidden beneath. She would find no harsh judgment from him, he of the culture whose women bore arms not as readily as men, but only just. He’d seen his sister swing a sword more times than he could count, a proper Gaulic blade no less, and even his mother, who was not particularly martially inclined, once used a woodsman’s axe to fend off a pair of brigands who were of a mind to take what was hers while he was still too young to have intervened. Romans of elevated social strata perhaps admired the appearance of a well-formed physique, but inevitably, such a thing was oft considered a mark of the poor, for whom else labored enough to be developed so? She was fierce, the lion cub, but still it did little to explain why she was so well-formed. Surely her mother had hardly let her leave her skirts, and father, although a kindly man by first appearances, did not seem the sort to permit his youngest to stray so far from the path of her siblings.

Adding further to Tiberius’ confusion were the wounds she yet bore on her forearm. Wrapped tight in bandaging that had miraculously survived the night largely unscathed, if not lightly despoiled along the length of white cloth by the occasional blot of deep purple marking where stray drops of wine had fallen. He could not see their nature; cuts, scrapes, gouges? But he could make an inference as to the source… had she been wounded in the ambush of two days past? Whatever it was, it seemed of little concern as to the severity, the bandaging still likely there merely to ensure the wound remained clean. Shallow wounds on and around the hand were often defensive in nature, he’d found… was she in a position to guard herself against attack? Had she been that close to the action…?

It was little more than a guess, a leap of logic, one he would have no confirmation of either way at such time, one better suited for sleeping rather than sleuthing. Still, something to raise with her upon the dawning of day. If she had indeed been that close, such a thing oft left a mark on the uninitiated, and she might need someone to talk her through it, someone who was not her husband. He knew Marcus well, better than all others save his mother, likely, and it could be said that empathy was not his strongest point. He was neither cold nor cruel, not nearly, but at times the man operated as if he expected others to deal with things in the same manner as he without expressly saying as much. Duty… honor… stoicism. His strengths, and they were, no doubt, but ill-suited to the comforting of a newly blooded bride in both senses of the term.

Perhaps that was to be his place in this, whatever this was and would eventually come to be. Friend to him and to her. Protector… lover… confidant. He had no designs to steal her away, and truth be told for as much as he imagined he had pleased her sexually, that she desired him, physically, he had seen the spark in her eye when she looked towards Marcus. Her heart was no longer fully there for the taking, for she had already given it freely. He was more a brother to her… much more, in fact, as the proof of their coupling was presently being washed from her flesh, but what that more was he couldn’t rightly say. If there was a word for what they were he had no ken of it. Brother would have to suffice for the moment, even if he looked upon her with such a lust as he never had for the sister who shared his own blood.



Setting her briefly atop the bench that sat beside the wash basin, the men, in turn, each cleansed themselves, with one remaining by her side to keep her from slouching over enough to fall from her makeshift perch. It was quick work, efficient, the routine of two men accustomed to cleansing themselves quickly in the manner of a soldier without the luxury of a hot bath complete with body servant. Tiberius scooped Gaia up with those great, trunk-like arms of his, one beneath her knees and the other behind her shoulders, after a begrudging nod from Marcus. Neither man spoke, they hadn’t needed to, as Tiberius had recognized the look of pained effort on Marcus’ visage as he steadied himself against the wall with an outstretched arm. It was enough at the moment to keep his own form aloft, let alone assist in the carrying of Gaia’s. Marcus took point then, opening the door and proceeding out into the hall, looking this way and that, signaling to Tiberius to proceed after he was assured they were alone. There was no risk of trouble, he was the Master of the Villa and she the Mistress, but still, the sight of the three of them striding naked down the hall towards the master chambers was one that would surely set tongues wagging. Better not to start such rumors of what happened behind closed doors, particularly not when they would likely have a great deal of truth at the root of them.

 

[Talon]

Sand slowly sifted from the upper half of the glass down into the lower as the evening passed to morning uneventfully, each of the trio asleep where they finally fell, Gaia in the center between her two men, positioned to either side of her, Tiberius the bulwark set at her rear to the left of the bed and Marcus at her front on the right. Neither held so tightly to her that she had not the freedom to shift, each instead like bookends holding aloft the single volume left on the shelf.



Tiberius, ever the helpful and thoughtful brother to each, provided cover should the sound of her slight snoring threaten to bring shame upon her, his own a deep bass, not overloud but ever present, the rumbling of the sleeping bear, one with a full belly swelled fat with meat, and the many, many, cups of wine he’d downed over the course of the evening. To all appearances, it seemed the giant well slept the sleep of the unladen. Gaia’s back was pressed into his chest, or more rightly, the arm he’d draped across her middle pulled her back into him. His frame dominated hers save for the widest swell of her hips, his own pressed into the small of her back, with enough room there that the slight pooch to his lower belly was afforded ample space. A thigh was casually draped up and onto her own, his sex, itself in a state of repose despite prevailing thought that it was incapable of ever being fully at rest, a source of constant heat there where it was pressed against the cheeks of her bare backside by the closeness of their nude bodies. His head lay above hers given the disparity in their height and the position, tilted back and away, sparing her from being subjected to the warmth of his exhale and outside the direct path of his snoring as if by some subconscious desire to spare her the discomfort. From time to time he would nuzzle a cheek to the back of her head as they blissfully slumbered, usually accompanied by the tightening of his grip about her waist or the incoherent mumblings of a drunkard’s slumber, only for his head to slowly fall back into the pillow before he once again stirred to start the cycle anew.



Her husband, even in such a state, was not quite as haphazardly positioned. There would be no sound from him beyond the occasional sound of his deep breathing, a mercy, surely, as his face was positioned so closely to hers. He’d been the last to fall asleep, gazing into her eyes, or rather, their lids, once he’d settled into position beside her. He had watched, her lusciously dark lashes fluttering when her eyes shifted beneath their lids, her nostrils flaring ever so as she drew in breath, enraptured by her, smitten in his way, still as taken aback by her natural beauty as he had been when first the veil had been lifted from her face. The room was devoid of candle or lamp, lit only by the ambient glow of the moon, of what little crept its way into the chambers by way of the windows that lined the upper half of the wall that faced away from the interior of the villa, made for just such a purpose, to provide light from the sun and moon alike. It was dark, as was she, and yet she glowed, not with light but with warmth, with life…

Marcus’ hands had found hers, cupping the both of them together before him in his own, pulling them up to his lips for a kiss before pulling them down and pressing them against his breast. His face drew nearer hers, such that the tips of their noses nearly touched.

I love you more now than ever…

He kept catching himself thinking as much, that his love had grown for her with each passing moment. It was silly, childish, or worse… womanish, really. But it was the truth, one he would not bother trying to deny. It was strange to think of such things in the presence of another sharing their bed, but somehow it did little to alter the course of his feelings. This, this thing, whatever it was, between the three of them, did not change how he felt for her, if anything, somehow it had only reinforced it.

Marcus’ eyes snapped open. They had slid shut, heavy… as much as his mind might wish to ponder the events of the evening and what they meant for the future, his body had other designs. His eyes returned to where her’s would have been should they have opened, his own sliding shut with finality.

“Sleep well, my love…” A whisper, faint, trailing off into the sounds of the sea and the drone of nocturnal insects that was the prevailing ambient noise of late evening throughout the villa.



The shifting of weight atop the bed that the three of them shared had been enough to rouse Tiberius. Not since the first time he had killed a man, close up enough so as to know intimately the deed had been done, had Tiberius slept the heavy sleep of the soulfully unburdened. To look at him, how he took to his cups, deeply, one would perhaps not guess as much, but his senses of perception were keen, on edge, even during the deepest of sleep. Perhaps it was in part due to his ‘barbaric nature’ that the Romans were always going on about.

He heard shuffling then, at the other side of the bed, what must be Marcus given that he was still clung fast to Gaia. Choosing to remain still as if he yet slept he simply listened.



Marcus paused to bend down towards Gaia, asleep as she was still in the bed, pressing a kiss against her forehead, taking note of how odd it felt once again that there was still the slumbering form of his battle brother practically poured into bed behind her. Odd, yes, but not a sensation of anger or jealousy, it was just… odd. He hadn’t the time to linger in the contemplation of such things, the call of duty, and in a more immediate sense, nature, demanding he take heed. He was out the door nearly as fast as his feet could carry him, cautious and thoughtful in his retreat to let the door latch fall shut as gently as he could.



A sigh from Tiberius as the big man shifted, his cheek once more nuzzling against the back of Gaia’s head as he felt a stirring in his loins. That sigh, expressive perhaps of his displeasure of having been reduced to a couple, morphed into something more akin to the purring of some great jungle cat as if it only just dawned on him who he was left in a couple with. Shifting just a bit, turning his head back more towards her, his nose nuzzled at her ear as his lips found purchase in the soft bit of flesh just below her earlobe. The hand that had been clutched at her belly through the night slid lower, pinky brushing into the thatch of coarse little tightly-wound hairs above her sex, palm pressing into her pubis, pulling her middle back towards him as he ground his hips into her.

A twinge of guilt suddenly tugged forcefully in his chest.

Let the woman sleep… she’ll be primed for a sound fucking once she’s awakened to take the edge off the morning, but for now, let her rest…

He growled, protesting his own thoughts, the voice of his conscious. But when it was right, it was right, he thought, even as the grinding motion of his hips continued. He stayed like that a few moments more, crudely pressing his sex against her, planting lewd, suckling kisses against the vulnerable spot on her neck there where he could almost feel the rhythm of her heart against his lips. Truth be told he still desired to sleep himself, the sun had yet to rise, even, but he’d had enough rest that sexual urges were once more able to override those further down on the list of biological imperatives. A groan, reminiscent of a child who’d just been told to come in and wash for supper, as better intentions won out over darker urges, Tiberius snuggling up behind her, planting a final, less lewd, kiss against her neck before shifting to once more rest his cheek against the back of her head.

“Good night, cub…”

 

[Talon]

The sunrise over the waters of the Mare Nostrum that morning was particularly majestic, the sky adorned in a shade of red so deep as to be nearly purple. So much so that he felt there must be some deeper meaning, a sign, a portent… perhaps it was mere vanity that caused him to think it meant for him alone, him one speck of dust among many, that it should be he whose fate and fortune the colors painting the sky made reference to.

Gaia would know something of what it means…

Exactly why he suspected as much, Marcus could not rightly say. He had never seen her read entrails or cast bones. He wasn’t rightly sure what god or gods she regularly sought blessings from, if any. There was much he did not know of her, yet, despite all that had passed between them, in many ways they were still much like strangers. He kept telling himself he was going to change that, but how, he wasn’t rightly sure.

All in due time… he thought.

A smile, then, as Marcus turned away from the horizon and back towards the stables, there where Mikkos sat astride his mule, another laden with packs in tow, and a throng of servants milling about as they tended to the preparation of Marcus’ steed. The stride that carried Marcus forth was measured, the light sheen of sweat on his brow due in no part to physical exertion or the like, but still, all things considered, he reckoned he had managed to compose himself to a respectable enough degree given how thoroughly he had debased himself the evening prior.

“Should you not ride Tenebris, Dominus? Will the Domina not feel slighted by your choice of the inferior steed?”

Marcus shook his head, wiping a hand absentmindedly at his brow as he approached the throng of servants. Mikkos, ever his keeper. He knew the man meant well, so it never bothered him quite so much as it might others, but still, it was humorous.

“She is rather fond of him, I believe. A gift from her brother… perhaps if she is feeling homesick upon waking she might could visit with him for something of a reminder…”

Mikkos frowned. “A gift given you, Dominus. Surely she would not take offense…”

“Cease your prattling a moment, old man…” Despite the sharpness of his words, the grin he wore as he fixed Mikkos with a gaze squinting against the rising sun spoke to his intended playfulness. “...at least allow me to don my armor before you start slinging your stones.”

Marcus stood beside his horse, then, raising his arms up by his sides as two of the servants there set to buckling upon him the leather chest piece Mikkos had chosen to serve as his dress for the day. It was armor, but only just, more form than function, boiled leather dyed so dark a brown as to be almost black, fashioned in the style as to depict the musculature of an impossibly developed torso, emblazoned with a golden Aguila in the center just beneath the neckline, SPQR engraved over the symbol of the two crossed spears of Mars over his left breast. The cloak clasps at each shoulder cast in gold and stylized in the form of the talons of an eagle, clutching tightly to the deeply purple length of cloth that streamed behind him with the stirring of the breeze off the sea. He wore his customary tunic of blue beneath, fine of cloth but simple of design, worked delicately in silver filigree along the edges. Standard-issue legionnaire sandals were strapped to his feet and a pugio sheathed at his right hip to serve as his only armament.

Simple men of the earth and of the sea, those who worked his land were the type to place more value in his time spent in the Army than that in the Senate. Mikkos was of the opinion this particular look struck just the right balance.

Marcus then turned to seize the pair of leather bracers likewise emblazoned with a golden Aguila from the hands of the servant who had approached as if to strap them onto him. “I can manage…” He gestured with them dismissively towards the grey dapple whom he had chosen to serve as his steed for the morn. “...finish preparing the horse.”

“Dominus…” The servant bowed his head as he pulled back and moved away as smoothly as he had approached.

Marcus tucked one bracer under his left arm before sliding the other down over his hand and onto his wrist, his other hand working the lacing to tighten it in place with the practice of a man well-accustomed to such a thing. He looked up at Mikkos, again squinting against the light of the sun that backlit his Majordomo. “I trust you’ve not forgotten to pass on my instruction?”

Mikkos frowned, an expression Marcus could barely make out given how brightly the man glowed. “Have I ever, Dominus? That is the third time you have asked… what concerns you so?”

Marcus growled, raising the bracer up to his mouth so as to inelegantly hold one string tight as he cinched the knot on the other securely around it, speaking through clenched teeth. “Nothing… too much wine with supper.”

Mikkos’ frown deepened, the squint in his gaze due in no part at all to the brightness of the sun.

“Don’t look at me like that, old man.” Marcus hadn’t seen, his attention elsewhere, but it was as if he’d felt the older man’s eyes upon him. “Am I not due a celebratory drink or two?”

Mikkos’ gaze might have shifted, but his frown certainly hadn’t. “As you say, Dominus.” It was as if the man was pouting, unsatisfied with his master’s answer, and yet learned enough to know when best to keep his thoughts to himself.

Marcus looked up at him then, pulling the second bracer from under his arm, considering him with something of a harsh gaze for a long, silent moment. Finally satisfied that the matter had been settled, Marcus moved to strap it onto his yet bare wrist. “Tell me again of the one who speaks for these freedmen, it has been a long year since last we spoke and it would not do for me to seem forgetful of his story…”

Marcus in truth had not forgotten but was eager to put the issue to rest. He had ordered Mikkos to instruct all servants, house, bed, bath and kitchen, to steer clear of the Master chambers. The Domina was not to be disturbed until she rose of her own volition. The second part in particular had drawn Mikkos’ suspicion and it had been difficult to put him off the idea of sending for a physician to tend to her. He had told him she was sick, with wine, most likely, the only tale he could think to spin in the moment. It was of course much more important that the chamber's current occupants not be seen occupying the bed together, but such a thing he did not trust even Mikkos in the telling of. As it was he was quite sure the man knew he was lying, and there was little he could do to remedy that. It never was Marcus’ strong suit to tell an outright lie with no basis in truth, for better or ill.

Marcus’ eyes widened a moment as he swung his leg up and over the back of his horse, the movement causing his head to spin something fierce. Clutching to the saddle, as desperate not to fall from it as he was to hide the prevailing symptoms of the previous night’s drunkness, Marcus paused a moment to gather himself.

“...Dominus, are you well?” Mikkos had paused his recitation, a keen eye observing much of what Marcus had tried to keep concealed.

Marcus shook his head forcefully. “...fine.” Marcus hiccuped behind an urgently raised fist as he fought off the sudden urge to vomit. “… I’m fine. It’s the bloody wine, is all. I’ll feel better after a bit of travel…” Marcus crudely drew spit into his mouth and spat, then, hoping to banish the taste of fermented grape from the back of his tongue. Both men knew it was far more likely he would be emptying the contents of his stomach along the way rather than the jostling motion of the ride soothing it. “They deserve timeliness just as much as any other, I’ll not have us be late on my account.”

Mikkos clucked his tongue, as much for his Master as his mule, as he bid the animal forward. “...as you wish, Dominus.”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“And, Gaia...know that…” He paused, as if conflicted about what he should say. “If anything should happen to me...know that I care for you, deeply.”


It was the day after her wedding.

She could still feel the warmth of Marcus pressed close to her, trying desperately to mold two bodies into one. And how she felt that flame, the first in her life, started from the embers of their first kiss. The one that ushered her through the last door of maidenhood. How strange was it to register the sound of steel, the dull thunk of arrows impacting.

The floor beneath her hands was hard, but smooth. Even as she dragged her hands across it to bring herself to stand, pushing herself from the chains of gravity, she didn’t feel the slightest bite of protest from the wood. No, the protest had been from her body itself, slow in awakening, moving as if she was in waist-thick mud. How could she be moving so slow? Was she not one who ran with the wild, whose feet remained unfettered?

You were, but once.

The voice that curled round her ears was a sharp whisper; a rebuke. The chiding of a mother trying to wake a lazy daughter. She shook her head, ignoring the protest of her knees and her legs that felt more like loose coils of yarn than limbs that belonged to her. She could move; that was something. Memory wove itself before her - slipped out of the door of the carpentum. Approached the horse - but…she was still moving slowly. And in front of the horse, she found herself simply…staring. She was looking for something. She was so sure, just a few moments ago, what she’d been looking for. Whatever it was, it was no longer there. Slipped through her hands just as her thoughts had. She didn’t have time to dwell; she knew that much. Could feel it squeezing her chest. The distant sound of battle; the knowledge that she had to do something, anything.

Even that wave of self-assured confidence, there was a trembling in her stomach. An unsureity that…she didn’t remember having. She’d prayed then. She would have to do the same now.

Diana, please, heed the cry of your follower; help me!

….Nothing.

Panic flared.

Diana, please, I have not deserted you. Please, watch upon me carefully; guide my hand, my feet, to protect him!

A nothingness that was a great black void that sucked in the ground from beneath her feet. Shouting in the depths of darkness in a cave, not even favored enough to hear her voice bouncing back to her from the walls.

Have I been forsaken?

A soft tittering, so faint it could be imagined.

I have to do something. I must do something.

The tittering grew louder.

If you feel that you can, little one, the laughter cooed. Though hands such as yours were meant for stroking other firm objects; hardly instruments of war. Though a phallus could be very much a weapon, in the wrong hands.

Madness, Gaia thought. Madness brought on by the heat in front of her. She would do what she must. She ran - wait.

She could scarcely say that what she was doing counted as ‘running.’ It was little more than a fast paced walk, she could feel the weight of her hips, her thighs, weighing her down. Her breasts a burden, even beneath her garments, and her ankles were wrapped in endless tangles of silk. More than once, she fell, more than once, she pulled herself up, still able to manage little more than that sashay, more of a dancer mimicking running, and with each footstep, her panic grew, the sourness of knowledge, that something was very, very wrong.

The flat road rippled, stretched out before her, buckled under her feet. Fought her at every opportunity it could as she staggered back to her feet one last time, still trying to remember what it was that she was looking for. Then there it was, a bow and a single arrow in her hands, mocking her by their sudden appearance. And look, in front, there was Marcus, every inch the soldier, shining and brave and capable -

She thought she saw where the arrow came from, but it was little more than the movement of the leaves of the trees in the distance. It pierced his arm; that she remembered - she’d removed it and wrapped it herself. But she hadn’t seen it happen. She knew that. Where was she? What was twisting her mind -

This…this isn’t how it happened - Diana guided my hand!

It had to be a dream, one caught up in the web of memory. Some foul creature was pulling the threads loose; re-weaving it. A possibility in the myriad of possibilities that life held. No matter. She was strong enough; she knew that. She had been scared then, but she put all of her faith in Diana. She would do so again, despite the growing space within her chest, the hollowness that stretched from her chest to her fingers.

The bow and arrow hung clumsily in her hands as she tried to steady them. The arrow wouldn’t notch, her arms weren’t strong enough to pull the string. She must try harder. She had to try harder. Time slipped forward - then backwards, long enough for her to watch the arrow fly from Marcus’s arm, back to where it was notched the distance. Time slipped forward again, a snail’s pace, lazy and impertinent in its showing. The arrow this time was true - it impaled Marcus’s throat.

In her dream, she was screaming. She was throwing the useless bow and arrow down, how, why had she picked them up when she had no idea how to use them? She was a patrician’s daughter; her hands were meant for the loom and her mind for figures, her body for bearing heirs, not to run. She had outgrown the childish games of Diana in her youth, but hadn’t Diana protected her?

That was before. You belong to a different goddess now. You chose her willingly. Listened to her laughter over what you knew was true. What was right. And now look; look at the ruin that your hungry cunt has begotten, laughed the voice. I had no idea what my touch would awaken such a voracious woman. You should be proud, little Gaia! You are all that men should fear. Revel in it. Use it.

Marcus lay before her, blind eyes staring directly at her. There were no death throes; only a frozen shock on his face, mouth slightly slack, eyes still wide, as if they could stare back into the past.

You’re a wife to be proud of - a woman of the basest desires; not even your beloved husband’s firm cock was enough to keep you satisfied.

“But he loved me!” Gaia shrieked into the fading sunlight of her dream, unable to move, frozen in place by legs that had grown too large to move.

Did he? You weren’t the first in his heart - at least you could be the last. And the great horse cock that you willingly took, from his brother? How foolish for you to think that he would care for you. But you’ve had a bit of fun, haven’t you? And that’s what this life is about. Fun. Pleasure. You’re a girl no longer; far too old for these games.

“I cannot leave Diana; I made a vow,” Gaia tried to clench her hands; to force conviction into her voice. “Diana does not abandon her worshipers once they marry. She watches over us, protects our children.”

To those who keep their morals, certainly. But look - a bit of wine was all it took. Who would watch over such a base creature? You can’t even awake to renew your vow. Shameful.

She was able to move again; she ran over to Marcus. His eyes were still unseeing, the brown rapidly cooling. She ran her fingers over his face, the eyebrows, the firm line of his jaw. This couldn’t be. This wasn’t how she remembered it.

It’s not how it happened, Diana and Apollo both watched me, tended to me, to us, to him -

The skin of Marcus’s face began to swell. Fat pustules erupted, slowly at first, then with a speed that exceeded her vision. One pustule burst, than another. The fluid from within popped on her skin, grease from a hot cooking fire, and yet, she couldn’t drop his body. He was melting into her, even as the flesh was rotting, cooking away from his face, exposing clean white bone, and those eyes, still blank, still empty, stared up at her, even as she screamed, even as she tried to pry him free, skeletal arms grabbed her, the boney jaw opened, and his voice creaked out, moaning from a distant shore -

“If anything should happen to me...know that I care for you, deeply.”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

The next scream that was clawed from Gaia’s throat was the one that finally shattered the dream. She thrashed upon waking up, tossing about in the bed as if she’d fallen into a nest of stinging insects. Tumbling to the floor, her screaming stopped only as the cold tile registered that she was no longer in that field. She got to her hands and knees before her stomach rolled in protest, and she was vomiting, in horrid choking gasps. When nothing but bile was wrenched from her throat, when her eyes were full of tears and snot ran freely from her nose did she attempt to stand.

It was slow going - her palm clumsily found the wall, her feet struggled to find purchase. Her head felt as if it was full of lead; heavy and unsteady on her neck. Her knees weak, her vision swam. Every time she closed her eyes, every blink brought the image of Marcus melting into nothing, the lilting laughter mocking her.

She nearly slammed her forehead into the wall, so firmly did she press it into the smooth frescos painted there, something with the ocean or whatever she was too far gone to tell. The other hand ran across her forehead, the top of her head -

Oh Diana; I haven’t made my absolution, I haven’t forgotten, I can’t forget, what is my most prized possession for his life, please, please, please don’t take him from me I can be better I will be better -

Fighting back a second wave of nausea, stronger than the first, she bit down on her lower lip so hard that metallic salt sprang to her mouth. Stumbling, bleary-eyed, she made her way, guided by instinct to the privy. Fumbled through eyes clouded with tears for a novacila, by the Goddess, she would rub her head with sand if it meant keeping her promise, shear her scalp away from her skull -

She was dimly aware that she was crying, silently, with the occasional hiccup of a particularly harsh sob. The dream wouldn’t leave the backs of her eyelids, her lips barely remembered the prayer, contrition, little more than that, that’s what she was, begging for forgiveness, for the promise of some sort of future -

When she dropped the novacila, she had regained some sense - enough, at least, to stop crying, and now sat, leaned over, face in her hands. Her body was returning to her, islands in the floating chaos of her mind. The aching wounds on her wrists, taxed from the night’s manhandling. The sting of her scalp, too closely shaved with the odd deliberate care of the extremely drunk. The explosion of pain between her legs, the throbbing in her ass that made sitting an exercise in endurance.

By the bright moon, what have I done…?

 

[Talon]

Danger.


Or so the screaming and thrashing would initially have led him to believe. Tiberius’ cuddle was not held with such strength that the thrashing of her limbs would constrain her within his arms, his own retreating back as he propped himself up on an elbow, squinting against the ambient glow of the chamber as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“Cub…what, what is it?” The tremble in his voice owed more to the dry state of his throat after a night full of snoring than it did fear held of his own, but there was concern there, foremost.

Screams, the sort that made the hairs along the nape of your neck stand up, quickly turned to the familiar sound of retching, of emptying one’s belly of all its contents.

“Oh, Cub…” Tiberius grunted as he turned his head away, busying himself with looking back over his shoulder, his first instinct to save her the indignity of an eyewitness more than to spare himself the sight of her sicking up. He was not unfamiliar with the ramifications of a night full of drinking, and if anything, it was likely the purge would help her to feel better in the long run. The very long run, though he imagined she wouldn’t feel the same about it. He had found often women were more averse to the act of vomiting than men, he couldn’t rightly say why, perhaps it was that there was more shame in it, that the larger society was more used to seeing men degrade themselves by urinating and spitting in public, giggling at the passing of gas from above or below, perhaps sicking up was just something of a more disgusting cousin. Distinctly unladylike behavior by any measure, though the precise reason why was well beyond Tiberius’ ability or desire to reckon.

As the sound of retching stopped he hazarded a look back towards her, taken by surprise at how quickly she had recovered. Tiberius reached his hand out towards her ineffectively as if offering to steady her as she stumbled about in the gaining of her footing.

“Wait, Cub… careful… wait!”

Tiberius pulled himself fully upright, turning to ground his feet on the floor at the side of the bed opposite where Gaia had taken leave of the contents of her stomach. He stood, his head heavy but devoid of the spinning that plagued Gaia so at the moment. He turned back towards her to look as she stumbled her way along the wall towards the door to the room.

“Just wait, gods-dammit!” Tiberius growled, clearly angered by having been so thoroughly ignored as Gaia made her way out of the room and started down the hall. He cursed beneath his breath, aware of his nudity just then as his instinct was at first to follow in her wake. “Jupiter’s orbs… bloody Senators and their bloody villas. At least my people have the decency to mind their own if you want to have a nice morning stroll with your cock swinging about…”

He guffawed then. “Cack! Could you imagine…” He turned, wiping the sleep from his eyes more fully as he surveyed the room. “...bloody bedlam. I reckon there’s a kitchen maid or two who wouldn’t mind an eyeful…” A scoff. “...or three.” In his haste, he had elected to pull the sheet from the bed to wrap about his waist, mumbling to himself as he cinched it together by way of a loose knot at his hip. Tiberius turned to dash out into the hall, only to be frozen in place as the idea of someone finding the room in this state suddenly struck him.

Turning back he looked more closely over the details of the room, his hands settling on his hips as his eyes scanned. “... and they call me the barbarian. Hah! Fucking Romans…”


It had taken no time at all for him to find a servant in the halls, a boy, or rather hardly a man but of an age to be about work. He’d received a queer look at the state of him, wrapped in a bedsheet as he was, though his bark put the servant off a line of questioning that it seemed he had been about to embark down. He told the boy he had missed the chamber pot during the night and instead vomited all over his floor, therefore needing something to clean up after himself in the here and now. Buckets, water, wood shavings, a hand broom; easy items to procure once he had pressed the boy enough. Who said no to this giant of a man when he insisted on cleaning his own mess? Mikkos might, perhaps, and a few of the more seasoned staff, though the boy saw reason in being given an excuse not to have to clean another man’s mess from the floor.

The actual cleaning was no great task. Tiberius had seen much worse, both in times of war and peace. He was no highborn dandy to put his nose up at such routine things. Besides, the thought that he was potentially sparing her shame brought a smile to his lips and a warmth to his belly. A few minutes and it was done, crudely, perhaps, but sufficiently enough to remove the most immediate evidence. He hoped she would think he did so out of his concern for her rather than disgust or something of the sort, but that was a worry for another time. Best now that he attended to her person, now that she had been given the opportunity to collect herself a bit and potentially heed any other calls that nature had made pressing.


Tiberius heard the sounds of sniffling through the door to the privy, stopping a moment to rest his forehead against the rough wood of it as if it somehow brought him closer to her. Should he enter and embrace her? Did she still feel the same as she had the evening prior? Was he prepared for the possibility that everything that had passed between them had been merely a bit of fun on a drunken lark? He wasn’t, quite. It had been satisfying, sexually, of course, but something lingered in his belly, his gut. A hunger, of sorts. A desire to be near her, to touch her. To wrap his arms around her. To whisper to her that she was safe, that he was hers and she was, even if that were not strictly so.

Still wrapped about the waist in the sheet that the three of them had shared, Tiberius strained to hear the sounds of her sobbing from the outside of the privy.

Just go in and comfort her already, you bloody ox. Maybe she would prefer her brother or sister or mother or Marcus, but at the moment all she has is you.

Rapping on the door gently with his knuckles, Tiberius paused a moment before lifting the latch and opening it inward, slowly. “Gaia…” He thought it most fitting of the moment, hoping she would recognize the sound of his voice over it’s unfamiliar usage of her name proper. “... are you decent?” He paused a moment, offering her the opportunity to object to his entrance if she was doing something as personal as relieving herself on the privy. His hands were first to enter the room, open, displaying his palms, the universal sign of having come in peace. As his body passed through the open portal he could see her curled in on herself there, in a crouch, his hands dropping as he perceived the gesture to be fruitless. He closed the door behind him as he entered, gently, quietly, standing there a moment, taking in the pitiful sight of her.

“Cub…”

He knelt beside her then, pressed into action by his growing concern over the state of her. More than merely feeling sick to her stomach, there was evidently something deeper at the root of her distress. He wrapped himself around her, the flesh of his bare arms and chest warm as they encircled her and pulled her into his embrace, clutching tightly to her, protectively.

“It’s ok, Cub… I’m here…” Exactly who I am, what we are, I couldn't rightly say…he thought to himself. “Shhhhh…”

But I am here, with you, to stay.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Heavy. Warm. Salt.


Her face was pressed tenderly into the solid mass of Tiberius. She was shock-still - not so much as a tremble ran through her at his embrace. She scarcely dared to breathe; was this part of that horrid nightmare too? Would she bring it all back rushing to the surface if she so much as thought of it?


Tentatively, she uncurled herself, her arms working free from covering her face, to help twist her further into his arms. Hands spread across the expanse of his back - carefully, as if she were afraid that touching him would cause him to disappear into wisps of smoke. Fingers trailed across his back, his shoulders, his neck, shadows of the night before. Her eyes closed tightly, she pressed her nose into him, tickled by the fine pale hair of his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing. He smelled of sweat, of wine, of sick, of salt, of man. Of life.


She took in a deep breath, opened her eyes to look up at him, as best she could. And, in the moments that she registered the concern on his face, her own crumpled, and the tears started fresh. In no time, she was sobbing again, without the slightest hint of shame.


Then her story came, in fits and starts. In the middle, towards the end, the beginning, the end. Between hiccups, she told Tiberius of the nightmare, of the attack on the day after. Tending to Marcus’s wound. How she had managed to wound the two attackers. How she had watched over Marcus. How her skill with the bow was Goddess-blessed, how she’d sworn those who saw to silence as not to embarrass Marcus with his strange wife. Only when her cup of agony had begun to empty did she seem to calm down a bit - she stopped short of telling him of her vow. If she had any luck of Diana still listening to her, she had to keep such things secret. There were mysteries of women, just as there were places that she, as a woman, was barred from.


“Tiberius, I was so, so frightened,” she breathed, clinging tightly to his arm. Her tears and vomiting had left her hoarse, the pale shadow of the nightmare brushed her warm skin with a shiny pallor. “I don’t know why it would all come back to me now…” Her grip tightened. “…If this is due to the wine, may a drop never pass my lips again,” a slight laugh, hesitant. Would it be okay if she felt anything close to humor, to comfort, after such a vision?


Please let it be a nightmare and nothing more.


“I didn’t think that I would have such dreams, ever, that would trouble me so deeply. I was no troubled by such things the night after. Is this normal?” A small smile, wrinkled by fear, perched on the edge of fresh tears again, “I cannot even dream to call myself a soldier, or a warrior. I did what Diana aided me in. It was through her that I moved - I cannot bear to think-”


Her words stopped cold as he clung to him, the bite of short fingernails carving small crescents into his bicep. “…I’m feeling a bit more like myself. That I am here, in this world, right now.” Dark eyes fluttered closed as she paused and took in a deep breath. “…That I have also probably embarrassed not only myself, but my family and every single one of my ancestors by vomiting on the floor. Oh, Tiberius, I was never meant to be a wife,” the last bit somewhere between a playfully dramatic sigh and the weight of reality settling in. “Not even two weeks in, and I have more secrets than a wife should have.”


Did she have regrets about the night before?


She wasn’t sure. At least, not in her mind. Her body had plenty of protests; of hurts real and imagined, that made movement stiff and difficult. But right here, right now, surrounded by Tiberius’s warmth, she felt more at ease than she had since…


Since she’d been here.


Marcus had warmed to her, and she enjoyed him, she knew that much, but she also knew that she didn’t quite entirely know the man. Certainly he had never seen her at her worse - such as now - and had no idea of her strange ways. He seemed pleased enough with her, but it was built on the foundation that part of her would always be hidden; the face of the moon that was shrouded in darkness. And she had accepted it; knew that it had to be. She had never thought that she would have someone outside of her brother that simply knew.


But he hasn’t shown any sign of understanding. There’s the difference, Gaia.


She slowly slid her arms from around him, turning not to leave him, but to press her back into his chest. She was aware that she was still nude - it was what pushed her closer into him. He was an excellent source of warmth. “And now I’ve got to worry about the slaves seeing me in such a state.” She deflated, her body shrinking into his as she put her hands over her face. Groaned audibly.


But despite the dire straits she was in, she couldn’t shake that feeling of warmth in her chest. In her stomach. It’d started, slow and patient, when he first embraced her, gentle as the spring sun. She felt…safe. Secure.


If Diana watches me still, she must be having a chuckle at my foolish behavior. I’ve got to make it right.


“…And if I have not been seen in such a state, I surely must still have Diana’s favor, though I fear I am overdue for a good beating for my actions.” A hint of her smile there, sunlight filtering through a cloudy sky. “If my mother only but heard of the smallest bit of it, she would skin me alive. And perhaps send my pelt to Marcus, dutifully and delicately embroidered with silks from the east and perfumed, like the Egyptians do to their royal dead. A very delicate and perfectly stuffed Gaia pelt to be displayed and admired as one would a lion from Africa. Can you imagine?"

 

[Talon]

On the surface, Tiberius hardly seemed he would be the sort capable of lending an empathetic ear. Brutish in speech, mannish in manner, possessing a sense of humor that still held flagrant flatulence in high regard, perhaps it was surprising to find an aspect of him that was also an able and apt listener. She spoke and he listened, not merely awaiting his turn to speak, with a response quick and ready at the tip of his tongue. Perhaps most surprising of all; he seemed to take a genuine interest in her story.

He, a man not twice her age but half again more, beyond his considerable rank and station for a man of exceedingly low birth little more than a common soldier, bearing the scars of battle well worn and hard-earned upon his person. What care should a man such as he give for the burdens of a pampered patrician? He’d killed a man, several, dozens perhaps, well before reaching her age. He’d often felt the bite of hunger in his belly, back before he was a giant of a man well capable of taking what he wanted or needed. He’d felt what it was to be without name, without coin, without prospect, to claw from the underbelly of Rome your fortune without owing to others your success. He had no tongue for the talking of Patrician problems, just as they showed no regard for his.

But she was different, this one. She was Gaia, Cub, special to him, the cold iron lump that stood in place of his heart warmed by the mere proximity of her person. He genuinely wanted to know what ailed her, even if partly just to hear the sound of her voice in the telling of it, but also to be pointed like an arrow at her problems and shot as if from her patron Goddess’ bow. There was much a name and husband like hers could do to solve them, but for what conflicts they could not resolve, well, for that there were men like him. Men of action, of violence, of blood.

Let them try again for her. I’ll ram my fist up their backsides and pull their tongue back out through their arsehole…

There was more, though, much more than merely the events of the ambush that plagued her. She spoke of things she could, or would, not say to her husband, just as Marcus had spoken to him of things he could not tell another in the past. She wore the mask of authority and station well, he had seen as much on display when they met for the second time just before dinner, but here, crouched nude in the privy, clutched to his chest, he could see the cracks that formed along the edges of that mask. She wore the yoke of responsibility heavily about her neck, chafing against the bit that had been placed between her teeth since birth. She was more like him than she perhaps wanted to admit, and though he knew little of the truth of it, he could begin to imagine why her mother would take issue with her actions. A shame she was not born amongst his people, there where her spirit could shine, where she would be free of the expectations put upon a child born of the aristocracy. Even if she had been born a King’s daughter, her legacy was not inherited and would have to be earned. Life was hard and harsh and unforgiving, but there was a sort of freedom there, too, should one look beyond the rough exterior.

Tiberius laughed under his breath in response to her half-hearted attempt at making light of her Mother’s perceived disapproval. “I met your mother, cub… I could believe it, readily enough.” His fingers stroked at her forearms as he shifted his weight beside her, having been crouched there as she retold her tale of the ambush. “What pose do you suppose they would immortalize you in? Hands up like the claws of some great beast, mouth agape mid-roar as if you were about to lunge for the throat?” Tiberius hummed in mock consideration. “I wonder if Marcus would object overly much to displaying you in my quarters? I’ve got a thing…” His emphasis on the word ‘thing’ left little to the imagination in regards to what he was implying with its usage. “...for women who look like they’re going to try to kill me, even more so for the ones who look as if they could actually do it…” The grin that broke on Tiberius’ face was evident by his playful tone. “What? It would be nice to have something stimulating to look at for those lonely nights when the sheets lie cold beside me…”

“Not that cold sheets are often a problem of mine…”

Letting his braggadocious jest hang in the air a moment he continued, his timbre settling back to a somber, rumbling baritone as he switched topics to one more serious. “You know, I had judged you simply brave before, but this, this ambush, fighting off your attackers with naught but a bow…”. Tiberius’ eyebrows raised admiringly. “Well done, cub. Truly. You’d make a fine warrior with a bit of training.” There was nothing of condescension perceptible in his tone, if anything there was something of admiration. He let his praise linger in the air a moment before offering solace. “It gets easier, you know…” His hands sought hers then, those great mitts capable of seizing her substantial hips now wrapping gently about her own, careful not to disturb the bandaging about her wrist. “... there will be nightmares for some time yet, maybe always, truth told, but soon enough the most clear of memories will fade. Know this, though; you did what you had to do to survive, to save both the one you love and those beneath your charge. Amongst my people, you would be hailed a legend, in time and retelling the felling of two would grow to many times that number. Mothers would whisper to their daughters as they tucked them into their beds at night of Gaia Eagle-Eye, she whose quiver never ran dry, whose arrows rained death upon those who would bring harm to her or her people.” The warm rumble of a laugh then, not of making fun, but of pleasant thoughts. “No matter how many men you fell, I will still call you cub, though…” The embrace of his arms tightened around her.

“I would like to speak more of what ails you, but talking of felling one’s opponents, I think the pair of us could conquer our foes by way of stench alone…” Tiberius lifted an arm away from her, sniffing tentatively at its pit with mock exaggeration. “Yeogh… I’m not sure which of us is the worst, truth told.” He chuckled then, hands that had been clutching hers now pinching playfully at her sides as if to tickle her. “We could go civilized as lady of the house and her guest...but hows about we liven things up with a little wager, hmm? First to the baths wins. We must go as we are and manage to remain unseen, if you are caught you lose. No rules, otherwise.”

Tiberius planted a kiss at the side of her head then as if in parting, careful to avoid the tender bits of flesh that were visibly inflamed at having been so recently scraped clean, standing as he unfurled his limbs from around her. The act of standing turned into a stretch, then, his hands clasped above his head, arms extending up, musculature firing as his mouth creased into something of a pained grimace. He rolled his shoulders after terminating the stretch, bending his neck to rotate his head from side to side. He offered a hand to her then, that she might take it to assist her in rising from the floor.

“I’ll even give you a head start. What do you think, the count of five fair enough? It’s not like you have a chance in hell of beating me, but perhaps that would make it more even. I won’t have you whinging and welching the bet once you’ve lost…” There was condescension and sarcasm there in his tone, the elder sibling overconfidently mocking the younger, invoking them to accept a challenge the elder thinks they have no chance of winning, but also playfulness, an underlying element that she was perhaps capable of recognizing more readily now that they had grown closer.

Tiberius widened his stance then, legs scissoring open, the movement displacing the sheet tied haphazardly about his waist as it fell to the floor with something of a dramatic flair as it revealed his lower half, the big man leaning into a stretch to warm his muscles as if a sprinter preparing to race. It was something of a queer sight with him fully in the nude, not even a loincloth to preserve his or any potential viewer's dignity, though his genitals were currently in a state of repose, dangling heavily there between his thighs.

“I’ve chosen the game, cub, only fair that you chose the stakes. Or are you too chicken?” Ahhh… The ever-classic challenge of the overly daring youth, perhaps last heard when still tied by apron strings. Somehow it didn’t sound all that out of place coming from this burly bear of a man.

Tiberius waggled his eyebrows at her, clucking beneath his breath, a grin emblazoned across his lips. “Bawk… bawk… bawk…”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Sniffles turned into half-hearted chuckles before maturing into laughter - deep, hearty - punctuated with snorts. Wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands, she sighed as her laughter came to an end. “She’s quite the creature, isn’t she? Beautiful beyond reason, colder than the furthest northern border.” Tilting her head back against his shoulder, she closed her eyes. Laughter had made her feel better - before it started ringing in her head, pounding behind her eyes.

“Urgh.” An ungraceful sound tipped precariously on the edge of retching. Leaning forward, she reluctantly put distance between them as she got to her hands and knees, forehead touching the cool tile. Better to be in such an ungraceful position - with her rear nearly in his face - than run the risk of vomiting all over again. When her voice came next, it was muffled, only slightly imperious, as if she was answering something she felt he should already know: “Knowing her, she’d position me sitting at a table, stuffing sweets in my mouth, as she always accused me of never knowing when to stop eating. Though Marcus might agree with the bear pose - he accused me of being a brute on the night of our wedding. He’d followed me out into the courtyard, kissed me, and then grabbed my rear in the middle of it. I was so taken aback that I not only pushed him, but accused him of using some sort of philter on me.”

Another rough chuckle - followed by a groan, and her shifting even further forward, as if trying to melt into the floor. “Tiberius, I am a fool. And never should’ve married. But I’m sure if my mother found out what shame I’ve brought to the family, based on this alone, she would be mortified to hand my well-stuffed corpse to Marcus. But I’m sure he’d haggle her down, eventually, with that silver senator’s tongue of his, and then, well, you could steal me away before I’m rightfully chucked out of a window when someone gets tired of dusting me.” With that, she very ungracefully flopped forward onto the floor, spread eagle face down, only turning her head so she could breathe easier. “I am never, ever, ever going to drink again. And with a cock like yours, I sincerely doubt you’d ever have a problem with cold sheets.”

Then, utter silence.

I cannot believe I said that.

Another loud groan - this time, she rolled dramatically to her back, the heels of her hands pressed hard into her eyes. “Every time I open my cursed mouth! I’m going to take a vow of silence and run away to…well, now I can’t even be a Vestal Virgin. I’m going to bathe, since you’ve called me foul in so many words,” a playful nudge of her foot against the trunk of his thigh, “and I’m going to get dressed, and I’m going to pack a sack and I’m going to run away to live in the woods like the wild woman I was meant to be. That way, only the wolves and bears have to listen to my foolishness.”

She rolled over yet again, back to her stomach, and taking in a deep inhale, slowly got to her knees. Then her elbows. Then inching bit by bit - the motion not entirely unpracticed, like some odd modification of a runner’s stretch, little of her status there, and the loud whispers of an old athlete - she got to her feet. Stumbled a bit; found her footing again by bracing herself against the wall. Turning her back to him, she pressed her forehead to the stone. It was a cool focal point; allowed her to listen to the blood rushing in her ears and all attempts to stop her stomach from washing about in her body.

He’s a nice man. The thought came unbidden, and hidden to him, she smiled, feeling the expression stretch her cheeks to near bursting. He’d done his best to comfort her, put her at ease, and though she could hardly stop her foolish prattling, she felt much better. Like finally bursting through a tidal wave to breathe in sweet air. She turned around to face him now, the smile still on her face, displaying a deep dimple in her left cheek - just the one, oddly enough, as if she’d been too fussy as a baby to sit still and have the right one marked the same. With such a smile, her eyes narrowed, tilting slightly up at the corners, a shadow of the fox-like gaze of her mother and brother, softer on her. Pressing her hands behind the small of her back palms down, she watched as he stood and stretched, unashamedly looking at him. Stripped of the shyness of a new bride and the idea of virtue, she watched him with the same careful, calculating look of the Africanus. It would seem that family traits ran deep, though her look was certainly less hostile and cold. Not quite a summation, but a curiosity - how did this massive man work? How was he put together? Admiration, in small bits, but not of the slumbering giant between his thighs, but the whole of him, neck, shoulder, thighs, hair.

“You really do have the bluest eyes,” softly said, as she looked up at him. A sense of wonderment there. Blue or other light colored eyes were a rarity - and with his, it felt like she was seeing them for the first time. If she’d ever seen any lighter eyes, she couldn’t recall, and, if she had, they hadn’t left the same impression. “You must let me look at them whenever I ask,” she sniffed, tilting her head up, a child playing at being an adult. “But that’s not what I want if I win this race,” she added, feeling her cheeks heat a bit. Was she still drunk? “When I win, which I will,” no doubt there, “I’ll decide on my prize later.” If that wasn’t enough, she stuck her tongue out at him, squinting her eyes closed. The challenge of an older sibling was heard and returned in kind.

It’ll be a snowy day in the desert before he can beat me in a race, even like this! The familiarity of a foot race comforted her, but the moment she tried to move, pain between her thighs and where she sat almost made her second guess herself. Almost.

I’ll win this, and worry about my sex and ass later!

…When did I get so vulgar? Does being married do this to you, or is it the abundance of wine?

Bah. Worry about it later. There’s a race to win.

She took in a deep breath - let it out. Breathed out her aches and pains, found the shimmering destination. Felt the warmth billow in her, as it always had, before she ran. And she could nearly shed tears of joy; Diana hadn’t abandoned her. She’d still been in the goddess’s hand; carefully watched. She wouldn’t go so far as to assume that she was favored - such hubris in the face of the divine was asking for all kinds of trouble - but it was hard not to feel the warmth and think of herself as abandoned. And such warmth only bred additional devotion.

I’ll win this for Diana, as thanks for all she has done, continues to do. And somewhere, between here and the end of my life, things might make sense. One day.

Or maybe I’ll be free to go live with the wolves.

The latter thought caused her to laugh a bit under her breath. Imagine, trying to live with the wolves now, with Marcus and Tiberius in tow

…That was thought provoking. How short a time it was (yet felt like years) that she’d imagined running off all on her own, and now, the assumption her heart made was that both men would accompany her? Best to consider it later, pray on it. Figure out how to speak to Venus, perhaps use Diana as an intermediary. There was much to be sussed out -

“Make sure not to trip over that massive thing on your way to the baths,” she canted her head to gesture at his phallus. And with that, she was simply gone - off like a loosened arrow, leaving only a hush of a breeze to mark her passing.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

If she hadn’t had been so focused on winning this race, she would’ve considered how absolutely foolhardy it was to not only be running like spirits were chasing her, but to be doing so completely nude. There was something nostalgic in the naked running; ghosts of childhood memories running in the greenery with the sun. However, time had passed, her body had filled out, and not two serious strides in did she find herself firmly clasping her left arm across her chest in a futile attempt to keep her breasts from jumping all over the place. If seeing her running naked wasn’t humorous enough, the look of sheer panic from having to keep her breasts (or attempting to) from bouncing like mad would’ve probably made the most stoic among them do a double take before collapsing into laughter. Even with one arm down, her speed was incredible - something, thankfully, that time had not blunted the edges of.

Finding her way to the baths was second nature - the lifelong habit of a snoop and curious (if being charitable, ‘nosey’ if not) child that had the uncanny ability to slip away if one wasn’t watching too closely. But let him think that he beat me, a slight thought as she slowed down to stalk into the baths. There was truly no good place to hide - quickly assessed, measured, and summed up - but…

The water!

Perhaps he’ll be so confident that he beat me here that he’d just sit and wait for me to arrive, she peered round the room. It was quiet; perhaps a bit too quiet. Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen any servants in her mad dash - good luck, she’d initially thought, but as she crept further into the baths, she was beginning to think that perhaps it was intentional. It would seem that the run had pumped her body with enough adrenaline to put some thoughts together - just ‘some’, however. The shimmering surface of the water was too much of a temptation for her to resist - like a child, she skipped down the small stairs into the heated water, not bothering to wade out further.

Truly, this is a luxury, she thought as she looked around, that she hadn’t once thought it odd that Marcus’s villa had its own bath. Her father’s home had one as well, but it wasn’t…this private. Her sisters, mother, brothers, all shared the same area, though of course not at the same time. It felt that there were always reminders of the presence of others; a favored towel, forgotten sweet grasses in the calidarium. Small vials of perfume or hair oils. The echo of voices. As she stretched her legs out beneath the warm water, she looked up at the dancing reflection of light from the water on the ceiling. It was an airy room - steam vanishing half-way before reaching the domed ceiling.

With a sigh, she leaned back further, letting the wall take most of her weight as she spread her legs wide under the water. The warmth worked its way into her muscles, into her aching sex. Even sitting didn’t seem too bad. Gently, she lifted one leg, then the other, from the water. More to look at them than anything else, before she shifted to cross one leg over the knee of the other - the better to look at her feet. The events of the previous days and the wine had worked to numb whatever pain was there, but a lack of pain could mean problems as well. She inspected the right sole, then shifted to the left. The worst of the wounds were closing without a problem; another thing to be thankful for. She’d only sustained scratches, bruising, but it wasn’t as if she could go a day without being on her feet in one sense or the other.

Unless she stayed in bed - which had proven, at this point, to perhaps cause more hurts, just in different places.

I should tend to my arms.

Spreading her legs again after being satisfied with the state of her feet, she held up her arms, unwrapping the now completely sodden bandages. These were a bit more…rough looking. Unlike her feet, the injuries here were more of a rope burn; the twang of the bowstring catching and snapping against bare flesh. The first layer of skin, thin as it seemed, was scraped off, leaving weeping pink wheals behind. She winced as she lowered her now unprotected arms back into the heated water. It stung, but better to use the warm water here to cleanse - and use the pain to further get her wits about her. ‘

It seemed now in the silence, echoed only by the distant sea, that what she should do, what needed to happen, was beginning to filter back through her brain. Only she had not the slightest idea of where or how to start. She was no longer at home; no longer with familiar servants and places and hideaways.

“…How did I become a wife again?” A lament that was to no one. There would’ve been no shame in asking Marcus - had Marcus been there. He was absent that morning - oh, goddess. Was he angry at her? Disgusted at what their night had turned into? Was he out trying to desperately negotiate a divorce, to take hold of her ear and drag her back to her family, spewing how troublesome and slatternly she was?

She sunk under the water until only her eyes were showing. And here she was, making matters worse by playing childish games with his battle brother! How could that have felt so…absolutely right, but be so absolutely wrong?

As if on cue, her head and stomach rolled in turn, and she leapt from the stairs and into the bath proper, only if to better have a place to rest her head.

How do I make myself feel better? I’ve already emptied my stomach - wrung it dry. And I’ve never had so much wine as to think of how to fix this. Why could’ve I have been more attentive as a daughter?

However, in her defense, as she sat with her swimming head on her arms, she could’t ever remember seeing anyone in her family even the slightest bit drunk. It would’ve been beyond gauche. Maybe occasionally her father awoke with a headache, or complained that the sun was too bright after a meeting with his friends or business associates, but her mother would simply fix him with a look and he’d sulk off -

Ah. The servants had probably known how to take care of him. But this was something completely different! She felt considerably worse than ‘a headache’ - the light was splitting into her skull, her voice, even as a whisper, was entirely too loud, her cunt hurt, her ass felt it was split in two, and she’d just run here like she was a child and now it was all catching up to her but if she could just keep her head down until the world stopped spinning, until someone magically appeared with a cure for all that ailed her, until she knew that Marcus wasn’t somewhere plotting to ship her off to some brothel, maybe things would work out.

But then there’s always the wolves…

 

[Talon]

Unsurprisingly, Tiberius wilted not the slightest under the scrutiny of Gaia’s gaze. If anything, it was as if he welcomed her curiosity, to take it as a compliment of a sort that he acknowledged with a flirtatious grin that turned up the corners of his mouth when their eyes finally met.

It was at face value a simple thing, the act of being nude, the state into which one was brought into being. In the case of Tiberius, though, there was something of a sort of unspoken brazenness to it, as if in addition to the idea of comfort it was in itself an act of defiance or rebellion. As she looked upon him, it was as if his approach of nonchalant indifference to other’s opinions of his state of nudity imparted upon him something of an air of confidence, to stand unclothed and unabashed, bearing no protection against the proverbial spears and slingstones of criticism and judgement.

Not all judgments would fall harshly, of course, such as her comment about his eyes, her second, as he recalled, which seemed to have more of a direct effect on him than her visual assessment of his form had. He was not of the sort to blush, and he didn’t then, but there was that warm, boyish grin in response that gave one much the same impression as if he had. He’d simply nodded once as if in agreement with her demand that he allow her to admire them whenever she asked, not bothering to interrupt her to give voice to comment. He would of course freely permit it, for if she were looking into his, then he could be looking into hers, and though hers bore no particularly exotic coloring, they were deep and beautiful and unique all their own.

Besides, he was quite sure it would be easy enough to convince her that there was no better vantage to look him in the eyes than for her to be sat astride him with those powerful thighs of hers wrapped around his middle.

He carried on stretching a moment after she’d accepted his challenge, ceasing his juvenile efforts to badger her into relenting, thinking she was rising for much the same purposes of preparation he made no immediate move to ready himself to run. “Very well… a prize to be named later. You count the mark, then, when you are ready.”

If judged by his efforts it seemed Tiberius was taking his own preparation seriously, the big man moving then to warm the muscles in his legs by folding one back to grab it by the ankle, displaying a surprising amount of agility for one so large as he, only having had to hop once or twice on his sole grounded foot in order to maintain his balance as he pulled his captured foot back into an awkward stretch. His sex, still in an obvious state of rest, swung and flopped and slapped against the front of his thighs somewhat comically as he hopped about, offering a preview of what sort of lewd display was going to be put on when he was running full force with that thing left to swing about freely.

“And what if I win… what would I want?” It was rhetorical, colored with a sarcastically contemplative tone. “...hmmm. Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I had my arse licked…” A pause as his eyes flickered over to meet hers, a mischievous twinkle in them as he held her gaze. “What? I promise I’ll wash first… you can even scrub me down yourself if you need proof.”

As usual, it was impossible to tell whether he was serious or not, though knowing of him and his proclivities, it certainly didn’t seem the sort of prize he would hesitate in asking for.

“Bah…” Tiberius set down the now well-stretched leg, kicking it out a few times before switching to its twin, hopping only once this time to maintain his balance. “... perhaps best to let your stomach settle before speaking of such things.” He was speaking to himself, really, half-heartedly ribbing her, though it seemed from the outside that she was having something of a contemplative moment. Noting this, he resolved himself to simply watch and stretch as she centered herself, a rare moment of reflective silence from the oft-chatty giant.

Gods… she really does resemble her mother. His mind’s eye pieced together the image of Octavia he had formed in the days prior. Beautiful, stern, and severe, made all the more attractive for it, the sort of woman he would have been scheming for a moment alone with in some closet somewhere were it not for the circumstances, never mind their difference in age. His interactions with her had been terse, not strictly impolite, but he gathered she had judged him as someone not worth knowing beyond pleasantries exchanged for the sake of him being in her daughter’s husbands-to-be’s retinue. With the gift of hindsight he was glad he hadn’t made a fool of himself by making a play for her affection, given present circumstances, but at the time, how was he to know that she was mother to such a woman?

Gaia broke the silence then, pulling Tiberius’ attention from his thoughts back into the present moment.

“Make sure not to trip over that massive thing on your way to the baths,”

He scoffed at her jest, acknowledging her nod with a challenging nudge of his chin towards her in return. “Perhaps you could…”

As if shot from a drawn bow she streaked from the room, bare feet slapping tile, dashing out into the hall before he’d even had a chance to fully give voice to his retort.

“Hey! You little cheat, you didn’t mark go!” He called out after her, though it was clear by his tone that his objection was not made in anger. This was a part of his play, the elder brother chastising the younger sister for failing to abide by common rules. Never step on a crack, certainly never peek while counting during your turn to seek, and most importantly of all, don’t run until you hear ‘go’. Tiberius growled beneath his breath as he bounced once on the balls of his feet before himself sprinting from the privy and out into the hallway.


Fleet of foot.

He’d heard the phrase before, said by those like Marcus who were prone to engage in a more erudite form of speaking. Fucking fast is how Tiberius would describe her. Surprisingly so. By the time he made it out into the hall, she was already a good stone's throw ahead of him, all bare feet, back, elbows, and bald head from his vantage. Tiberius would describe himself as quick on the best of days, by no means slow, yet still, even as her pace waned to allow her to take an upcoming turn, which in turn allowed him to eat up a little of her lead with that long stride of his, by the time he made it to that same turn she’d already disappeared behind another. He could hear the slapping of feet echoing back to his ears, meaning she hadn’t simply given up and hid somewhere, but just which turn she had taken he couldn’t exactly tell. Tiberius paused a moment there, the image of the frantic look on her face as one arm clutched tightly to her breasts bringing a smile to his lips.

Fun. He was certainly having it, and he hoped she was too, to take a bit of the edge off the dour mood that a hungover often brought along with it if nothing else. Still, entertaining or not, this was a competition, and one he fully intended to win. He wasn’t going to declare her the victor just because she had a pretty smile and a nice pair of teats. If she wanted to win this, she had to earn it.

“Just for that…arse-licking it is!” He grumbled around his grin, taking off down the hall after her.

 

[Talon]

Tiberius had chosen to take what was in his recollection the most direct route, one that took him down a long hallway that intersected with the back of the kitchen. It was a risky move, given the time of day, but he felt he needed the advantage it would provide if he had any hope of winning. His gamble didn’t pay off, unfortunately, as just as he turned down the hall he heard the sound of voices up ahead, female, their conversation echoing back to him as they meandered their way towards the kitchen. There were support columns just inside the entrance to this length of hall to either side, stout cement columns, simple and lacking decor beyond a treatment to weatherize them against the humidity of the near sea air. He quickly ducked behind the one on the right for cover, turning sideways and pressing his shoulder into it, his breathing quickened by his recent burst of activity. He risked a slow peek out from behind the column to confirm the source of the voices.

Two women, one an elder, both in gown and apron, each carrying something, baskets of ingredients, maybe, as they made their way toward the kitchens at the far end of the hall. Their words were more clear now that he had stopped to listen.

“She had it comin’, that one did, speakin’ out of turn. She’s lucky Dominus let her keep her head after the insult she gave.” That must be the elder speaking, judging by her tone and the slight warble of age in her voice.

Tiberius frowned, his curiosity piqued, the race momentarily forgotten as he strained his ear to listen.

“You only think that way because it’s not your hands that’ll be kneadin’ dough all day…” The younger woman grumbled.

Tiberius’ frown deepened as his brow creased. The breadmaker… what was her name? Started with a D, maybe…no, an S… M?

“Quit your gripin’, girl, before I black and blue your backside to match hers…” The conversation faded as the pair of women passed through the doorway at the far end of the hall.

Tiberius pushed away from the column, thoughts of the breadmaker banished as quickly as they had come, lingering behind cover for just a moment to ensure the women would not immediately return. He was jogging, then… slap, slap slap… flesh against tile, staying near to the wall to his right as he crept along, fully intending to dive into the nearest doorway if he heard the sound of voice or footfall. He reached the intersecting hall the women had emerged from, pausing a moment to look down it, and peeking his head out from behind the wall, he rested there a moment. Seeing the coast was clear, Tiberius stood and looked back to the doorway at the end of the hall that the women had disappeared through, only a few strides away now. It was empty, thankfully, for anyone walking through it was bound to spot him out in the open, but through it wafted a myriad of smells from the kitchen, evoking from his stomach a groan of protest loud enough to almost give away his position.

Food…

It took considerable will for him to tear himself away, to turn back and start down the hall. He was a man of great appetite, and though it was tempting to knick a bite from the kitchen, even he would have a hard time explaining his present circumstances. His rebellious attitude only went so far… after all, this was Marcus’ home, and Gaia’s. What sort of brother to both would he be, to flagrantly disregard the order of their household, to bring shame to them in the eyes of their servants?

Besides, he still had a race to win. And so it was with images of roasted pheasant and fried hen’s eggs dancing about in his head, vivid enough to make his mouth water, that Tiberius scampered down the hall towards the bath.


Blissfully unaware that he had already lost, and with what could only be described as a ‘dung-eating’ grin emblazoned across his visage, Tiberius slowed to a canter as he entered the antechamber of the baths. He walked a circle once, twice, adrenaline still churning through his veins, his arms up over his head with his hands clasped to the back of it in the recovery position as he awaited her entrance. He pictured her bursting through the doorway, huffing and puffing around excuses for why he had beaten her even as he crowed his victory call. She might be fast, he’d give her that, but there was no way she could have kept that pace the entire way here.

He kept reciting that last bit to himself as he waited, over and over, a mantra, until enough time had passed that Tiberius’ breath had been fully restored. His hands fell to his hips in the universal sign of an impatient party awaiting an arrival, something of an inadvertent pose struck there, looking every bit the vision of Hercules himself. Impossibly broad of shoulder and chest, overly long in limb and sex, surely it was that no mortal woman had ever birthed such a creature. Musculature that looked enough to lift and hold a horse aloft, there was no earthly physical regimen that could have developed such bulk, the only plausible explanation for his size being a result of having suckled at the teat of Juno herself. It was not true, of course, at least the part about having been birthed, for his mother was all woman, and slight, actually, among her people. Suckling at Juno’s teat was another matter, though, for even he couldn’t be certain that he hadn’t. Seeing as he availed himself of all chances offered, which were plenty, was it truly reasonable to expect him to have remembered the names of every woman whose teats he’d mimicked drinking from over the years? To recall such a list would be like calling the roll of a legion.

It was only a few minutes that he stood there waiting in the antechamber, but enough to begin to give him cause for worry. Not that she was in danger or anything of the like, but maybe she had been caught or had taken ill again as she made her way here. He began to question whether he should go looking after her when his ears perked up; the sound of splashing water from behind him in the bath.

That little…

He began grinning before he’d even turned around, already certain of what had happened, striding forth into the baths with a confidant gait unbefitting a man who had just been so soundly beaten. His eyes found her there in the deeper part of the baths, her head on her arms, as he casually strode over to the stairs at the entrance.

Only a fool would underestimate this one. Like a slab of fine steel, an instrument in the making waiting only to be honed, there was a natural physicality to her that was evident even if lacking in refinement. Fast and strong and brave, she was every bit the Amazon his mind had at first imagined her to be.

Perhaps she could stand to be a bit taller, though.

Tiberius gave a sigh of resignation as he sauntered over to the stairs and began to descend slowly into the warmth of the bath. “You run like your arse is on fire, has anyone ever told you that?” He chuckled to himself. “In case you need to hear me say it; Well done, you’ve won fair and square…” Another sigh, this one of contentment, as he made to sit on the widest section of the stair designed for such a purpose, the water rising up to the tops of his thighs. He seemed genuinely of good spirit in the admittance of having lost as he pressed his palms into the marble of the stair just above the one he had sat on, leaning back against the brace of his arms as his legs unfurled and stretched out before him. It was an odd pose for one his size, the visibly defined muscles of his upper arms bulging, thick, firm pectorals firing one after the other, mannish and brutish, barbaric. And yet at the same time, he looked like a boy sat at the edge of the bath having for the first time seen within it a nude woman, his head cocked slightly to one side, a smile creasing his lips, a curious twinkle in those ice blue orbs as they watched her, devoid of the ravenous hunger of the morning prior.

“I’d be curious to see how you and I would fare against each other in a real race…” It seemed by his tone to be a statement of genuine wonderment, rather than one of someone lamenting the fact that they had lost a race they thought they should have rightly won. “... though I would have to be a fool to make the same bet twice.”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

From within the chamber of her arms, a muffled chuckle could be heard. The slight shaking of her shoulders would further give her away, even if she didn’t lift her head. “Rest assured…” her voice came slow, measured, cautious, “I would beat you to such a point of shame that even the sun in the sky would hang his head in pity.” She shifted a bit, slowly lifting her head, not quite ready to face him. A deep inhale - followed by an equally slow exhale. And when she turned to face him now, back against the wall, she seemed worse for wear from the run. Not that her chest heaved - such sprints were second nature to her - but as if the weight of the world had collapsed upon her shoulders again. Her eyes were puffy, and far from being “pleasantly pink” from her earlier tears, were nothing short of absolutely bloodshot. There was a fatigued slump to her shoulders, a heaviness of her head that made it seem (especially sans hair) disproportionately large on her slender neck. Clearly excess wine did not agree with her. There may have been something new there, too - a certain world-weariness that came with advance knowledge or too much experience. Hard to tell, under the muted lantern light and bright sun from the outside, distorting this misty world with rays that only hinted at breaking through the steam.

All the same, she mustered something of a weakened smile, though she felt its fragility at the corners of her mouth. “I feel horrible,” she finally admitted. “My head throbs, my eyes barely want to stay open, and the less is said of my nether region, the better.” She moved towards him now, a slight push off of the wall to wade the few inches over to him. For a moment, it looked as if she was going to stand between his legs, then, seeming to think better of it, she gently slapped the top of his left thigh. “Move up a step; I want to sit here.” “Here”, being, of course, between his legs while he sat behind her. Waiting for him to move as she not so pleasantly, but not harshly, demanded, she sat, framed by the two trunks of his legs and his sex not so suggestively cushioned between her back and shoulders.

“Marcus was not there when we awoke,” abrupt start - but what could be hidden between the two of them now? Arethusa was not there - and probably would not join them until she was in Rome proper. So who, then, was she to tell her secrets to? And what more intimacy could she expect? At least - there was a wry thought - when it came to having some sort of sexual affair, well, there was no secret there. Marcus had not only been present, but participated, if not even goaded the events on from his seat.

Had he done so because of their earlier filthy talk? Or had he done so because she so displeased him that he merely wanted a way out of the marriage, a reason to keep distance between them? But hadn’t he said that he loved her?

She tilted her head back, eyes closed. The top of her head would pillow against Tiberius’s middle, slick smooth from her hurried ablutions that morning. She kept her eyes closed, long lashes casting curved shadows across the high planes of her cheekbones. At this angle, more of her mother could be seen in her face; that small curved chin that led to a slight pouch at the top of the throat, the delicate lines of her full mouth that naturally moved down, lending her a displeased look even though her face was relaxed. “You know him better than I do, if such a man could truly ever be known.” Arms shifted beneath the water, scarlet stripes across her forearms silent testament to the attack. Her hands ran over his thighs, stopped at his knees, using them as arms of a chair. She drummed her fingers lightly against his kneecap, the sound muted beneath the water. Tap tap tap. “I fear though I’ve shamed him in my actions last night. That I am no match for his first wife. So freshly married, and yet, so eager to take the sex of another man, and not just any man, but his battle brother,” a squeezing of those fingers against his knees. Not enough to rebuke or to accuse, but a strange sort of caress. “I have been struck by you, Tiberius, since I first saw you.” Her eyes still closed, her nose wrinkled at the bridge impishly, making her look impossibly young. Fleeting remembrance of a child there. “Not in the way that you might think; though it is impressive,” and her tone made it clear that she knew that he knew what she was referring to, “though I’m not sure how valuable my word would be. Yours is the second that I’ve seen, compared to Marcus’s. At least human - but no one is to know that I’ve seen the animals on the farm during spring. It would be far too unladylike - one more sin to add to the pile of them that I’ve so neatly gathered in my life.” Her eyes remained closed, her chest rising and falling easily with each breath. She was relaxed, leaning against him like he was a large chair, though the lazy loops she was drawing on his knee made it clear that she never forgot he was there. “I felt a kinship with you from the start - and if that makes me sound foolish, it’s one more thing that I have that makes me an embarassment of a daughter and unwifely. But I’ve never not spoken anything that I did not feel - if anything, I remain silent when I know I cannot speak my heart. It seems that the older I get, the more time I spend not saying anything. Seeing you in the baths, being able to speak with you like this now, this morning, makes me think that I was not misguided in feeling so strongly for you from the start. And perhaps in that, I have put an unfair weight on your shoulders.”

She opened her eyes now, looking him squarely in the eyes. Despite the redness of her own, there was an earnestness to them that only came from great personal conviction. “If you would have me, I would take you into all of my confidences, those I can spare, at least, and know, selfishly enough, that my heart can be yet unguarded, still pure, still….myself.” There was a pleading there, desperation, floundering for some sort of acceptance. “Each morning that dawns here, I am further and further away from my father’s house and from all that is familiar. The sights, the sounds, the earth beneath my feet - all is different. And I yearn to find something that I once knew. Something to anchor me better. To help me through this storm of being a wife - something that I honestly never thought I would be. I don’t know how to play this role,” and she broke eye contact, only to shift lower to rest her cheek on a massive thigh. “I want to have a home. I want my heart, for all of its wildness, if not be understood, then at least cradled. Tell me I’m asking too much of you. Tell me that Marcus is the one who could do this, who would be that. If not now, then in the future, though I feel I will always be in the shadow of someone else, someone that he held dear and now truly has no room for anyone else.” A soft laugh, strangled by the weight of forcing back tears. “I am the youngest Africanus, and thus the last; it would be only fitting that I am last here. I wonder if I could ever be the first for anyone. Anything. Or if I'm fated to constantly be last - last in mind, last in thought, last in heart."

 

[Talon]

More than content to spend the morning with her sprawled across his lap like a child crawling brazenly over the docile form of the family mastiff, Tiberius relinquished his spot on the steps with little more than a playful grumble beneath his breath in lament.

If she’s going to tug on something, by Venus, let it not be just my ears…

That grumble quickly morphed into something of a pleasured groan as she perched herself between his thighs, her makeshift throne wrapping an arm around her as she settled back into him, draping down over her shoulder and across her upper chest, his hand resting there above her breast on the side opposite her heart. His thumb stroked idly at the ridge of her collarbone that protruded there as he again listened as she spoke. There was a raising of his eyebrows as she made mention first of Marcus’ absence. He could maybe guess as to the reasoning, but had no solid answer, truthfully, for how was he to know the man’s heart? Tiberius knew all too well how drink was capable of influencing one’s mind, and that often what seemed a brilliant plan the night before was proven regretable upon the dawning of the sun.

If he were being honest, Tiberius would be forced to admit that he did not have a solid read on Marcus in this particular scenario. They’d never spoken of it, not outside of perhaps a lewd comment here or there about how perhaps someday they should share a wench between them. And those had been his desires, not Marcus’, and even then they were made mostly in jest. Hells, it came as something of a surprise that the old man’s cock hadn’t shriveled up and fell off, given how little he spoke of matters of the flesh since last he was married. He hadn’t merely spoken of it, though, last night he’d watched as his wife and battle brother coupled, been kissed against his will, fondled, groped, felt up, and maybe most shocking of all, been stimulated indirectly by the presence of Tiberius’ phallus. Surely he had felt him as he entered Gaia, that there was something else there, just beyond, a firmness that moved with a will of its own, that rubbed along the underside of his own through the membrane that separated her sex and rear passage. It had felt good, by Tiberius’ reckoning, a feature not a flaw, but he also could imagine how it would be the sort of thing that would haunt a man like Marcus if he wrapped his head too tightly around the thought of it.

Luckily it had been more statement than inquiry, one that she moved on from, albeit after a weighty pause as if she lingered in the consideration of it.

The leaning of her head back into his chest brought a smile once more to his lips. His gaze was drawn towards her, an inelegant angle, perhaps, but still, her features were just as striking even when observed from above. The baldness of her scalp was most evident, though as his mental image of her had formed after she’d already gone bare, it was less noteworthy to him than it had been to her husband. That was just how she kept her hair, exotic and unusual but not unheard of, and she bore it well.

A pleasant hum vibrated in his chest as she tilted her head back to look up at him, his gaze meeting hers, his fingers moving to stroke the lines of her neck revealed in her movement, gentle, not as they had been the night before, gripping as they were, but light, playful, as she spoke on matters of the heart.

He nodded as she spoke the last, looking away a moment as if he were considering what to say. “You know, cub, I too was struck upon our first meeting…” He turned back then, ice-blue orbs sparking with mischief. “... right in the orbs! By your foot, if you'll recall…”

Tiberius pounced upon her then, his thighs squeezing fast to her sides, keeping her in place as his hands sought to tickle, first at her neck, under her chin, then there behind her ears, swooping down then to the pits beneath her arms, mimicking the light scratching of an itch, fingers wriggling, letting up not an ounce even if she screamed loud enough to bring the household help at a run. He teased at her between breaths, even as he attempted to dodge any efforts she made to smack at him, the water around them churning with the energy of thrashing legs. “Ticklish, huh? Are you? You’re lucky I chose not to tweak your nipples and pinch the insides of your thighs!” Truly without mercy, this one.

It was only a moment, though, before he relented, his arm once more wrapping around her upper chest to pull her back into him as his other moved beneath the water to rest against her belly, just as he had while they’d slept. It was a moment longer before his laughter died off, rumbling against her back even as he spoke, the water around them calming as they settled back into place. He was serious, then, and his change in tone conveyed as much. “You are not alone, cub, not in this. I felt it too, beyond the strength of your kick.” The sting of Cupid’s arrow? He said not as much, even as he thought it.

“If I could choose to start every day like this, you and me, together… I would.” Tiberius cleared his throat. He had not meant to imply the absence of Marcus, and would not have chosen it to be so if he had the power. He wanted not to usurp, but to supplement. How to convey such a thing, though? ‘I want to be second in your heart’...? That was not exactly right, even if it strictly was. It was too complex a thing to give voice to, and so he didn’t, hoping she interpreted his rightful meaning. “I enjoy being in your company for more than just the odd chance to eye up your teats…” He nudged her playfully. “... you’ve got a sense of humor on you, but also you speak to the truth of things. I’m accustomed to finding both in short supply among your kind…” As if deciding he should elaborate on what he meant by ‘kind’, he specified before continuing. “ …you know. Patricians. Rich cunts.” A humored scoff. “You certainly play the part well, though, and look the very image of Venus when done up in all your finery. You wear it like a cloak, like the donning of armor, but it is not who you are inside…” His grip around her tightened, pulling her in more closely.

“Look at me, then… do you see a Praetor? A proper Roman? ‘For the Republic!’” The arm clutched around her relented a moment, raising his fist in the air before them as if to mock the triumphant battle cry of a proud Roman from a bygone era before falling back to drape itself lazily across the top of her chest. “Hah! I’d sooner squat to piss than bring glory to the peoples who ground my own beneath their heel…” Something surprising from Tiberius then, perhaps, something of righteous fervor, as he turned his head and mocked as if to spit. “But I do what I must to survive. As do you, as does Marcus, as do we all. We do not get to choose the world we live in, only what we make of it.”

Tiberius strengthened the grip of his arms around her once more as he pressed his cheek down against the top of her head. “When you are with me, alone, as we are now, you are free to be as the gods made you. You need not be a wife, nor a lady, nor some highborn cunt. Be Gaia. Scream, if the desire takes you. Scratch at the short hairs between your thighs. Belch! If it’s coming out the other end, though, you’d damn well better warn me first…” A chuckle, then, in good nature.

“Come here, cub… turn around to face me.” He shifted a bit to the left, her still seated a step below him, so they could each turn inward and be almost facing each other. “Give me your hand a moment.” He took it, gripping her wrist with those thick fingers of his, nodding and motioning to her as if he expected her to embrace his wrist in kind. This was a gesture of honor, of men, customarily between men, as Marcus had with her father and brothers. The giving of a word, the sealing of a promise, the show of a peaceful greeting between equals. It meant many things in many circumstances, here a demonstration of solidarity, the marking of a bond forged. Nodding as she gripped his wrist he bent his head down and towards her as if to look her in the eyes.

“If I had a blade I would seal it in blood, but this will have to suffice. I would call myself your brother from now on, if not for that it would feel strange when I asked to hear you tell me again about how you think my cock is impressive…”

Grinning, Tiberius leaned forward and pulled her towards him as he swooped in to press a sudden kiss against her lips.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Tiberius made it improperly easy to lounge on him: both his side and his very presence were becoming the very definition of comfort to her. Something of the older brother, something, quieter still, of a lover. Intimacy that she’d only tiptoed towards with Marcus in those stolen moments in the dark. If it were at all possible, she leaned further into him, nearly melting into his larger form as his thumb brushed over her collarbone. A small shiver of pleasure rippled through her, caused her eyelids to flutter a bit. It was such a simple touch, but one that spoke volumes of familiarity that her body drank eagerly of - not knowing how desperate, how starved she’d been for it.

Her somber mood was broken at the mention of their first meeting. She’d fold over in his arms, her shoulders shaking, a small wheeze escaping her - and had it not been for his firm grasp, she would’ve pitched over into the warm water. Wheezing turned into laughter, laughter into wheezing snorts. Wriggling an arm loose, she wiped at her watering eyes with the back of her right hand. Wheezing snorts to a small groan, a furrowing of her brow. “Oh, by Bacchus, does my head ache,” a small, sad whine there as she pushed back into him, trying to burrow into his warmth. “You know…” she was struggling to catch her breath, move her focus away from her throbbing head and the strange echo of her voice round and round in her skull as magnified as if shouted in her ears, “You’re going to laugh when I tell you this, and you’ve earned the right to, but when I first saw you in the bath, I thought, ‘This man is here to attack!’ and…well,” she rubbed his knee beneath the water, “You know what happened next. I suppose it was the trick of a fatigued mind. Not like I could’ve dreamed to take down a man of your size,” tilted her head up to look back up at him, smiling. “But it was the first thing that I thought of. You’ve my brother to thank for the state of your-” a modest holding of the tongue, before she continued, “ ‘orbs’, as it were. It was only meant as a last resort, only eased by the idea that my being a woman would make it less cowardly. In looking back, I’m surprised that I didn’t break my foot-“

Her voice was cut off by a squeal of surprise, high enough to make her wince, but not enough to keep her from flailing, rather uselessly, in his arms under his tickle assault. If her armpits had been promising, her sides spoke of true gold: she was soon doubled over in his arms, trying to get loose, kicking out uselessly, causing water to cascade over the sides of the bath. It was quite a racket - small surprise that the sounds of their voices hadn’t caused slaves to run to investigate. But before she would end up near wetting herself, his assault stopped, and in retaliation, she slapped his pectoral with all of the force of a pillow. “You are an absolute beast, and I should’ve wet myself right here in your lap for it. Would’ve served you right.” All was forgiven, clearly, with the way she nestled right back up to him, sighing into his arms.

His next words were cold water rippling through the core of her. Not unpleasant, not by any means, but…shocking? Would that be the right word? No; it wasn’t strong enough. Like ringing a bell, his words reverberated through her, rang in a frequency that she understood, felt was in tune with her own heart. By Diana, he understood! It hadn’t been a strange fancy; it was the goddess placing him directly in her path. To offer her reassurance in this new phase of her life. His next words were a dull buzz in her ears, muted against the rush of blood in her ears, the feeling pushing down her headache, her sour stomach. And when he turned her to face him, he’d scarcely leaned down to kiss her before she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him with the quiet desperation of a penitent man hearing his prayer answered. Nothing that could be considered truly chaste, but not entirely filled with lust, either - a pouring of like from one vessel into another, heat trading back and forth between the two of them.

When her lips left his, her breath felt like flame over her lower lip, and still, she clung to him, pressing her forehead into his, right hand moving to clasp firmly against the small of his neck, fingers carding through the fine hair. This close to him, her body a dark shadow pressed full against the front of him, there was a familiar flicker between her legs, a rolling in her lower stomach. She’d thought it would be something that she would only experience with Marcus; he had been the one that opened that particular door, and as such, would always hold it. What she felt here, now, with Tiberius, was different. More raw. Fear had been there at first, but that was blown away with the actions from last night. She wanted to be cruel to him: pull his hair, squeeze his throat beneath her hand, bring him to heel as much as she wanted him to treat her in turn; to press her face down and pull her rear up, to manhandle her as much as she would with him.

All decidedly unwifely like.

Thankful that their faces were too close to be rendered clear by their eyes, she gently ran her fingers down the back of his neck, leaning forward to suck on his lower lip. Tentatively, not out of shyness for being bold, but because it was something new, reassured that it was the right thing to do. Rolled his fuller lower lip between her own, closing on it with the hint of teeth before letting go, hot breath against his mouth, inhaling him, exhaling herself.

“…I think I would…” She felt her cheeks heat now, a sudden rush of remembrance. “I want you,” she said, simply, plainly, despite the heat in her cheeks and fury in her stomach. “I want to feel you inside of me again. To join with you in glory to the gods for bringing you into my life. For opening my heart this much more….” Had he not said to be herself, even to the point of crudeness around him? “But I feel that I would simply split down the center, fall apart into two halves of Gaia, if I were to even attempt it. Oh, Tiberius, my sex, my ass - you may have to carry me out of this bath and around the villa. Running made it worse,” there was that pout again, begging for all of his attention and his pity, “even though part of me wants maybe your fingers, just to feel around, to ensure I’m still whole…” a dip of her head, lips against the side of his throat. What would it be like to bite him, hard enough to leave a mark? To hear him come undone?

You’re moving much too fast. A soft chiding, but without the venom of the voice from her dream. Rest your body. Heal. Then perhaps a repeat of last night, without as much wine, could be in your future.

“Marcus said I’d end up as his whore,” a soft sigh, “Do all women turn out like this, once they’ve felt the touch of a man? I just want more and more,” a more dramatic sigh. “And I should be worried that Marcus is going to haul me back to my father’s home due to last night. Too slatternly to be a proper wife. But perhaps this merely means my womb is hungry enough to produce heirs. She must be constantly fed…” A trailing of her hand up his arm. “All jesting aside - he truly was not there when we awoke. I do fear, greatly, that I’ve offended him. And the thought of it makes me feel ill. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I know that beyond these walls, the real world waits. I must confront him before the night has fallen - but if, mayhap, you see him before me, try and see if he is colder than usual?”

She shifted, turning her back to his chest again. Face to face was tempting her, despite the pain in her lower halves. It seemed that the more her body demanded the feel of his phallus inside of her, the more it throbbed and tightened in sheer protest. She hadn’t even been aware that so many muscles, hidden from view, that she hadn’t even known existed, could hurt so much. “And here I am, shamefully asking you to do my dirty work. Forget I asked, my dear one. I will confront him myself.” Said with more bravery than she felt. Perhaps Tiberius merely being there was enough to make her feel like she’d be protected. “I must pray for guidance. If I am to be married, I must learn to read his moods. To know how he feels towards me. And,” a bit of optimism she didn’t truly feel, “if I am last in his heart, forever in the shadow of the wife before me, perhaps he truly cares not of what I do. Then I should be as a mad woman, completely horrid, going to live in the mountains and only coming down to breed and present him with heirs. Can you imagine? I could dress my hair with pinecones and olive branches and wear the pelt of a bear.”