Caveat Emptor (Closed for Apollo Wilde)

[Talon]

Marcus’ tongue lapped at her sex as if out from it flowed the very essence of life. There was no shame in his actions, no bashfulness. He was a man starved of sustenance, and having had a meal put before him, he sought to take from it his fill.

As she parted her thighs his head wedged further between them, her leg coming to rest against his shoulder, her flesh warm against his cheeks, against his tongue where it caressed her labia, where it tickled against her perineum as his face dug deeper, blindly seeking the dew he knew must be collecting there at her lower entrance, teasing at the rounded bit of flesh at its threshold, delving his tongue deeper there, parting svelte folds, slipping deeper inside, testing muscles made sore from the night before, reveling in the smoothness of her inner walls, in the taste that was distinctively hers. His head was tilted up, and had her stolla been removed, he would be staring up at her, and she would have seen in his eyes the hunger in him the tasting of her cunt satisfied, such that there would be no room for question. Lacking the verification of sight, perhaps it would instead be the sounds that assured her, the moans, vibrations against her flesh, or the wet, sharp slurping sounds as his lips closed around the nub of her clit, as he suckled there, more to satisfy himself than stimulate her, no, that was the role relegated to his tongue, the tip lashing back and forth across it a few times before anchoring itself down near the hole through which she relieved herself, sliding up, pressing firmly, curling in a sensual mimicry of a finger motioning to ‘come, hither’, stimulating that little pearl that peeked out from its hood with each pass. Again, again, and again he licked, working at her clit as though it were a stain his tongue could rub off, his nose pressed there against her pubic mound, his exhale hot against sensitive flesh, his fingers digging deeper into the back of her thighs as they sought to keep her held in place, to prevent her from pulling away, not before he’d well had his fill.



The warmth of a pleased groan rumbled in Tiberius’ throat and he nestled his cheek against her scalp. “Good… now was that so hard, Cub, to say a nice thing of the man who labors so to please your cunt?” Fingers tightened around her throat, his whisper becoming a growl as he grew serious in response to her demand to be freed or fucked. “As for what to do with you… I’ll release you when I’m good and ready. Fight against it, if you think you have in you the strength to dictate how this will go…” Whether he spoke of fighting against his grip or fighting against the will of either man was left for her to decide. “... I shouldn’t have let you walk out of the baths this morning…” She could feel his hardened sex pressed up against her backside there near the cleft, trapped between his body and hers she could surely feel something of its firmness, its bulk still entrapped within the prison of his loincloth. “... we could have spent the day in bed, you and I, working to get at that itch deep inside…”



Marcus, unaware, and uncaring, of the conversation taking place beyond the shelter that was her stolla, no longer her clothing, but a shield against prying eyes, allowing him this moment, this bit of privacy, to enjoy the thing he had come to desire most in life. He’d always enjoyed this, cunnilingus, but with her it was different. Not merely the taste of it, though he found that too pleasing, nor her natural perfume, musky and deep, potent, nor the feel, of how her sex was so pleasantly plump, a delight to run his tongue against, to press his lips into, nor how liberally her arousal wept from her, such that he could nearly drink from it and be full, nor how delightful he found the contrast of its coloring, from dark, moonless night along the outer labia to the vivid shades of her inner, vibrant purple turning pink nearer her entrance, like the sun peeking over the horizon at dawn. It was none of those things and yet all at once, hardly a wonder he could scarcely think of anything but… it was to him, perfection made flesh. A thing to worship, to lust after, to feed from, to slip his prick into… that it was at home between the thighs of the woman whom fate had tied to him was only all the better.

Though he could feel her bucking against him, that only made him all the more determined, his efforts increasing as he sought to draw from her more of that sweet nectar that he already could feel spilling down his chin and neck to dampen the collar of his fine tunic.



Tiberius’ nose nuzzled against the side of her head near the top of her ear. He felt the beginning of roughness there, of stubble, though, for a man like him, such a thing was nearly beneath notice. The rougher the better, in fact, that she might be more like him, more the savage, less the well-put-together woman who turned the heads of envious peers at the sight of her jewels and finery, that they might murmur between each other of how finely trained her body servants must be. She better belonged in the wilds, where together they would clad themselves in the fur of animals felled by her bow, where they would lay together at night before the fire that burned off the wood from the tree his axe had felled. The roles relegated to man and woman, the expectations of beauty, such were things for the folk of cities, out in the wild, where they took from the land what they needed, there was only cock and cunt, and the sharing of safety, security, in the arms of another as the fire kept the creatures of the night at bay.

His voice was at her ear, near a whisper, deep and dark and brooding. “Let your husband have his fill, Cub…” His grip around her throat tightened as he pulled her head back against him, further exposing her throat, his lips pressing a kiss against her scalp. “... and after, together you and I will work loose that tight little cunt of yours.” Another kiss, oddly tender, even as the beginnings of a growl rumbled lowly in his throat and his fingers bit into the flesh of her neck.



Marcus was up, then, a flurry of movement as he fought free of her stolla, letting it fall back in place as he rose before her. The flesh of his chin, so recently scraped clean as to be smooth, shined as the low candlelight reflected off her fluids that had gathered there in his tasting of her. He turned his head to wipe his mouth clean against the shoulder of his tunic with the raising of his arm, his gaze, as cold and sharp as steel, locked to her, looking once to Tiberius as he unbuckled the belt around his waist, and receiving an encouraging nod of brotherly support from him, he made short work of removing his tunic, pulling it up and off over his head and discarding it over the back of the couch behind him, the loose buckle of the belt that went with it giving a metallic jangle as it went. With little fanfare, he removed his loincloth, the untying of the knot at its center enough to allow it to fall around his still-sandaled feet.

His prick stood ready, hard and firm as was its way when called to action, that gentle curve to it leading the thick, dusky-hued knob at the tip to point more towards her right arm than her middle as he faced her head-on, that now-familiar vein than ran nearly the full length of it, of a light blue the color of a cloudless sky, puffed angrily as it fed the organ its share of his lifeblood.

 

[Talon]

He was lifting the hem of her stolla once more, not to pull it off, he couldn’t with how Tiberius held her, though it needn’t be removed, not to satisfy his purpose, having her lower half be revealed was enough, just then. He let it gather against his forearms as his hands ran up the inside of her legs, him bent forward slightly, enabling him to reach as he gripped a handful of her rump at each side and by it pulled her lower half up. It was not as effortless as it would have been for a man the size of Tiberius, perhaps, but he was not weak, and with a bit of creative maneuvering, her legs draped over his forearms, bending to stabilize his elbow against his thigh as he positioned his hands until his grip was sure, he was able to move her into a position ideal for penetration. There was still the matter of the penetrating, though, and with his hands full and occupied with the bearing of her weight, he was left to try to steer his prick towards her entrance without the help of a guiding and steadying hand. He shifted his hips, the head of his prick mashing into the soft flesh of her inner thigh, and then again, abutting against the outer part of her labia majora there where the crease was between leg and pelvis. A frustrated snort of hot air from his nose as he pulled his hips back again.

“Let me help, brother…” The smile on Tiberius’ lips bordered on devious.

Marcus fixed him with a frustrated look. “I don’t…”

Tiberius clucked his tongue, his hand at Gaia’s middle releasing its grip to move down and seize Marcus’ prick by the base. “It’s no bother…” He bit the corner of his lip as he tugged Marcus forward, his thumb extended out to act as guide, and meeting with its target, he aligned the head of Marcus’ prick with her entrance.

“Lower…” Marcus’ voice was reluctant but eager.

Tiberius had moved it lower, and as soon as he felt the head make purchase, Marcus bucked his hips forward, sending a thumb’s length of his prick surging inside, stopped from further progress by the presence of Tiberius’ fist. Tiberius pulled away quickly after, that hand moving back around to grip her right thigh from underneath, further stabilizing her for what was to come.

It was awkward, at first, as Marcus best worked out how to move his hips, how wide to make his stance, where to grip, but soon his hands were clutched tight to her buttocks, pulling her to him each time he thrust, his body moving with rhythm now, his gaze fixed on her visage. There was nothing fancy from him, not like their first few times, this was more of the same from the evening before, simple rutting, the scratching of an itch, the feeding of an urge.



Tiberius’ eyes watched the efforts of Marcus as his nose once more pressed into the side of her head so that his mouth might be near her ear. Following the thrust of Marcus’ hips, he whispered. “When he goes forward like that, deep, squeeze with the muscles of your cunt like you’re trying to keep him from pulling out…” His breath was warm as it cascaded down her neck. “...and now, once he has pulled back, relax them…” Marcus thrust forward again. “Now squeeze…”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

There was, quite simply, no amount of squirming that she could do to loosen Tiberius’s hold on her. And Marcus, he might’ve well been meting out punishment to an errant soldier: he was restless, past the point of language, reduced to guttural growls, slurping - that sound! She should be ashamed of herself, being this aroused, showing such little control so that her cunt turned into a spring, bubbling from the richness of her body. His tongue tried deeper folds, startling her, causing her to hiss, the closest she’d come to admitting pain. Her hole had been tried, no, pushed beyond its limits the night before, and her earlier activities hadn’t helped it. The flesh felt raw to her; surely it must feel different to him, thinner, perhaps, stretched tight and raw. But for whatever pain she experienced as his tongue tried deeper and deeper into her, it was a balm as well, soothing the thin skin, warmth over slick.

With Tiberius’s hand at her neck, there could be no dropping of her head, no giving in, so, instead, her eyes watered near to tearing, smearing her kohl once again - one of these evenings, I will get through a dinner without some sort of tears - though not out of pain. This was anguish, pleasured sweet, the knitting of her brow and the fast breath that escaped her parted lips, the feeble bucking of her hips each time Marcus got close to her clit, chasing her pleasure. The left leg trembled with effort; shaking that Marcus, and undoubtedly, Tiberius could feel. Restrained like this, she had to admit to herself that she was more at their mercy than she had ever thought possible, and the thought both spurred her arousal and maddened her. Begging hadn’t worked, and she was past the point of trying to reason -

His low growl in her ear, she let out the tiniest pathetic squeak - his grip tight enough to threaten her air flow, but only so much. A caught Amazon, there was no denying that - desire, lust beyond her imagining, wasn’t enough to wipe centuries of just-so breeding from her features: if anything, they sharpened - a primal memory of two opposing tribes, man and woman, lush African and frigid Northerner, who would serve the other, or was it a shadow of submission, a veil thrown over to mask an eventual escape? Or something deeper, something in that face that excused, no, understood, the need to capture and pin a wild animal, the flexing of a gazelle’s nimble legs under the strength of the lion. To his words, she could say nothing: no defiant tilt of the head: long lashes smeared darker with kohl and glittering with a stray tear. Understanding without speaking as a buck back into his crotch, despite Marcus’s hands.

What would he know of an ‘itch’? What a small, simple word; one that didn’t come close to how her cunny actually felt. ‘Fire’, perhaps, would be more accurate, but not the kind fed with mere brush, sprinkled with incense if an offering. The low smolder of a volcano, so hot to eradicate with a touch, flowing through her veins, growing ever hotter, finding its escape in the steady flow between her legs. How could she explain that there was no amount of seed that could quench it, if anything, it would only serve to stoke it further, a stone thrown into a river to scatter the fish beneath the surface. He thought that a day in bed would’ve tamed it - it was laughable! A day would scarcely begin to scratch the surface, for her to begin to wade through all of the raw emotion, things that didn’t have words, things she was realizing, things that she longed to chase after. Another huntress born inside of her that wine-soaked night: how silly was she not to see the signs until now? It wasn’t Diana abandoning her, nor was it Venus mocking her; it was two brilliant goddess sisters, hand in hand, guiding her now, golden Venus laughing, Diana stoking the drive to hunt. Not to merely creep after animals, watching them, learning how they moved - she felt her mouth water to the point of drooling. She wanted flesh, the lifeblood of these two men. And in order to have a successful hunt, she must be patient.

But how they tested her - language had already failed her; she was in no position to bargain even if she could. A low sound, akin to a purr, at the touch of Tiberius’s lips. A check in during a race; reassurance that she was not alone, that she was within safe hands. The only hands she’d ever want to be in. Her eyes closed in contentment, her pulse jumping against the press of his fingers. She was caught fast, little more than a pleasure slave - to them, to herself.

The slow drift of her stolla, caught in its own gravity as Marcus worked himself free, tugging in places so that the fabric whined in protest. And what expression would the wolfish man catch on the face of his wife? No fear, despite the mighty hand at her throat, the tips of fingers creating small craters within the landscape of her neck. Was that the face that men saw on the battlefield? Ferocity, yes, scarcely tempered by the leanness that hunger brought. What face should she show him? That of a caught lamb, feigning fear, or the wide-eyes of a virgin far out of her depths? The canny face of a huntress, knowing that he was caught in her snare? She wouldn't dare; couldn’t presume the latter. Marcus still too strange to her, too unknown, the sweet words and the bronze face unreadable to her as the language of the Copts.

So what did he see?

Eyes that glanced down to his bared prick, eyes that caressed it as lovingly with their gaze as she would’ve with her hands or her mouth. They would linger there, a sense of longing, melting now into the muted joy of finding a long lost object, one that she knew would eventually return to her. They spoke better without words, though even in the bedroom, they seemed barely past formalities. There was still a wall there, but one that he seemed willing to help her scale. So let them begin now, let her take him at the most feral, and show him the hand of Diana, opened in kindness, disguised by the rose-sweet scent of Venus. When their eyes met again, it was in plush love in hers, love that threatened to spill over as much as her sex. She’d show him; she’d take all of him, even the parts that scared him. Her heart was wide enough for it.

She would move as much as she could with her restrained position; a tilting of the hips here, a shift there. Pliant as a reed in his arms, there was no mistaking the tone of this dance. What they both wanted - what she’d venture to say that she was desperate for. There was merriment in the laughter at his snort, a nymph that had well outrun an eager pursuer but who still lay in wait for him, should he venture just a bit further. Heat from her stomach removed, she was able to test the limits - the arm he held down moved to loop back around Tiberius’s neck as best she could, leveling the strength of his form as another point of connection.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

The familiar deep squelch as Marcus’s cock breached her, a soft cry from her. She was sore, sore beyond reason, but it hardly seemed to matter. In echoes of the vibrant dancing from their wedding ceremony, she began to rock her hips back into his, meeting his rhythm as if she were in his mind, her toes brushing against the ground, caught between being flat and remaining aloft. There was a strain on her arm - new angles now that kept her from drawing him as deeply into her as she would’ve liked, the occasional nudge of her swollen clit against his abdomen, the ready slick that made their grips all the more treacherous. Unlike the high animalistic calls of before, these were low, not guttural, but dwelling deep within her throat, an ancient lullaby. Captive yet, almost too embarrassed for her eyes to linger long on Marcus’s. When they did, it was in stark contrast of the muted slapping of his hips into hers, that dewy beckoning. While she had been soft with Tiberius, she had to be firmer with Marcus. He wouldn’t fall; she would have to sit with her hand open - with a bit of the siren there, a call that she hoped wound tightly round his heart, eased Reason’s worries, and steadily, pull him in closer and tighter, closer and tighter -

A laugh, brightly, at Tiberius’s instruction. Did he read my mind; my thoughts of how to bring Marcus into me? Not to heel; he’s not a beast to be tamed, but to bring him into me. To show me that softness that must be lurking there, to be his friend - well, perhaps he’s right; I must start here!

The movements were easy for her; she truly didn’t need further instruction from Tiberius, though the slight bite of her nails into his neck would serve as thanks. Her body, as firm as if the previous night hadn’t happened, did a fine job of seemingly repelling Marcus’s cock from her; tight walls that only eased if she concentrated hard on relaxing. And the squeeze? That was natural, too - she was always loathe to feel the long pull out of her cunt, even if it was pleasurable. She liked it best when he was deep in her, buried so deep that she felt it in the back of her teeth, in the clench of her rear, a forceful thrust that carved new space into her, when he fairly growled and pushed down into her like wanting to go through her, spearing her -

But squeeze she did as Marcus withdrew, the natural clutch of her sex aided by the conscious flex of muscle - so tight the first time that Marcus would struggle to re-enter her - and again, then again, her testing those new muscles, trying to find the appropriate balance that was a caress of him, a begging not to fully withdraw, but to pull him back into her, urge him deeper, then again, to let up, just enough, so that he could feel every inch of her, and, low, beneath her breath -

“Feel how I want you, Marcus…?” Gentle as approaching a spooked horse, soothing, cooing. You’re safe with me. I made a vow to protect you - not just your body, but your heart. You belong to me, as I to you, and however long it takes, I’ll make sure that you know it. That you can breathe it, feel it like the sun on your skin and the ground under your feet. “I love you,” so softly now, as to be imagined.

 

[Talon]

“Gods, yes, I feel it…” Marcus’ nostrils flared as he thrust his hips forward, a deep, desperate gulp of air cut short by a reflexive groan, not of pain, but expressive of the sudden spike of pleasure he felt when her inner muscles clamped down on his prick just as he buried it as deep inside her as it could go. “... I feel it…” He closed his eyes, his head slumping forward, reveling a moment in the sensations provided by her cunt, of those powerful inner muscles that held his prick greedily within their constrictive grasp, almost as if she would not let him go, such that the action of withdrawing from her took no small effort, not only measured in strength but in will. To want to leave the warmth of that embrace seemed to him madness. Why would he ever choose that? It was the very manifestation of comfort, stimulation, and satisfaction. He felt so close to her, like this, belly to belly, sex to sex, eye to eye. In these intimate moments, the guarded man who seemed closed off to all, including her, was opened like the blossoming of a flower bud. There was warmth, there, in the wetness of his eyes. Yes, the way his hips moved, bucking against her even as he had no more of his prick to give her, ensuring it was seated within her cunt as deeply as it could go, was a thing borne purely of lust. But deeper, in the way he would look at her as his eyes opened and rose to meet hers, there was something there, something he could not properly give voice to, not because he didn’t want to, not because he refused to speak to her of such things, but because he could hardly describe it. The word ‘love’ alone served no justice in the description of the burning he felt at his core, though as he could think of none better at the moment, he settled for its usage.

“And I love you, Gaia…”. Her name. Not wife, or darling, such that he could be speaking of any woman who held her current position, past or present, he wanted her to know exactly whom he was addressing.

He did love her, to him there was no doubt. But still, that he felt such love was not enough to grant him the wisdom needed to communicate to her its authenticity. The way the shifting of her moods seemed to be so… tumultuous, was not something he knew how to handle. Perhaps a different, less guarded man, nearing twice her age, would be able to navigate her waters better, help guide her, and give her the sense of reassurance she would need to feel more confident of his feelings towards her. He’d told her he loved her, he’d given her the bracelet… what more did she require? And then she came to him, speaking of friendship as if there had been nothing else that passed between them. Was there not already? How could she not see? It was frustrating beyond belief, and rather than explain such things, his reaction was to pull back like a hand held too close to open flame. The moment he felt the heat, he yanked it away protectively.

It had never been like this, though. Not with Ekaterini, not with Drusilla, not with any of the various camp whores from whom he took a single night’s satisfaction in his youthful days of abundant lust. He had never felt such… fascination. He felt like he could sit and simply watch Gaia be and not grow bored of it, as he had the morning prior in the bath. There had been something sensual about it, sure, she had been nude, but it was not her sex that had drawn and held his eye. He wanted to watch her sleep, watch her eat, watch her dress in the morning in preparation for the day, mundane things that held no inherent sexual value to him. If he could better describe to her in words what urge, what yearning for intimacy, not of flesh, but of spirit, that led him to feel that way, perhaps then she would know, and believe, or at least begin to.

Perhaps he thought she would judge him overly harshly if he spoke truth, for what sort of man was he, already going grey at the temples, to be feeling such wonderment? Her mother and father certainly would, had they known their daughter was married to such a man. Perhaps a young boy could be forgiven, but a man, a proper masculine man, a proper husband, was it not his role to guide her? How could a woman nearing less than half his age, a virgin not less than three days ago, not only to sex but also the wider world outside her father's home, be his equal in the knowledge of anything, let alone this? It was shameful. Scandalous. He would be the laughingstock of all of Rome, let alone his household, if it were to become more widely known. A thing to be guarded, to be kept secret.

“God’s, Gaia… how I love you…” Marcus leaned forward then, his hips bucking forward a few times in little jolts, keeping his prick buried as snugly within her as he could, his belly, hard, made harder by the stimulation of muscles that powered those thrusts, against the softness of hers, there where beneath the folds of fine fabric that itched at his skin, the contortion of her body caused it to roll back on itself, the hair above their sexes mingling beneath the shade of her stolla, as his upper half bent down over her. The hand at her throat melted away, clutching now at her middle below the swell of her breasts as Tiberius wrapped his arm around her to help stabilize her. Otherwise, the other man had faded into the background as if a piece of furniture she had braced herself against as Marcus leaned in to kiss her, recognizing the sharing of an intimate moment between them.

His lips met hers in a kiss, suckling first at the thickness of her lower before joining properly, his tongue seeking hers as if the reuniting of two familiar dance partners, swirling about it hungrily. A moan she could feel reverberating through her mouth as he pulled his hips back for another thrust, breaking the kiss, his lips still against hers, long enough for him to speak, breathlessly. “Gods… where did you learn to do that?” The sensation of her sex gripping his was not new, but before it had seemed reflexive, less focused, whereas this time it was a thing that seemed designed to bring him more pleasure. “It feels…” He thrust forward. “So. Fucking…” A growl as his pelvis met hers with the schlick of wet flesh on wet flesh. “Go-!” The last word was choked off with a laugh as her cunt clamped down on his prick again. He nuzzled the tip of her nose against hers as his eyes widened with mirthful joy. “So…” He pulled his hips back. “... fucking..” And slammed them forward with enough force to cause Tiberius to need to shift his feet to stabilize his position, his prick entering her with a wet squish. “...good! Arrgghhh!” He leaned back, the strength of his grip on her rump intensifying as with each thrust forward he pulled her back into him.

“I love you, and I…” A grunt as he again slammed his hips forward. “... love this cunt. God’s…” He was settling back into a steady rhythm now, though with each thrust his pace increased. “I love this beautiful fucking cunt!” One final declaration before he was reduced to simply grunting each time he felt her sex clamp down on him. He no longer could speak, such that the entirety of his attention was focused on the orgasm he felt cresting the horizon, that sensation that built in his lower belly, something like hunger but more urgent, such that a man could be standing on hot coals and be able to disregard the pain until he had emptied his balls of his seed. His prick was soaked with her spent arousal, churned thick along the shaft by the friction of his passage through the grip of her cunt’s inner walls, sticky, almost, such that even in his parting from her there was a sensual sound to accompany it.

She could feel it in the swell of his prick, most notably the head, already a bulbous mass that would test the limits of her capacity to accommodate him with its girth, testing more, threatening to rip, to tear, to make room inside her cunt which hadn’t been there before as it delved deeply through her. She could see it on his face, where there had been joy, there was now concentration, the creasing of his brow, the hard set of his eyes. He was focused, no more than a mere animal acting on instinct, a beast who thought of nothing other than breeding his mate, of spending his seed so deep in her belly that it be all but guaranteed to take root there. Sweat broke out across his brow, the exhale of his breath hot bursts of air through his nostrils, his fingers gripping, bruising, pulling her back into him with all of the strength his arms could muster, his pelvis impacting with hers with enough force to rattle her teeth.

Swelling… it was no longer a prick inside her, but a rod of hot iron, of steel, burning its way through her insides, branding her with his mark. Monstrously fat, viciously thick, its girth, that head, a battering ram as it bruised its way through her cunt and up into her gut…

Hotter still was the spurt of seed that trumpeted the arrival of his orgasm, fired off into her depths with a powerful spasming of his prick, that first alone enough to fill her, another, weaker, but no less voluminous, again, and again, his cum a stark white against the near clear of her arousal as it seeped out around his prick, and again, until it was but a sputter, his prick shrinking to a small fraction of its former size within her as he held her there, panting, his forehead coming to rest against hers, deep breaths in and out through his nose.

“I love you, Gaia. Now and always, until the end of my days…” His eyes closed slowly as he just held her there, sharing in the intimacy of such a moment with her as if it were the two of them alone there in the triclinium. "I love you..."

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Could I have done this all along, to make him more gentle with me?

They had coupled like this before, face to face. There had been tenderness there - but with dimming realization, it occurred to Gaia that the soothing nature of that first time had been just that - because it was a first time. Because Marcus was the type of husband who would ensure pleasure, perhaps truly got pleasure from it himself, but to make her all the more pliable for future couplings. Not that she could begrudge him that; since that first night, she had eagerly chased after the sense of his sex, to the detriment of her own body. Despite that, it felt good; that missing piece suddenly filled, the way that they could speak without words, the way that all sins were forgiven, the way that they could fully understand each other.

In the vastness of their eyes, brown meeting darker, she attempted to move a hand, to stroke the side of his face like she so desperately wanted to. It was a reminder of how precarious her position was - there was the slightest movement, then, another squeak as she nearly lost her grip - cunt, arm, legs. Sorrow crossed her face - vanishing as quickly as it’d come on, a firm thrust chasing it from her mind. She had wanted to be close, to allow further sweetness. To comfort him, to pull him in, to dare run her hand over the imagined bristled fur of his back, the nervous wolf that wanted to trust, but wasn’t entirely sure.

His words, bobbing to the surface, popping like bubbles, washed over her, and she couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across her face. Not the hard grin of mischievous antics, or the slightly glacial expression of her station, but that of a young girl, one who had her heartfelt letter returned. In turns shy, in turns beatific, it was lost behind their lips meeting, her head tilting to meet his with warmth. A bit clumsy, due to their position - her unsteady, rocking back against the solid mass of Tiberius - but no less heartfelt. In that kiss, she was still cautious of not wanting to spook him, not do or say anything more to ruin the moment. Tongues met, brushed against each other; every moment he had to be frantic, she would withdraw. Not so much to disengage, but to put some space, add some slowness to their motions. There would be no need for dueling, no hungered or hurried rushes. There was a joy to kissing, an art - that much, she’d read about; had been eager to experience it with Marcus, since that first kiss beneath her lifted veil. There were all sorts of kisses in the world, and she wanted to experience every single one through him.

Not quite friendly, not in alignment with what she offered before, but surely, there had to be a way to figure it all out. Friendship and love and this burning in her heart, the burning that echoed to her sex, the very same sex that clung to his prick any time he tried to draw out, the very same sex that drooled and suckled and would milk him, drawing his seed deep into her, to slumber until something, some bit of magic from herself, met with this essence of him, the two of them meeting and mingling and joining all over again to produce a new life -

The slow drag of his prick trying to slip free; the clench, learned now, to hold him fast, and then, the secret smile - where had she learned to do that, indeed? Hopefully Tiberius could hear; had heard, and had taken some amusement in that his teaching had gone heeded. There would be much more to learn from him, she was sure - but would it all be through mere words, or would he be so kind as to show her with his hands, his mouth, his tongue? She would be an eager student, if it promised the same ecstasy on Marcus’s face. No little thing to be said of her own pleasure; once she’d found that fair middle ground of clinging, of releasing, the excess arousal from her made each stroke smooth as a knife in butter, the slide sparking her nerves awake, pushing her past the inevitable rawness. She knew that she wouldn’t be able to walk after this session - just the thought of it alone made her inwardly wince - and perhaps the next day would be best spent in bed -

Unless Tiberius decides to join me…

Well.

Hard to think past anything than the feel of Marcus pushing in and out of her, the way their bodies fit so neatly together, folds of her earth-toned skin against the rich tan of his own, the mingling of black and salt and pepper pubic hair, the way his body shone under the candlelight, a mix of sweat, her fluids, his. The low murmurings of pleasure from her were coming shorter, sharper, with each thrust of his questing deeper, and deeper still, nothing to grasp onto, nothing to steel her for an oncoming orgasm -

Then, he was exploding into her, her body responding in turn, swallowing each drop of his seed like offerings laid upon an altar. Her cunt flexed, tightened against him - not in her own orgasm, but in a greedy need to swallow more of what he offered, drank until overflowing, that first burst so powerful to ooze around the sealing pressure of his cock. She gasped, clinging tightly to wherever she could. No, she had not cum, but it hardly seemed to matter, so hot did he feel inside of her. So freely that he shared, until she was leaking, thick trails of mingled cum and arousal thick and turning white as it slipped down her thighs, pooling on her forgotten subligaculum.

She could say little - nothing, truly, that would begin to touch on the fullness of her heart. Her breath pillowed against his lips, his nose, redolent of mint and lemon balm. No wine could be blamed for the frantic colliding of genitals, the loss of composure. Perhaps suspected of her sex - the hungry womb, the hysterics, the uneven emotions, capricious and whimsical and flighty, all of those things that drew adoration and curses in the same breath. Her racing heart began to find a steadier pace, her body shaking as frail as a leaf in their grasp. “…I don’t think I can move,” she said, finally, unshed tears and a giggle stirring her voice.

 

[Talon]

Marcus broke into an easy smile as she finally spoke. It was an expression of warmth, genuine, heartfelt, almost bashful, the aging man transformed into nothing more than a boy who’d only just shared his first kiss with a girl. Between them his sex finally parted from hers, slipping out and retracting back into the covering of its foreskin as if tucking in for the night, content, asleep before its head hit the pillow. He touched his forehead to hers again, a hand raising, its thumb caressing the line of her cheekbone. “And I feel like the muscles of my legs are on fire…” A laugh beneath his breath as he held her gaze for a quiet moment.

There was never calm before the storm in their interactions with one another, only after, and in this post-coital time of hushed tones and whispered endearments he felt closer to her than at any other. He saw himself as her husband, and her as his wife. It was only him and her, and he savored it, staring into her eyes as he pressed a gentle kiss to her lips.

“And what of my arms, then?” The boom of Tiberius’ voice was enough to remind Marcus there was a third among them, that Gaia was not merely suspended in air, she was held. “Gods, brother… if I didn’t know better, I would say you hadn’t spent your seed in a fortnight. I can practically hear it sloshing around in her belly!” Tiberius chuckled, deep booms echoing off the ceiling as his chest shook with mirth. “I do appreciate the foreplay, though…” His tone fluctuated as, carrying Gaia still, he took a few steps toward what had been his couch. He could see that Tiberius had pressed his head in close to Gaia’s ear, but if he had whispered something to her, it was beyond his ability to overhear.



“Speak the word ‘scutum’ if you wish me to stop. No matter how much you beg for mercy or softness, I will not otherwise. Do you understand?” Tiberius’ whisper was gruff tonally, serious, as the vagueness of the purpose of his warning perhaps alluded to the nature of what was to come. “Remember, Cub… scutum.”

Again words were given for the wider audience as his head moved to project his voice back over his shoulder. “... I was spoiling for it before…” The giant man was surprisingly gentle as he lowered Gaia onto the couch, face-first, Marcus watching with something of a curious frown distorting his features. “... but watching the two of you go at it, I feel as if I could fuck all night and not be sated.”



Marcus’ frown deepened even as he felt a surge of heat at his core that radiated out and down his limbs, the hairs on his arms standing on end. He felt suddenly as if it was he who was intruding on their intimate moment and not the other way around.



Tiberius was there to steady her as he helped her situate her body atop the couch, a hand pressed there in the small of her back, reassuring with its presence even as it restricted with a strength that signaled he would not lightly harbor dissent. Positioned so that she knelt atop the thick cushion of the seat, rump facing out, his other hand reached around to grip the front of her right thigh and lift, sliding it out, widening the spread of her legs, before he issued a grunt to signal his approval to no one in particular. Her stolla, fallen back over her waist in the process of changing her position to now conceal her lower half like a curtain drawn over a window, was next, lifted by the hem, the hand at her back moving away as with the flick of a wrist he cast it away and up towards her shoulders, the length of cloth falling to gather in folds around the middle of her back. Now exposed to his sight was the nakedness of her upturned rump, and below that her sex, spread by the widened set of her legs, the fluids from her previous coupling staining the inside of her thighs as it gradually leaked out from her, glistening wetly against her dark skin in the low candlelight of the triclinium.

Smack! The sharp clap of one of Tiberius’ mighty paws against the bared cheek of her presented backside reverberated against the columns that lined the walls around them.

A laugh from Tiberius, a genuine expression of joy, as his hands moved then to open the buckle at the front of his belt. Gathering its length to fold it back on itself a few times, he tossed his belt aside onto the couch beside her. His tunic was made short work of, a shimmy of his hips as his hands pulled it up and over his head, the big man casting it to the floor beside him without a thought to preserve the finest of his clothing.

“You know, Cub…” Tiberius spoke as he worked loose the knot at the front of his loincloth. “A man told me once, ‘You’ll know you’ve had a fine evening if, by the end of the night, you find yourself locked in a staring contest with an arsehole.’ Hah!” Tiberius’ guffaw was a near mimic of the braying of a donkey. “Get it…?” He looked over at Marcus, gesturing down toward Gaia’s backside with an exaggerated nudge of his chin. “No?” Marcus’ deadpan look suggested he likely had, though he did not find himself in approval or even humored by it. “Bah…” Tiberius turned back towards Gaia with a dismissive wave towards the other man. “... even after having spent his seed the man is incapable of having fun. What about you, Cub? Are you up for some fun, or has the presence of his seed in your belly made you dull, too?” Tiberius tugged at his loosened loincloth, pulling the length free from around his waist, his cock springing free finally from its confinement to dangle heavily between his thighs.


Marcus, eyes widened, mouth agape, as he looked once more upon his battle brother’s bared sex. No matter how many times he had seen it, it never failed to be a thing that drew the eye. He could imagine it would be much the same if the man were missing a limb or had an extra finger or toe, it seemed something akin to a deformity, to be so obviously large. Marcus had been around thousands of men in the nude, there was very little privacy in the sparse accommodations of an army camp, after all, and he could not remember what a single one of their pricks looked like nor could he remember ever looking twice at any of them. With Tiberius, it was different, and not just in that the man galavanted around in the nude so often, enough that the image of it be burned in memory, it was just different. Unique. An ugly thing, he’d often thought, lacking for him anything nearing the realm of appeal.

Now, when set against Gaia’s upturned rump as a backdrop, the sight of it stirred in him something dark. Something devious. Something shameful, that he would feel this… this… eagerness to watch it take its plunder from her cunt. He had to divorce it from the man himself, the shame of thinking that he, the great Legatus, the august Senator, the skilled swordsman, would take pleasure at the sight of his battle brother, his dearest friend, and confidant, fornicating with anyone, let alone his wife, was almost more than he could bear. But if it was just watching a cock and cunt in coitus? It could almost be relegated to the realm of natural study as if one were watching the mating of two animals of an unfamiliar species.

Almost.

 

[Talon]

Tiberius, unaware of the inner conflict brewing in the man beside him, smirked as he twirled the length of cloth that had just been pinching at his loins before him, such that it now resembled more a length of rope than a section of loose cloth, one he tested by holding it within the grip of his fists and tugging it until it was held tightly between them. Nodding, he leaned down over Gaia’s back, his sex brushing incidentally against the cheeks of her rump, the length of twirled-up cloth appearing before her eyes as he brought it down in front of her face. “Open your mouth, Cub…” His tone was gruff and authoritative, his words spoken with the confidence of one who expected to be obeyed without question. His hands, positioned to either side of her head, pulled back then, the length of faux rope pressing against her lips, Tiberius’ head hovering to the side as he watched silently to ensure its correct placement.

It was thick, the rolled-up length of cloth, though given the fabric's thinness, not so bulky that it would be impossible to wedge between teeth should she open her jaw. It was clean given how starkly white it was and judging from the harshness of the cloth, so new as to not even have been washed beyond the once when freshly bought. There was a smell, faint, detectable only given its proximity to her nose, but it was of man, a distinctive musk, of him, Tiberius, more than it was of anything resembling something more offensive.

Tiberius leaned back, his right hand bringing the length of cloth held in it over to join with his left, and wrapping it around his palm a few times, Tiberius pulled back as if signaling a horse to slow in the testing of its suitability for his purpose. It was enough to tug her head back, but not so harshly that the cloth would chafe against the sides of her mouth.

“Bite down on that, Cub… we wouldn’t want the servants to come running when they heard your screams.” He tugged the length of cloth in his fist again, ensuring he had her full attention. “... though I expect you would mind as little as I would if they watched…” He looked over his shoulder, back toward Marcus. “Look, brother! I think I’ve finally found a suitable use for these damned things…” The smile he wore on his visage seemed out of place for how full of cheer it was. He opened his hips, turning towards Marcus as if inviting him to have a better look. In his left hand, he held Gaia’s makeshift reins, his arm extended out over her back, the mass of musculature in his shoulder and upper arm nearly as impressive as his sex as it activated, individual muscle groups flexing and bulging, each time Tiberius pulled back on them.

“Isn’t that right, Cub?” Clap! The stroke of his free hand fell against first the right cheek, Clap!, and then the left. He gripped to the right side then, lifting it away, opening her to further scrutiny from both pairs of eyes that watched with rapt attention. The parting of her labia majora, sticky, wet, strands of viscous cum intermixed with the regular flow of her arousal joining one side to the other, numerous enough to almost resemble the complex web of some exotic spider. The shock of pink at its center, still agape from where Marcus’ prick had entered there only moments prior, convulsing, allowing a deeper look inside her cunt than the natural tightness of its svelte walls would normally permit. Tiberius tugged at her reins with his other hand, pulling her head back until her forehead was angled up towards the ceiling.

He hawked, gathering moisture in his mouth, and spit, the glob of saliva just missing the bullseye of her anus to land there where crinkled flesh transitioned into the smooth skin of her perineum. He gathered his cock in his hand and… thwap, thwap, thwap!... slapped the head of it against the fresh wetness, gathering his spit upon it as if he were coating a bit of meat in sauce before he popped it into the mouth of her sex. She could feel it, gliding around her anus, passing over the tight pucker at its center, though it appeared he had no intention of attempting to force entry there as he made no move to apply pressure. When given a choice, Tiberius was the type to prefer cunt over ass. He enjoyed anal, of course, but given its universality, it was the sort of thing he could have with partners of either sex. Cunt was something of an occasional treat, then, and this one in particular? There wasn’t an arsehole in Rome, no matter how tight, he’d prefer over it. Even hers, for how appealing it looked, clenched and quivering as if afeared he would seek his entry there.



Somewhere along the line, Marcus had settled back onto the couch, though he couldn’t say exactly when. His attention was caught, watching the two of them, how the helpful hand finally brought the beast nearer her, nearer the cunt he assumed it would soon be splitting open. It looked ridiculous when it was held aloft, jutting out from two muscular thighs, looking more like a forearm than a man’s sex, covered in a network of jagged, angry-looking little veins that snaked down its length.

How did that thing ever fit in her?

Marcus craned his neck to the side as Tiberius’ hips squared up with Gaia’s backside, eager to confirm the answer for himself, to maintain his privileged view, his shame and reservations forgotten in the heat of the moment.



With the head of his cock Tiberius stroked across her clit a few times, north to south, south to north, transferring some of his wetness to it, to mingle with hers and Marcus’, before pressing it to her entrance. Easy pressure, there, was all it took, and already he was granted passage, enough to seat himself, for enough of the head to glide into the warmth of her cunt’s embrace that he could be assured he had found his target. The grip of his hand around his cock tightened as she could feel for a moment as if he were withdrawing it, sliding back suddenly…

BRAPT!

Tiberius’ hips pulled back, paused a moment, and swung forward with all the force of a sledgehammer seeking to drive a stake into cement. Her cunt was empty, and then in the blink of an eye, full, stuffed to the seams, stretched maximally by a phallus that in every dimension was larger than the last, both thicker and longer, such length that it seemed it must be near two of the other back to back. The air that escaped around its entrance was not the gentle squelch of before, but the screech of a cunt crying out in anguish, evocative of the most flagrant of flatulence, though the noise brought not a single snicker from any in the room. Those soft hairs that sprouted up around the root of his cock tickled at her backside, a subtle sign that she had taken all that the giant had to give. And he held it there, a moment, letting her adjust to his size, pulling back sharply on the cloth as his other hand pressed forcefully down against the small of her back, jerking her head back as he kept her in place.

“Sing for me, Cub…”

The thrust that followed made the first seem a thing of gentleness.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Bright merriment in her eyes, mirroring the almost bashful approach Marcus now took with her. The bond between them tightened in that gaze, even as he withdrew his body from hers. More of their mingled fluids spilled from her, thick hot waves testament to their coupling.

Oh, I wish we were abed, the thought flickered across her mind. The marital bed - a mute diary of mended wounds, of moving closer to what it meant to be bound together. Comfort even within its strangeness. If they were in bed, they could lay in each others arms, talk openly without the fear of being overheard, of having to play any sort of role other than themselves. Perhaps, after this time, with that bit of fumbling tenderness, she would have had the opportunity to ask him of Tiberius’s stories, to hear them from his own lips, to learn more of the man, more than what could be told in simple family lineage and social standing.

Like thunder rumbling overhead was Tiberius’s voice, and she laughed openly then, not feeling intruded upon in the slightest. It would be to her own embarassment that she’d been so lost in the feeling of Marcus that she’d actually forgotten that it had been two sets of hands that held her aloft, and Tiberius having to bear the lion’s share of her weight. “My poor Tiberius,” she craned her head to look up at him as best as she could. A soft inhale like more words were to follow, but instead, all she could find herself capable of doing was looking up at him with ardor, tempered from being raw lust by the genuine affection that couldn’t be faked. She was easily folded into his arms, her actually drawing closer for the brief moments that it took for them to move from the center of the room to the couch he’d occupied. Her arms looped easily round his neck and she nodded in agreement, “ ‘Scutum,’” strange in her mouth, like she’d bitten down into the flocking of a pillow. Not entirely foreign - not something that would be easily spoken, either. And then what followed? Her expression became quizzical, concern dwelling behind the dark eyes.

What does he mean to do? Would he willingly hurt me, even with Marcus there? Hesitation expressed only in the tightening of her fingers against the nape of his neck. I should worry not; this is Tiberius. I trust him; I am in good hands.

It was such a simple decision to make - one that could easily be considered beyond questionable, considering the briefness of their interactions up until this point. The frantic fucking (there was no other way to call it, truly) hadn’t been what brought them together to her contentment - it had been that day in the woods, an Arcadia of her newly married life, where it felt past and present were braided together in perfect harmony.

Fingers eased from his neck, all the better for him to position her on the couch. It was with curiosity that she also looked over her shoulder at the bulk of Tiberius, unable to see past his form to see Marcus’s expression.

“When are you not ‘spoiling for it’?” she asked, the ribbing new from her, bolstered on undeniable kindness. There was no doubt there; no room for it, that she could be just another carved space on a post. Time for that later; his actions had been focused on her since they’d met properly, and what more could she have honestly asked for? Now hardly seemed to be the time anyway. There was only so much room for jealousy in her heart, and Marcus was currently the focus of that; him and that shadowy wife, the one that had passed, only leaving a shadow of perfection behind. “Not that I am complaining, so long as I benefit from it,” said for his ears only as she, with a prim sense of obedience, turned to face the brilliantly painted fresco adorning the wall behind the couch. His hand on her back eased a soft sound from her, not quite a purr, not quite a hum, but entirely content and sated.

Funny, then, how he could be positioning her, without her so much as sparing a glance behind, and she still was on tenterhooks, unsure, but thrilled, at whatever was going to come next. The chill against the backs of her thighs, her rear. Her sex, completely bare, was slightly agape, cum and her arousal still abundant in her pubic hair, coated the inside of her thighs. Suddenly shy, she gripped the back rest of the couch, turning her head downwards. The awkwardness of the situation caused her sex to flex, subconsciously, expelling more of that viscous fluid from her. And what would be a simple dribble would turn into a wave, forced from her enough to almost splash back onto Tiberius as he slapped her rear. A yelp, desperate wriggling to avoid another such slap. To her credit, she said nothing, but felt her cheeks grow aflame with embarassment.

Why does he insist on doing such things?

If her face wasn’t red enough, the comment about the asshole was enough for her to look back at him with such a face of mortification that it barreled from chastisement to absolutely charming. There was too much chagrin in that expression, too much of a girl on the verge of tears when teasing had gotten out of hand, to think that her pride was truly hurt. “You mock me,” was all she was able to stammer out - and turned her face back to the wall, a bit of a head tilt to keep herself from drowning too deeply in shame. He’s teasing you; he’s being, well, Tiberius, she self-soothed, rubbing the tip of her nose against the high back of the couch. And I won’t say a thing about Marcus filling me…The sex between them hardly past and she was already drawn back into it, a small, sloppy smile spreading across her face. Yes, he was inside me; still inside me…

“Buh-?!” Cut off as she opened her mouth in confusion - only to have the clean loincloth, full of his scent, looped between the plush lips, bumping against teeth. It was at this that she did her best to whirl around; Tiberius’s hand held her firmly in place. Though the makeshift gag was firmly in her mouth, it didn’t quite stifle the odd sound she made, an undignified squawk at being put in such a position. In the moment that Tiberius turned to face Marcus, her head was turned as well, helpless in the bonds of the gag - and the knitting of her brows begged for mercy. Brows that knit further at each demonstrative slap to her ass, her eyes beginning to well with tears of pain, smeared kohl down her cheeks, threatening to darken the crisp white of the cloth.

Not that she had time to linger on Marcus for long; her head was moved upwards - with a comfortingly gentle hand on the ‘rein.’ A small whine as he pulled the lips of her labia apart, the air rushing into her core absolutely chilling. The gesture caused more of that mix of them to flow out of her, stopping and starting as she moved.

Then -

He couldn’t have.

She was shock still, her dark eyes wide, unable to turn her head to look either at him or Marcus. He spat on me! Indignity colored the growls from her, muffled words, wiggling now with purpose. Her annoyance must’ve been like listening to an angry puppy worrying over a toy - though she was truly quite annoyed. Was she not wet enough? She could feel herself still dripping down her legs, a flow that hadn’t ceased - the brush of his cock near her anus, and she squirmed anew, the muted sounds taking a more frantic note, true fear there. There was no way he could fit in her ass, he’d threatened her with it, but surely he knew that it was too much, too soon, she wasn’t experienced enough, she had taken only Marcus there, had no desire for anyone else, the first on a whim, the second soaked in wine, there was no way -

Fear gave way to an absolute wail behind the gag as he thrust hard into her, her body launching forward, the couch scraping against the floor with a harsh rasp of protest. She barely had time to gasp before he was launching into her again, her body shoved against the back of the couch, somehow harder than the first time, and she was freely screaming, truly only the gag keeping the slaves from charging in. Hands slick with sweat clung to the couch in desperation, anything to keep her anchored. The tears that had threatened to fall from the slaps spilled now, the sharpness of his overlarge cock into her tearing into new places, so painful that it made her gasp between each wail. There was no attempt to squeeze onto him further than her body’s natural grip, no such thoughtful pleasuring of Tiberius’s cock - not for lack of trying, but out of sheer shock of him fucking her so hard, that massive prick used to its full potential. She felt as if it were going to come out of the back of her throat, that there was no way to fully, properly, house him. As he pressed in hard, even the swollen lips of her labia felt battered by the enormous sack of his testicles slapping back against her.

It hurt; she was too sore, she knew it, too freshly used - I’m going to have to stay abed for certain tomorrow, and bar both of them from the room - , but why was his manhandling of her still stoking that fire? He’d embarrassed her; was embarrassing her, jerking on that cloth between her lips like she was a mere animal to be guided, and she was no better, howling against the fabric like a cow in heat, barely able to breathe, his prodigious sex wringing everything from her -

Her orgasm caught her by surprise - and barreled her over as if she’d been in the midst of a tidal wave. Howling reached a higher, piercing note as she simply bayed into the cloth, her body convulsing as every bit of her felt wrung out, felt that it would spill out of her the moment he withdrew his cock. She trembled there, completely stunned by the force of that orgasm, unable to put it into words. Her mind a complete blank, she near collapsed onto the couch, whatever strength in her body drained entirely.

 

[Talon]

Marcus swallowed hard, wetting a throat he hadn’t realized had gone dry. It would take more than that to quench his sudden thirst, a sip of water, or perhaps more of that lovely tea that Gaia had brought along with her to supper. He’d have to ask again what had been in it, he’d found it quite refreshing…

Just as soon as Tiberius was done fucking the life out of her, he supposed.

He felt a tugging at his gut, a phantom instinct triggered, urging him to take action. Should he not intervene? The bevy of cloth-muted audial expressions that managed to reach his ears made it seem she was in distress, though the visual cues suggested otherwise, as he saw no attempt on her part to escape or otherwise dissuade Tiberius from his present course of action. It wasn’t merely about the freakish size of the phallus drilling into her, though there was that, too, but also how forcefully Tiberius’ pelvis collided with her rump each time his hips swung, the clapping of wet flesh on wet flesh filling the room, the swinging of that pendulous sack that hung low beneath his sex, like a priest purifying the air with incense smoke from a censor, how with clenched fist he tugged at the length of cloth he’d placed between her teeth.

The scene was, in a word, arousing. More powerful, more urgently felt, than his honor-bound duty to protect was his almost selfish desire to see her take her pleasure, to see her be pleasured. If it required a whole legion of men in the end to satisfy her fully then he would see it done, one after the other, the line stretching from the here by the sea back to Rome if that is what it took.

He felt his prick twitch at the thought.



Tiberius’ teeth gnashed at his bottom lip as he felt her insides spasming around his cock, the pressure building with each successive stroke, such that as her orgasm hit he relented and allowed himself to be pushed from her fully with a wet squelch, leaving in his wake a gaping maw, a nearly audible gasp at the breaking of a seal as air rushed in to fill the sudden void. His departure was followed by the gushing of fluid from her sex, forceful enough to be nearly the equal of a stream, and looking down between them he could see the dew of her arousal where it gathered in droplets among the hairs above his sex, his skin gleaming wetly from navel to knee, as much as hers along the insides of her thighs, and there at the darkness of the flesh around her sex and anus, at the center her cunt still an open void, the vibrant pink of her insides clenching, convulsing, undulating as they reckoned with her newfound state of emptiness.

“Good, Cub…” A gruff bark, simple praise given freely, followed by the clap of his open hand against her backside. “... more.” More of what, exactly, he would not leave her long in the guessing of, if she’d even heard the words at all, given her state.

He stepped up onto the couch, left foot first, then gripping fast to the wooden rim along the back of it with both hands for stability, his right joined, his legs framing hers as he crouched down into a squat over her, the furniture creaking in protest at the shifting of his weight, his sex, warm and wet and tumescent, coated in a mixture of her and Marcus’ fluids that it had just plumbed from her depths, resting heavily against the swell of her rump. Though her makeshift reigns were still gripped in his fist, there was no control exerted there, the hand busy steadying himself as with the other he reached between them to seize his cock by the base. He slapped it a few times against the fleshy cheeks of her buttocks playfully before rocking his hips back, pointing it downward between his thighs, and once more pressing the head to the opening of her cunt.



Marcus frowned as the big man's substantial backside now dominated his view, Tiberius’ joke in poor taste from a few moments prior once more front of mind as the torquing of his pelvis presented it to him fully. It was impossible not to see, if only in his peripheral vision, the knot of his anus, the dusky skin surrounding it covered in a mess of coarse, dark hair, the distinctive line of flesh that ran from his anus across his perineum and down along the fleshy sack that dangled just below, like a purse into which someone had stuffed a pair of ripe lemons and hung from their belt. He found the sight not as obtrusive as he would have thought he would, given the context, though there was no admiration in his gaze, simply the registering of detail. Though the clench of his anus was similar enough in appearance to Gaia’s beyond its color, the distinction between man and woman there nil, the sight of it evoked none of the same devious desires in him that hers did.

Desirable or not, even a man as stoic as him could not suppress the reversal of his frown as he found himself locked in a staring contest with an arsehole.



Tiberius’ hips worked in the same motion as Gaia’s from when she had sat astride him the night before, almost as if mimicking the movements of her dance, only this time it was him who could control how deep inside her his cock went. And deeply it delved, its passage through her inner walls eased by his efforts in the position prior, though not so much that she did not still grip tight to him as he seated his monstrous cock in her with a wet, sloppy squelch of air as it passed from her. This new angle of penetration saw him pressing in different spots than his cock had before as it carved into her, entering perhaps not as deeply but still enough that she could feel his testicles slap against her pubis as his range of motion was stopped when his pelvis met the cushion of her rump.

And then together they were dancing, as fervently as the big man had at the wedding that day, matching the energy of her family and friends and servants if not exactly their skill or the familiar fluidity of their rhythm. His backside would lift and then drop, gravity and the strength in his thighs powering each fall, colliding with her with enough force each time to jostle her forward, each downstroke accompanied by a squelch, not of air, not past the first few times, now fresh wetness being drawn from her, squeezed out from her like she were a soaked rag forcefully wrung out, droplets of her arousal streaking down the back of her thighs, falling to soak the fine fabric of the cushion below them. The one hand still firmly gripped to the back of the couch, his other reached down to cup the back of her head, pressing her face forcefully against the cushion, keeping her pinned there as the pace of their dance grew more lively, a beat to get the heart pumping, racing, in the keeping of it.

Clap… clap… clap… his testicles impacting against her could almost be mistaken for the rhythmic joining of hands of those who stood in a circle around them keeping time with the music… thwap… thwap… thwap… the thumping of his pelvis against her backside like cupped palms against the taunt skin of a drum head… pffshh… pffshh… pffshh… the sound of her sex being forcefully persuaded to accommodate the passage of his like the shuffling of sandaled feet against tile…

 

[Talon]

They look like a pair of dogs mating… Marcus thought, the ghost of a grin still borne upon his lips.

They did, in all fairness, with her on her knees with her rump thrust out and Tiberius crouched over top of her. And much like animals mating, there was nothing of beauty to it, the act itself, it was a thing of instinct and urge… of breeding.

Marcus swallowed again, once more finding his throat impossibly dry.

What if… He blinked, eyes falling away, staring into nothing, as his mind worked. What if…

Marcus cleared his throat. “I need a drink…” He mumbled under his breath as he rose from the couch enough to lean over towards the table and reach for his goblet. A glance back in the direction of Tiberius and Gaia… the pale flesh of Tiberius' backside, the rich brown of her thighs in sharp contrast, his fleshy testicle sack flopping about as he bounced atop her… confirmed they had not heard or taken notice. His fingers closed around the cool metal of the stem of his goblet and carried it with them as he settled back in his seat.

What if… it is his seed that takes root in her belly?

He blinked again, forcefully, as he raised the goblet to his lips. She was a virgin and sheltered beyond belief, but surely she knows of how a child is conceived, no? He drank deeply from his cup, hoping to smooth the roughness in his throat, though it was to little avail.

Would I care?

Marcus frowned. He should. That is precisely the thing he should care about. His legacy, her legacy, theirs. Was that not his to oversee? And just why was he not concerned, or at least, not more than he was? Was it because it was Tiberius, a man he knew he could trust?

Except when it comes to her, apparently.

Marcus smirked. Tiberius had kept things from him, secrets, to shield her from the potential of his wrath. He wasn’t quite sure just how to feel about that, a matter to be decided another day. But he did still trust him, at least somewhat, as Tiberius had not exactly lied to him as much as he hadn’t told him the full truth. A lie of omission. But what had passed between them, that morning in the bath? They spent the day together, and again, now, tonight. I won’t be surprised to have found he spent the night in our bed again.

That too, somehow, did not bother him as much as it should. Should he not want privacy, to have an intimate moment with his new wife, or, if nothing else, a peaceful night's sleep?

A sudden twitch of his prick drew his eyes there. It was still flaccid, with him squarely in his refractory period. The idea of getting hard again seemed an unlikely one, judging from its response as he flexed the muscle that would normally cause it to jump when he was erect. It moved, but a surge of blood did not follow as did when he was primed for action.

His eyes flickered over to where Tiberius and Gaia were still in coitus. The comparison with Tiberius was an unflattering one for any man, but he thought then not of size, but of virility. Tiberius had told him once of a time when he’d gone six times in a single night. He’d thought it a boast, but even if it was, what if it had been only four? The man was insatiable.

What if I can’t keep her satisfied…

Marcus thought of their first night, and then again in the morning, and in the baths, and then again the next night. He wasn’t sure it was a thing he would be capable of, long term, and as deeply as he lusted for her, he wasn’t sure he would want to nearly as much as her, assuming her ‘appetite’ continued to grow.

I bet six times would do even her in… if not me, then perhaps it could be him. At least I trust him and can trust him with her. But what of her, how deeply does she feel for him? She’d balked at the thought of pleasure slaves, even though it was a thing of pillow talk. What if it is not merely lust that she feels when she looks at him, but something more? Love?

Another smirk as his eyes drifted away. Marcus took another sip from his goblet of the tea Gaia had made as he turned the question over and over and over again in his mind.



Tiberius had been himself quite the stoic, saying nothing beyond with his actions in the sounds of their bodies meeting in the handful of minutes that had passed since he first climbed up atop the couch. Sweat had broken out across his forehead, from effort more than the heat of the room, by the time he gave one final, powerful thrust that saw him seated as deeply within her as his cock could reach, wriggling his hips, his pelvis pressed tightly to her backside. His grip around the back of her skull relented as he leaned back, wincing, his breath coming and going in deep pants.

“Gods, that is good cunt…”

He groaned as he slid one foot from atop the couch to once more make contact with the floor, his other left in place atop it. Reaching back now that his grip was no longer needed to stabilize him his hands snatched at the clench of her waist above the swell of her hips, pulling her back into him as he began pounding his pelvis into her rump again… thwap… thwap… thwap… his cock barging through her, seeking space inside her that he had still not been freely granted, that he still required substantial effort behind each thrust that he be granted passage. Thwap… thwap… thwap… a pleasured groan from him, then, as he stopped long enough to step down from the couch with his other foot, to gain proper footing, before continuing with a renewed sense of urgency.

There, just cresting the horizon, that feeling at the back of his orbs, that powerful itch, that tickle, began to build.

Tiberius’ fingers bit into the softness of the flesh around her waist as his grip became one of iron, the muscles in his neck and shoulder and arms firing and flexing and activating. With each thrust came a grunt that sounded more like the deep growlings of a bear, warnings as it stood over a fresh kill, informing the other predators that this was his prey, his meal. His cock, already too much for her, for anyone, in such a state, growing thicker and harder, more punishment than pleasure, more spear than phallus, its tip stabbing deep into her gut, bulging out against the flesh of her pubis and up near the swell of her belly at the top of each stroke. Droplets of sweat crawled down his brow, down the nape of his neck to roll across the thickness of his shoulders and descend his back, as he pumped his hips into her.

“Fuck!” A sudden bark as he buried his cock as deeply into her cunt as it would go as his orgasm hit. His cock pulsed against the tightness of the grip of her inner walls, the first spurt of his seed powerful enough to have carried it nearly halfway across the room were he to have pulled out, but he hadn’t, purposefully. She’d earned it… he’d earned it, the right to seed her belly. This was his mate, the female he’d fought for, he’d earned scars in the battling of other bucks for, and would again when more males came calling next spring. He’d buried himself inside her not only because it felt good… which it did, gods, it did… but to ensure he’d given her everything that was his to give, and as close to her womb as he could reach. Another sharp pulse, nearly as voluminous but with only a shadow of the force of the first, and another… his hands gripped to her waist, holding her there in place, his breath coming in pants, the strength of each pulse diminishing until finally, it stopped, his cock relenting the space it had fought so hard for, shrinking within her as he held still there a moment.

Tiberius stepped back with a wet schlich as his cock was pulled from her, unraveling the bit of cloth from around his hand as he moved around to the back of the couch. He reached down to grab her by the nape of the neck and lift her, to tilt her head up. He smiled warmly as he looked down at her. “I’m afraid you’re not done yet, Cub…” He pulled the loincloth free from her mouth and leaned his head down further until he could kiss her. It was hungry, wide-mouthed, his tongue immediately seeking out hers and twirling together with it. He broke the kiss just as suddenly, standing to his full height, towering over where she knelt on hands and knees.

“Clean it…”

With a nudge of his chin and a flicker of his eyes he gestured down towards his middle, there where his cock hung proudly, like the victor of some great battle, covered in gore, not blood and guts, but cum, his and hers and Marcus’, there along the shaft, churned thick and white along its length, and also at the head, a fat, sticky drop refusing to fall from where it had formed fresh along the slit at its apex.

His eyes locked with hers as if in challenge, the framing of the musculature around the base of his neck making it seem wider than usual from this angle, as a hand came to rest at the top of her head. He was not pulling her towards him, more like reminding her that he could, if it was a thing he wanted.

“Come, Mistress of Cocksuckers… show me again how your throat goes all the way to your ass.”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

After spending so hard, Gaia naturally expected a bit of slowing, an unspoken understanding that she would be overly sensitive. Withdrawal, some kind words, time to spell herself and catch her breath, before she would (potentially) be ready to go again.

Instead, Tiberius kept going. The rhythm changed; a gasp from her. No longer was he sharply forcing himself in and out, this was…smoother, if such a word could be used. Smoother, more of a glide, more controlled. Like trying to memorize the feel of her sex, an intrepid explorer of sorts. Not merely content to follow the path that Marcus’s phallus had cleared, but to veer off of the known path. At times painful, at times a shifting of pressure against what held her together, though she was hoarse-voiced and gagged, she was by no means silent. Low groans would echo from her, a counterpoint to the steady tempo of the slap of flesh. She was full, overly so, more than she could’ve imagined, more than it felt than the night before, and still she was no closer to absolutely falling apart.

Or so she thought, before the tempo changed again, the grip on her body determined to leave bruises behind, and the strength that Tiberius had been masking was revealed. There was no point in squirming; there was simply no escape. Her response to his exclamation was a yelp of her own, not in protest, but in sheer pain - the swelling of him was too much to bear, not in her already battered sex, and the firm spurt of his seed felt to burn. Powerful, it was, perhaps to be expected, from a man his size. It felt that it collided within a wall in her stomach, far past the nest of her womb.

“Oh, gods…” a low groan from her: submission, acceptance, perhaps, if one were to fish deeply enough, some thankfulness? Beneath the firm grasp of his hands, he would be able to feel her shaking. The strength bled from her limbs, her vision blurry. Even as he shrank within her, her stretched inner walls pulsing, she was soothed by the warmth of his great chest against her back, the slick of his sweat. It was a monumental effort, one she wasn’t sure how she managed to achieve, that kept her up of her own volition, though she longed to collapse into the couch, mind empty, every inch of her body throbbing.

As he withdrew, she felt so utterly barren that she whined without fully realizing it. How funny it was - she’d been aching, nearly on the verge of begging him to stop, and now, she couldn’t stand to feel him slide out of her. Diminished, he was easier to handle, easier to cradle without too much additional flexing of newfound muscles to hold him there. Before she could protest in earnest, he was unwinding his loincloth from her mouth. The corners of her lips were rubbed raw from the grip, the texture, but it hardly seemed to matter as he kissed her. Her tongue clumsy met his, waking up from a long slumber, his lips muting any protest she might’ve been able to muster.

“Not done?” What on earth could he possibly mean by that?

Confusion was clear on her face as he spoke, her brows furrowing as if translating from Greek to Latin in her mind. Searching for each word, it seemed almost that she would start writing them out.

“ ‘Clean it’?” She repeated back to him, blinking to clear her eyes. Here she was, barely able to keep herself up, and he expected more out of her? She glanced past him to Marcus, a child seeking reassurance, before she looked back at the still sizable member in front of her. It was dripping, coated in all of their fluids. She was in a staring contest with its unseeing eye, those lips tightening as she assessed the challenge in front of her. There was no wine to ease the senses or bolster the fire - and hearing her own drunken words come back to her, she flushed a deep red.

Embarassment won out over pride - hard conceded with a soft chuckle. “I don’t know to whom you’re referring to,” and gently, she stroked his cock. “That must’ve been some evil spirit that possessed my body.” She rocked back on her heels - and her legs gave out under her. Falling backwards square onto her rump, she grimaced, her nose wrinkling. With the impact had come the forcible expulsion of their combined cum - and not trusting her legs to hold her, she laid down on the floor, twisting her hips just so, looking behind her. A wide damp spot between her legs had started and was growing larger with each passing moment. A slight pout there - she’d liked this dress. Maybe not as flattering as pink, but yellow was a color she was fond of.

“Ah, me!” she collapsed all the way back now, flat on her back but with her knees raised, legs undaintily spread. Reaching down, she flipped up the long hem of her stolla. Already her dark thighs glistened, clear and white, their mingled seed marking her. “What a mess! I feel like a sponge; sucking up all offered until I burst if you so much as press a finger to me.” Deep breath there, on the edge of laughter. “And I am so sore - and frightened that if I stand, my womb will fall out, having been knocked loose by you two.” A ridiculous thought - “Or perhaps she will stay there, filled like a wine skin, and only over the course of days will she deflate, and I’ll be leaking like-”

Propriety kicked in, and she flushed again, her face on fire. There was no wine here; only shared company, trusted company, but some things even she was a bit reluctant to mention among men. She was quite sure that though they might be familiar with it, neither one of them wanted to hear about their seed flowing down her legs like her monthly cycle. Too bad. Maybe there was a woman friend that she could’ve shared the joke with. Maybe making friends with other women would be easier now, now that she was deflowered and in on the ‘secrets.’ Not so casual as to discuss the finger points of coupling, but perhaps shared tips on cleaning certain fluids from linen.

“Well,” cleared throat, though she made no move to get up. “Either way, she is fair out of commission, and perhaps I should start taking my meals alone to avoid such behavior. It is proving to be quite enjoyable - but too much of a good thing.” An arm draped across her eyes as she took in a deep breath. Now that she was laying down, not only did the thought of getting up seem extremely distasteful, she wasn’t sure she was even capable of it. “…Now, just leave me to lay here until I can crawl to the baths, and then, creeping out of the water, wriggle my way back to the bed and not move for days. Does that sound like a good plan?”