“Perfect – for a dancing girl!” Sofia said, smugly. “Are you going to be difficult? Because if you are, I . . .”
“No, no!” Claudia said hastily, pulling the shift over her head. It hung from her shoulders in loose folds, leaving her arms and legs bare. The proud tips of her nipples were clearly visible beneath its diaphanous sheen, as was her dark bush, and the material clung to the globes of her breasts and buttocks with soft sensuality, making Claudia painfully aware of the contours of her body. Every slave would be gaping lewdly at her in that attire.
“Give me something else to wear!” she pleaded.” Or at least a shawl, for modesty’s sake.”
“You would not be able to move freely in anything else. Come, they are waiting for the performance to begin.”
Sofia seized her hand and pulled her towards the door. There was a raucous noise coming from the hall, and another fear seized her. “Please, let the children retire!” she begged. “They must not see me debasing myself like this.”
The girl hesitated then, to Claudia’s relief, nodded her consent. She went ahead to have the children dispatched to their rooms and, when the coast was clear, announced that the dancing would begin.
Claudia had no idea how to dance in the suggestive manner of hetaerae but now that she was faced with the ordeal she decided to do her best. Four slaves who could play instruments struck up on the flute, cymbals, lyre and tambourine. Lifting her arms and wiggling her hips, Claudia started on what she hoped would be seen as a parody of such entertainment. The slaves gawped at her and Darius leered above them all, his black eyes taking in every curve and detail of her body.
At first Claudia felt exposed and ashamed, but as the dance proceeded she found herself growing defiant. She was enjoying the freedom of movement that the floating tunic was giving her, relishing the admiring glances she was getting from the assembled crowd. Far from proving an ordeal, the dancing was filling her with an erotic energy that encouraged her to shake her breasts and move her hips with sensual exhibitionism. The slaves were on heat, she could feel their hot breath fanning her body and smell the subtle scent of male arousal. The usual propriety that prevented a slave from regarding his mistress lecherously no longer applied, and they were staring at her with undisguised lust.
Then one of the men, fired with strong wine, leapt up and began mimicking her movements behind her back in a grotesque parody. The man tugged at her skimpy costume and managed to pull down one of the sleeves, exposing her breast right down to the nipple. Claudia stopped in shock and tugged it back, but the man clumsily tried to kiss her.
The audience roared. Claudia felt her cheeks grow red with embarrassment, and when Darius leapt to his feet and shouted, “Enough!” she was overwhelmed with relief.
But her relief was short-lived. No sooner had the musicians stopped playing than Darius got down from his exalted position and strode towards her, his face dark with fury.
“Evil temptress!” he snarled. “You have teased my men beyond endurance with your obscene dancing. Go to your room, at once!”
Claudia had never been spoken to like that in her life before, and his venomous tone horrified her. She scampered from the room like a frightened rabbit, wishing she had never agreed to dance. Remembering just how sensual and abandoned her dancing had been she felt even worse, her heart making painful thuds inside her chest as if it were hammering to be released. She fled down the corridor to her room where she tore off the revealing garment and pulled on her own robe, intending to go straight to bed.
“What will Tullus think, if he hears of this?” she wondered, knowing very well how angry he would be if he thought his wife had disgraced herself before the slaves. Things had gone too far that night, she was sure of that, and it was all because that Darius had won the lottery, provoking her into behaving in ways she would never have dreamed of before.
The sound of heavy footsteps was heard in the corridor outside and Claudia shrank beneath the bedclothes, praying that they would pass by her room. But the door was suddenly flung open and Darius appeared, his eyes flashing like hot coals at her in the lamplight. He slammed the door behind him and she noticed, with the utmost dismay, that he was wearing a short-handled whip in the leather belt around his tunic.
“So you thought to hide from me in your sanctuary!” he sneered. “Well, I have not finished with you yet. Come here, slave, and kneel before me! I, your King and Master, command you!”
This was no longer a game. Claudia knew that the moment of reckoning for the way she had disciplined Darius in the past had now come, and she was terrified. But there was to be no escape. When she hesitated he strode across the space between them and flung aside the bedclothes with an oath.
Claudia practically fell out of bed and onto her knees before him. She was trembling all over, the energy that she had worked up during the dance now transmuted into abject fear. He towered over her on his sturdy legs, a masculine scent of sweat and musk filling her nostrils as she crouched there in her white tunic wondering what he would do next.
“Stand!”
She rose painfully onto legs that would scarcely bear her weight, her knees half crumpling beneath her. The light in the slave’s eye was keen and mischievous, making the most of his newfound power to torment and intimidate his tyrannical mistress.
He suddenly pulled out a knife and held it at her breast. Claudia froze, her eyes popping out and her breath stifled in her chest. A slow smile spread across the man’s features, his wide mouth opening to show unusually white teeth. Somehow she found his smile even more alarming than his frown. Her pulses were racing as adrenaline coursed through every vein in her body.
“You are afraid of me?” he said, in hoarse whisper. “That’s good! Very good!”
She felt the cold steel at her throat and closed her eyes, sending a silent prayer up to whatever god or goddess might be disposed to listen to her plight. The knife point travelled down her neck, right into the deep ravine of her bosom where it was inches from her heart. Claudia could not bear it. She longed to plead with him, to offer to perform any service he required providing only that he spared her life.
Then there was a sudden ripping sound and the skimpy shift she was wearing tore apart. Darius had sliced down the front of the garment so that it fell into two halves, hanging uselessly off either arm. He chuckled softly, and she felt his warm breath on her bare skin, giving her goose bumps.
“Now you know what it feels like to be a naked slave for any man to stare at, for the buyers to pick and choose,” he told her.
She opened her eyes. Darius was standing back, surveying her with a sneer, but she could only see the length of rope that he held in his hand. Before she realized what he was going to do he’d tied it several times around her wrists, binding them strongly.
The thrill that passed through her was like a brief orgasm, a shiver that hovered between fear and pleasure, the strangest feeling. I am completely at his mercy, she thought. He really has turned me into his slave.
Instinctively she fell to her knees. Darius chuckled, looking down on her, his sturdy legs astride and his hands on his hips. In a flash Claudia understood how soul-destroying it must be for a noble creature like Darius to be enslaved. He was a fine figure of a man, intelligent and strong, yet he was deemed to be inferior to the meanest and stupidest of the Roman citizens. An accident of fate had cast him in the role of underling, but it was against nature. This man was born to rule, to command, to give praise and punishment according to his own lights.
At the same time, Claudia felt a deep desire to be of service to him. This was the man she had beaten, tried to subdue, yet she had not succeeded in crushing his spirit. He remained spirited and free, a natural master forced, through circumstance, to be an unnatural slave. She deeply regretted the part she had played in humiliating such a noble soul.
“What do you want of me?” she asked, humbly, her whole body thrilling to the nearness of him. She believed that he would not harm her, yet she held h
im in awe.
His drew his whip out of his belt. Claudia shrank from him. She knew she would submit herself even to that for there would be some justice in it, but to her surprise he threw it away and unbuckled his belt. She felt a tide of apprehension cresting within her, suspense feeding her with fantasies that she hardly dared consider. What might a man of his virility and lustful inclinations do when he had a woman like her at his mercy?
Still smiling, Darius flung the belt away and drew his tunic over his head. He wore no loincloth and his member reared before her like a beacon, huge and threatening. Claudia felt her womb leap at the sight of it and knew that she wanted to be taken by that rampant monster, forcefully if need be. It was alien to her, the phallus of a slave, and yet he was a man like her husband and might be forgiven for wanting to conquer her, his mistress.
Uncertainly she held up her head, and their eyes met. There was a point of light deep in the black pools that glimmered for her, made her think he would be merciful. He grasped his cock at the root and waved it at her like a weapon.
“See this!” he growled. “I want you to taste it, woman. I want you to lick and suck at it until my hot seed spills into your mouth as your husband’s seed has spilled into your cunt. Do it now, or it will be worse for you!”
Claudia found she needed no coercing. Her head bent eagerly to the task and while she tasted the first seeping of his glans her fingers clutched at the heavy orbs beneath, tenderly cradling them. She took more of his organ into her mouth, licking first around the tip and then down the shaft, hearing his satisfied grunts as she abased herself with more enthusiasm.
This is I, Claudia, wife of Tullus Octavius, giving tongue to a slave! she thought, marvelling at herself, and a deep shudder went through her secret places, filling her with untrammelled delight. She could feel herself growing reckless again, as she had whilst dancing, and her little button was throbbing with uncontrolled pleasure, leading her to suck and lick greedily at the man’s robust penis. She squeezed her thighs together rhythmically as she worked and her breasts felt taut and hot.
Soon she was imagining him taking her, forcing his way into her with brutal passion. Her pussy ached to be filled with him, unimaginable desires seized her for experiences that she scarcely dreamed of. The autocratic slave had awakened her dormant libido and now she would do anything for him, anything!
Hot and salty, his spurting juices filled her throat and made her gasp and choke, but still he thrust into her willing mouth and her body thrilled to the meaty solidity of his cock. He had opened her up, all the long channel from one set of lips to the other, and she was on fire with lusty fervour until she erupted with volcanic force. The spasms of her climax spread throughout her entire being, fiercer than the pangs of childbirth, sweeter than wine mixed with honey and perfumed with roses. Yet there was a dark edge to it that made her grunt and squirm, a feeling of total subjection to the will of a goatish demi-god.
Torn apart by her emotions, Claudia scarcely noticed his exit. When she came to she was lying on the floor in the moonlight, shivering. She crawled into bed and fell into a fitful sleep.
In the morning the Saturnalian revels were over, and the King had fled into voluntary exile. When the mistress of the house discovered this the other slaves were surprised by the strength of her response.
“There was no need!” she wailed. “He was King for one night only. Today, order would have been restored and all misdeeds forgiven and forgotten!”
But she had forgotten that, according to ancient tradition, the Lord of Misrule is ritually sacrificed after his brief time of licence.
Whore
D. L. King
The dress was red. Red with a restrained intensity. A deep, wet sort of red. A red that slithered behind your eyes and rubbed up against your hypothalamus. Just seeing it on the rack caused an involuntary shiver, a contraction of my pelvic floor muscles and made my pupils dilate. Seeing the price tag almost dissuaded me from trying it on. Almost.
It fit like it had been made by my own private couturier.
The fabric was soft, with a slight tooth to the hand. It draped with its own gentle weight. The dress had a high boat neck, brushing just over the top of my clavicle, but with a fitted bodice. Not too tight, just enough to enhance my small breasts and cling gently to the curve my body made from torso to waist. Long, fitted sleeves and a slight flare from the hips, ending just below my knee, completed the picture, or at least, the front of the picture. Simple and elegant.
Gazing at my reflection in the three-way mirror in the fitting room at Sacks, the physical responses I had on seeing the dress on the rack, multiplied exponentially. In the back, the dress fell from the center seam of the sleeves in a deep V to just above – and I do mean just above – the crack of my ass. I couldn’t stop looking at the way it seemed to attach itself to my sides, following the curve in at my waist and then the beginning of the curve back out at my hips.
I turned and turned. I moved my arms and twisted my body. What made it stay glued to me the way it did? I guess you get what you pay for.
I have no idea what possessed me to bring it to the conference. What use would I have for a dress like that at a conference with a bunch of neurologists and neurosurgeons? But after three days of panels and presentations, and then finally presenting my paper, at the tail end of the last day, to a three-quarters empty room of mostly men, checking their watches to make sure they didn’t miss their airport shuttle, I’d had enough.
Knowing my presentation would be one of the last, I’d decided to take an extra night at the hotel and return home the next day, which was a good thing because I really needed a break after the last attendee thanked me for my presentation and practically ran out the door. It was only three o’clock, a little early for cocktails, so I decided to have a swim in the hotel pool and relax before dinner.
Like I said, I don’t know why I brought the dress, but I do know why I put it on that night. Once rejuvenated from swimming and a nap, I realized I’d exhausted all my conference wear and I didn’t think jeans and a T-shirt would cut it in the hotel’s restaurant. The dress felt unbelievably sexy and I found myself being extra attentive to my make-up. I clipped my hair up in a sort of messy bunch, to get it off my neck. I didn’t want my hair to break the expanse of bare skin from neck to ass. I remembered reading somewhere that Japanese kimonos were worn with the necks dipping down in back because Japanese men found the back of a woman’s neck sexually stimulating. Looking at the drape of the dress, I had to agree with them.
I made my way down to the hotel bar. I love beautifully appointed boutique hotels and this one, in Los Angeles, was no exception. The bar was beautifully designed in rich browns, platinum and gold and the low tables and upholstered furniture looked comfortable and inviting. A few of the tables had groups of people gathered round them, but I never felt that comfortable sitting at a table when I was alone, so I chose a seat at the bar and ordered a pomegranate martini.
The drink was perfect. I soon became lost in thoughts about one of the presentations on using electrical implants at the base of the spine to combat chronic nerve pain. I raised my glass to the bartender and he nodded. As he was putting my new drink down, someone took the stool next to me.
“I’ve got it,” a masculine voice said.
I’d guess he was about fifty, with hair greying at his temples. He wore a very expensive-looking suit and red tie. His nails were manicured. I looked from his hands to his face and he smiled. “Thank you. Were you here for the medical conference?” He didn’t look familiar, but there had been quite a few people there.
“No, I’m with the financial conference. I manage a hedge fund.”
As I’d never completely understood what that was about, I asked him what he did and we spent the next hour discussing money, finance and his life. The conversation was interesting and intelligent and, although he was older than the guys I was usually interested in, he was dead sexy. So, when he put his hand on my back and slid it dow
n to the top of the dress and asked if I’d like to join him in his room, I didn’t have to think too hard. I probably should have opted for dinner, but after two and a half martinis, my lizard brain was more interested in the meat in his pants than the meat in the restaurant.
His hand never lost contact with the small of my back as he escorted me to the elevators. On the way to the thirty-fourth floor, I looked him over more closely. I’d never been much for one-night stands. Maybe it was the alcohol, but I couldn’t wait to see what he was hiding under those very expensive clothes.
His room was about ten floors higher than mine and had a better view. I went to the window to look out and he followed me. He bent down and kissed the back of my neck. His hands stroked my sides, over the dress before sliding inside.
“You are gorgeous,” he said, hands exploring under the sides of the dress, up past the swell of my breasts and back down to my ass. He placed my hands on the window and reached down, under the hem of the dress, to slide it up in back. His breath caught as he ran his hands up my naked ass. “I don’t suppose this dress is well suited to wearing panties, is it?” he asked.
I turned around and began to undo his tie and he caught my hands. “We have plenty of time for that,” he said, sliding my dress up and over my head. Once off, he turned it right side out and draped it over the desk chair before taking a step back to look at me. The only things I had on were my shoes.
“Do you like the view?” he asked.
“Yes, I do. It’s much—” His lips covered mine before I could complete the statement and his tongue parted them to explore my own. He tasted of very fine Scotch, with a slight hint of expensive cigar. My hands reached up to explore his chest and he spun me around, facing the glass again.
“I like it too,” he said.
Again, he placed my hands above my head, against the glass, as he stroked and kneaded my breasts before pinching and pulling at my nipples. My clit was buzzing and I could feel moisture begin to seep from my pussy as his hands stroked lower, over my ribs, down to the V of my sex. He ran his hands over the crease between my legs and my cunt.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 12: Over 40 outstanding pieces of short erotic fiction (Mammoth Books) Page 9
