Leda threw back her head gasping for air, her back was arched so much it was a wonder her spine didn’t crack. It wasn’t often she had the opportunity to fuck a woman whose cunt matched her own outsized organ. In response, her lover was thrusting her hips and buttocks, making the arse cheeks wobble and slap so loudly that Glaucus could hear the rapid bap, bap, bap sound they made as each cheek collided with the other. He could also see her massive breasts swinging from her chest, going to and fro unison, so large that her nipples almost touched the floor. That was another thing he found amazingly sexual; a woman sitting astride him, fully penetrated and leaning forward so she could swing her tits over his chest letting the nipples just flit lightly on the skin. Lady Octavia had good tits, he thought, and slipped his hand inside her robe, groping her breast.
Her hand had stopped just short of bringing him off. “You can have me tonight,” she whispered.
He almost replied that he’d rather have the gladiatrix sitting on his rod, but stopped himself just in time. He drew lady Octavia’s head close and kissed her full on the lips. Her hand gripped his cock tight, and in the shadows, unseen by anyone, Nydia was watching everything that was going on. She saw her mistress and Glaucus kissing passionately, the strange Hermaphrodite fucking that black girl who had slapped her bottom, she hadn’t forgotten that, or when she had fucked with Circo who’d threatened to snap her pretty little neck. She stayed in the shadows watching both the actors reach their climax; the black gladiatrix grunting like a wounded bear, her strange companion emitting a piercing shriek and collapsing on her back, still writhing like a serpent, the horns on her head twisted into a funny angle. Africanus fell forward and landed with a smack on her belly. She had mated with the bull and felt content, smiling at the thought of giving birth to a Minotaur.
“Well done both of you,” lady Octavia applauded.
The two women stood up and Leda raised Africanus’ arm high in response to the deafening cheer rising from the assembly.
A guard escorted Africanus back to her cell, on the way she took a bottle of wine that a slave offered. Leda returned to the brothel from which she had been fetched hoping it wasn’t the last time she’d mate with that beautiful black girl.
Lady Octavia and Glaucus retired discreetly to her bed chamber. He was in the mood for a night of torrid sex.
Nydia smiled slyly and went off to her room. There was much she had to report when her master, Quintus returned.
Chapter Five
A mile away from the glittering villas of Quintus and Glaucus lay the poorer areas of the city; a warren of dark unlit narrow streets and alleys inhabited by thieves, criminals, prostitutes, and runaway slaves. No respectable citizen would be seen dead there, unless he had wandered into it by mistake. It was here that the entire underworld dealing in stolen goods took place, along with murderous plotting and every other crime imaginable. It was also a good place to make money if you knew the right people, or spend a night with a prostitute in the numerous lupanars, or brothels. Despite their lowly existence, the prostitutes who worked in them were still protected by Roman law. They had to wear a red robe denoting their trade, but still had the right to refuse a client if they chose, or could haggle over the price of their services. Most of them lived in their own rooms and came and went in and out of the lupanars as the mood suited them.
In the House of the Olives, a lupanar tucked discreetly at the end of a blind alley, a tall dark man was telling one of the prostitutes he was a successful trader in gold and silver. The prostitute was listening intently and had just told him her name was Claudia.
Both of them were lying.
They were seated in a corner of the room where drinks were served, hardly visible to one another in the gloom. A guttering oil lamp cast its wavering shadows over their faces; the prostitute had a broad face with dark, heavily painted eyes, wide painted lips and high cheek bones. Her hair, wild and unkempt, was partially covered under a red shawl. She had good breasts which were mostly visible in the dim light. The man was unshaven with a running scar etched down one side of his face. He was handsome in the rugged threatening way that some women found sexy. He told her his name was Plutarc and ordered her another drink.
The prostitute noticed his eyes kept wandering all over her body. When he spoke he addressed his words to her breasts rather than her face. He was also looking at her legs splendidly bare now that the robe had parted. He liked the look of her thighs and made no attempt to disguise his hardening cock. The prostitute crossed her legs and he nearly dropped his cup. A man would kill to get between those thighs, let alone bury his head at their apex. He reached out and cupped her breast, giving it a soft squeeze. She grabbed his cock and stroked it, and then lifted her cup and stared at him over the rim with seductive, smouldering eyes. He looked back then at her cleavage which had become more exposed. He could see right into her cleft and saw her breasts quiver when she moved. He couldn’t quite see her nipples, they were still covered but the teats were hard. He couldn’t miss that. He always thought a woman looked very sexy with hard nipples poking at a flimsy dress or robe or whatever it was she was wearing. His cock was throbbing so much he had to reach under his tunic and let it stand up against his belly.
“You’ve gone hard,” she observed, whispering in a low husky voice.
She didn’t smile or lick her lips like the other whores in this dump, neither did she open her legs and invite him to feel her cunt. He was beginning to think she wasn’t the ordinary sort of whore one found in this part of the city. She certainly wasn’t in a hurry to get on her back or in any other position her client demanded. He liked that, showed she wasn’t a common tart but more discerning with whom she slept. In a place like this that was very unusual, most of the tarts fucked at least ten or fifteen men a night. He knew of one who had got through thirty and so far had not been beaten on that tally.
“So, you trade in gold and silver,” she said, resting her hand on his knee. “I wonder why you bother with a place like this. A man in your position could have the pick of the lupanars in Rome.”
“I prefer to conduct my business in Marcellum,” he replied, putting his hand on her thigh.
“You like the women of Marcellum?” she asked, moving her hand in slow circles.
“I like you,” he whispered, opening the top of her robe so all of her breasts were exposed. “You’ve got good tits.” He reached under her thighs and stroked her rump. “And a nice arse.”
“You’re very muscular,” she complimented, closing her hand around his cock, and wondering how a man who was supposed to be a dealer in precious metals had such a finely toned body. Only men used to hard physical labour had muscles of that size. He was also swarthy and sunburned.
“How did you get this?” she wondered, running a fingertip along the running scar.
It was a bit of a gamble asking a question like that. He could easily slap her in the mouth and tell her to mind her own fucking business.
“One of my customers refused to pay up,” he said, and grinned at her.
Normally she would have just nodded and carried on with her banter, but this one made her shudder, not only because she knew he was lying about being a trader, but also she was actually beginning to find him intriguing and sexy.
“I like men who won’t take any nonsense,” she said. “It shows strength.”
“You like strong men,” he grinned again, putting his hand right under her bottom and almost lifting her from the bench.
A shiver went through her loins. In the half light he looked both amazingly handsome and dangerous, the sort of combination that women found attractive in gladiators.
“Have you ever fought in the arena?” she asked suddenly, without thinking.
“A long time ago,” he muttered, ordering more drinks.
The room was filling and more prostitutes and their clients crowded the benches an
d tables. The air was thickening with ribald conversation and a heavy overtone of sex. Some of the whores were half naked, blatantly displaying their wares to anyone who cared to buy them; others were fully robed and leaned invitingly against the walls. Younger and inexperienced whores rushed up to any man that entered the room and threw their arms around them. But the high class whore and the bogus precious metal dealer sat quietly sipping their drinks, hands resting on knees and thighs.
One of the men coming into the room grabbed one of the young whores around the waist and lifted her high in the air. She shrieked as he threw her over his shoulder and carried her up the rickety staircase leading to the squalid rooms above, slapping her bare rump as he went.
The high class whore’s heart skipped a beat. She liked men who treated their women rough; the feel of course stubble on her cheek or thighs, especially on her thighs, and the tight grip of strong hands on her hips as he penetrated her, and then being ridden long and hard. The man she was with seemed to be the sort that liked a long hard ride. Yet strangely, he wasn’t in a hurry. Most men who came in here wanted to get inside the first willing whore they came across, and perhaps one or two, or maybe three after that. This man was sitting beside her, arm now around her shoulder and warding off any competition with an icy glare.
“I think it’s time we went upstairs,” he said suddenly.
“Oh, do you,” she replied, lifting her finely arched brows and going wide eyed. She was also aware of a sudden wetness between her legs, which didn’t happen all that often with clients. It took the right man to make her go wet. Her shoe slipped to the end of her foot and balanced precariously on her toes. The hand that wasn’t groping his cock began stroking her left thigh.
“You haven’t said how much you’re going to pay me yet,” she half whispered, and leaned closer into his shoulder.
“That’s because you haven’t asked.”
“How about a gold bracelet?”
“I can get ten whores for that,” he said abruptly.
It was probably true. Some of the whores in this part of the city sold themselves for less than the price of a loaf of bread.
“Supposing you tell me what you really do for a living,” she whispered, turning her shoulders so the robe slipped from them.
Her breasts were almost bare and he could see her dark nipples rising proudly from her breasts.
“I’m a contract killer,” he said starkly, without a smile or even a twitch of his lips.
She looked around the room and back again. “I don’t believe you. You’re making it up.”
“Do I look as if I’m making it up?”
His eyes narrowed and he stared straight at her, ignoring her naked breasts and begging nipples. He did not look as if he were making anything up. In his eyes she saw no emotion whatever. His face, handsome though it was might have been set in stone, and she knew he was telling the truth.
“Let’s go upstairs,” she said. “You can have me free.”
He bought a bottle of wine and they headed up the rickety stairs and along a corridor so dark and narrow they could only walk in single file. She led the way into a small dingy room lighted by a solitary lamp. A bed stood against graffiti covered walls and under it was an earthenware bowl half full of stagnant water. He closed the door and shot the bolt.
“Take off your robe,” he said unceremoniously.
“Are you usually this coarse?” she asked, slipping the robe from her shoulders.
It fell to the boards with a soft rustle and she stood entirely naked, except for her shoes. His tunic came off and sailed over her head. For a few moments they said nothing, but just stood admiring each other.
“Is it really true?” she asked. “You do kill people for a living?”
“Only when I’m asked,” he said flatly, and came forward putting his powerful arms around her shoulders, crushing her to his chest.
By Jupiter, my cunt’s soaking, she thought, and opened her mouth wide.
They kissed for what seemed a very long time, then without warning he scooped her up in his arms as if she were a child and tossed her on the bed. She had almost reached an orgasm even before he touched her. She lay naked and open, eyes closed, waiting for him to dive between her legs and penetrate her with his rampant organ.
“I suppose you’ve fucked half of Marcellum in here,” he said dully, lifting the bottle to his lips.
She opened her eyes and saw him standing naked like one of the massive statues that supported the entrance to the arena. His cock was hard and nodding gently.
“I’ve had my fair share,” she replied, startled at the question and fixing her eyes on his massive torso. “Everything from senators to boys,” she added with a wicked grin.
“Do you do everything that’s asked of you?”
“Within reason,” she said softly, wondering what he had in mind.
He went to the window and opened the shutter. A cool fresh breeze sweetened the fetid air. “Come over here,” he ordered.
She got off the bed and joined him at the window, resting her arms on the ledge and looking out over the rooftops. Her body was bent at the waist thrusting out her bottom.
“Keep still,” he said, and upended the bottle neck between her shoulder blades.
The wine trickled down her spine, gathered in a small pool where her hips swelled, and ran through her bottom crease. Slowly the liquid soaked into her pubic curls mingling with her own juice. Her skin tingled all over her body.
“Open your legs,” she heard him say.
Slowly and deliberately, she opened them, spreading her shoes wide over the floor. She heard him move and the bottle was put down. He was kneeling behind her, putting his arms around her thighs. He picked up the bottle and angled the neck into her sex, moving it from left to right. She shivered as the contents trickled down the insides of her thighs.
“No one’s ever done this before,” she whispered, then jolted as the tip of his tongue ran up her thighs in one long sweep.
Her sex was fully open and dripping wine and sex juice, plop plopping to the boards, a sound which made her even wetter. Her nipples, squashed against the window sill, tingled so much she was almost in tears. Then his tongue was in her sex, licking at the lips, going deeper into her, savouring the wine and her own more earthy taste. He licked and sucked her until her orgasm came in a flood, covering his mouth and chin with a fine creamy liquid.
“Will you fuck me, please,” she begged.
There was no reply. The silence in the room was savage. On the other side of the street a door opened onto a balcony and a whore with her client came out to take the air. She was unashamedly naked and leaned over the edge looking into the street below. The high class whore wondered if they could see her, arms folded; bare breasted and desperately wanting the throbbing sex organ rearing up somewhere behind her. But her client, the contract killer, held her legs rigid while he swept his tongue up through her bottom crease, and kept on sweeping it all the way up her back. He stood up and aimed his organ into her sex, grabbed her hips and pulled her backwards.
“Oh!” she grunted, and felt his full length sliding further and further into her dripping tunnel.
She leaned over the sill sweating even in the cool breeze, breathing in short, sharp pants, thrusting her bottom against his pelvis. On the other side of the street the young whore and her client had gone back into their room and closed the door, plunging the night into darkness. Behind her, he pumped his loins with a savage ferocity, taking his cock to the brink of her sex then ramming it in with full force.
“Oh Jupiter, save me,” she gasped, his hands gripping so tight she was held fast against the sill.
“You’re a good fuck,” he complimented. “Not bad for an older whore.”
She would have returned the compliment, but he had moved closer and, gath
ering his strength, actually used his thighs and loins to lift her bodily upwards. Now she was suspended on his cock, impaled on the hard rod of man flesh spearing her to the hilt. The constant thumping going on at her rear pushed her further over the sill until she clutched at the sides for support. Her sex oozed from the sheer ecstasy of being so well fucked, and the frightening prospect of tumbling head over tits onto the cobbles below. Her arms shot out baring her whole chest and breasts to anyone who cared to look up. She let out a scream as her whole body lurched forward, arms flailing the air. Her middle was resting on the sill, while he continued his relentless thrusting. His cock was rubbing her clitoris so fast her head swam. If he released his grip now she’d fall to her death. She was totally at his mercy and the idea made her come in torrents.
“In you come,” he rasped, hauling her over the sill, standing her upright on the floor.
She looked a mess, hair tumbling over her face now flushed with fear and in the glowing aftermath of orgasm. Her sex and thighs were soaking, stained with wine and sex juice.
“I feel dizzy,” she laughed, relieved that she was back on firm ground.
“Get on your knees,” he ordered, ignoring her smile.
“Now?” she gasped. “But I…Aghhh.”
The slap he delivered nearly knocked her unconscious. “Now,” he said dangerously.
She dropped to her knees bringing her head level with his cock. He was still hard even after what must have been a good hour of ceaseless fucking. There was no need to ask what was expected from her, and she opened her mouth, guiding his cock to the back of her throat.
The Arena of Torment Page 8
