by S. C. Daiko
But, slowly, slowly.
He strokes his erection. There hasn’t been a woman who excites so much him since Macedonia. A picture comes into his mind. The redhead tied face-down to the bench he had erected in his quarters, arse in the air, feet on the floor. She was strong. So, so strong. Macedonia always said, ‘It takes a strong person to surrender. It’s not for the faint or weak of heart.’
Will Theodora be as strong?
He fucking hopes so.
***
Crack!
He lashed the whip, not the ancient flagrum or scourging whip embedded with glass and nails that would have torn Macedonia’s flesh to strips, but single-tailed, leather, a sword in his hand.
Crack!
Sensuous, seductive, sensual. Hours of practice. Callouses, bruises and blisters. He’d got it down to a fine art.
Crack!
He loves his whip. It does exactly what he asks it to do. Macedonia wouldn’t let him touch her with it until he could take the leaves off a tree one at a time.
Moisture dripped from her cunny lips as he brought the whip down, first on one shoulder blade and then the other, slicing through the air at a forty-five degree angle, always hitting a new spot. His aim was perfect.
‘More?’
‘Please, Master.’
He knew how it felt. Each hit stung, burned, and rippled through her body. He gave what she needed: the ache that cleansed... the intoxicating, heady release that only a true pain slut craves. She pulled against the ropes, ‘Please, Master, now! Fuck me!’
‘You haven’t earned it yet.’
He had to keep pushing her. That’s what she’d taught him. He lifted the whip over his shoulder and sliced it down again. A mark across the right cheek of her arse. She yelped. He turned the whip and, with his free hand, parted her glistening labia.
‘You’re so wet,’ he said, inhaling her fruity arousal. He inserted the leather whip handle and moved it in circles. She was teetering on the edge of climax, he could tell from the moans gurgling up from her chest. ‘Ah, ah, ah. No you don’t!’ He slipped the leather from her. ‘It’s not time yet.’
‘It is time. Please, Master.’
‘Don’t contradict me.’ He hit her again and she jerked and cried out, a neat blow that took in both her buttocks on the underside, the tip of the whip curling around her thigh. He reinserted the leather handle, hard into her, then pulled it out again. In. Out. Again and again and again until she was squirming, gasping, pushing into her toes.
He stopped.
‘Please, Master, I need release!’ she shrieked, desire pouring out of her and running down her legs.
‘Quiet. I haven’t finished with you.’
He slackened the ropes, and, kneeling between her legs, opened his mouth over her slick, wet folds. ‘You taste good – so fucking good.’
She let out a ragged cry as he spread her wide with his palms. His tongue traced around the crack in her arse.
‘Now!’ He found her clit and latched onto it, pushing his fingers into her. Her tangy fluids coating his face, she screamed her release, her body shuddering, her quim milking his hand.
His prick hard as iron, he slammed into her cunt from behind, right to the hilt. ‘Take it. All of me.’
‘Yes, yes,’ she cried, her buttocks pushing back against his stomach as his balls slapped against her. Fuck. His hot seed gushed like a fountain up through his prick, her cunny muscles gripped and sucked and drew every last drop from him.
He untied her and rained kisses down the red welts, smoothing her buttocks, and lifting her in his arms. ‘You’re beautiful,’ he whispered. ‘So fucking beautiful, Macedonia.’
Shame she had to push him so fucking far.
***
Justinian shifts in his seat. Regret floods through him for what was, what might have been, what will never be. Too long without a regular lover, he’s built up his reputation as a solitary, studious eccentric. No one knows about Macedonia except for Narses. Four years and there hasn’t been a woman who could replace her. Until now, perhaps…
Footsteps sound in the corridor and the eunuch comes in. ‘The girl is resting. Will you require her presence this evening?’
‘Of course. But I shall go to her myself.’
Narses bows, like a snake uncoiling. ‘The people have been up in arms about the new tax collection system in the City.’
‘I intend to implement it across the Empire to increase revenues. We need the money if we are to take Italy back from the barbarians.’
‘And to pay for your celebrations. Your consular games will probably cost more than Anastasius and your uncle ever spent in their entire reigns combined.’
Justinian shrugs. ‘Octavian was our greatest Emperor. And he knew what he was doing with free bread, beer, and circuses. My uncle is a wise man, but he doesn’t dream big. I do. I need the people on my side if I’m to accomplish what I wish during my own reign.’
‘The people are the Emperor-makers, absolutely. What about John the Cappadocian? Do you still want him in charge of the tax reforms?’
‘For now.’ Justinian feels a vein tick in his throat. Rumour has it the sandy-haired man is an old acquaintance of Theodora’s. Not a patron, but part of her entourage before she left with Hecebolus.
Narses clears his throat. ‘People grumble about no longer being skipped on tax collections but, as you’ve kept the rates the same, they’ll be resigned to pay the full amount they owe.’
‘Excellent. There’s nothing further to be done until the Emperor changes his mind and implements the reforms throughout the Empire.’
‘Knowing how persistent you are, you won’t take long to persuade him.’
Justinian gets to his feet and stretches. ‘That’s my aim. My succession is not entirely secure, nonetheless. How far along are you in arranging for Germanus to take up the magistrate of Thraciae? We need him conveniently out of town when the question does arise.’
‘Your cousin has accepted the post and leaves next week.’
‘Good. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Narses.’
The eunuch smiles. ‘I serve you for the Empire, my lord.’
‘Everything for the Empire, eh? Between the two of us, we’ll return it to the glory days of Rome.’
‘My fervent hope, Your Excellency.’
‘And mine too.’
III
I put my head in my hands, limp with indecision. I’d sworn to the Virgin I would keep myself pure. But it’s clear that Justinian has other plans for me than simply helping him organise his celebrations. Holy Mary, what shall I do? I kneel on the hard mosaic floor of the room assigned to me and I pray. Blessed Mother of God, please give me a sign! A seagull high above the Sea of Marmara lets out a mournful cry. I wish I had an icon of the Virgin on which to focus. Perhaps Narses can spare one for me? How unexpected that he shares my beliefs…
There’s a bed in the corner of the room. I’m tired and stretch out, the wine from lunch has made me sleepy. I think about Justinian. The confidence of the man! I do regret my outburst to Narses, when I accused him and my mentor of pimping me as a whore. If I can encourage Justinian to see another side to our religion somehow, anyhow, I’ll be working for the Church. And maybe I can even influence him to do some good for the people. My people. In the past I used my body for survival. This would be a different use. Can I do that? Go back on my vow? Dirty myself again?
But this is Justinian. His voice! As smooth as leather. Those sea-green eyes! I could lose myself in their depths. The strength in the sculpted muscles of his calves and arms. What would it be like to feel the hardness of his chest against mine? I cup my breasts. My nipples pucker and press against my palms, sending a shiver to my quim. It has been so long since a man held them. Lust floods through me, but before I can satisfy it exhaustion claims me and I drift off to sleep.
When I wake, the light coming through the high window from outside has dimmed. It must be late afternoon already. I’m in need of a
bath and a change of clothes.
I pad across to the door and peer outside. A slave is sitting cross-legged on the floor of the corridor. She’s young, barely out of her teens, with the fair hair of a northerner. ‘What is your name, girl?’
‘Hilda.’ The girl prostrates herself before me. I touch her shoulder to indicate she should rise.
‘I’d like to bathe, my dear. Show me where to go, then find out if the Head Chamberlain has managed to arrange for my clothes to be fetched from my sister’s.’
Hilda takes me to the women’s entrance of the Palace bathhouse. It’s a symmetrical building, surrounded by tall statues. Colourful mosaic paths retell stories of familiar heroes from the Golden Age: Theseus wrestling the Minotaur, Heracles slaying the Hydra, and Perseus hoisting Medusa’s head over her decapitated body. Marble statues marked as Plato and Virgil stare at me from a forest of figures long since dead, but I have eyes for only one man: Julius Caesar. Such a powerful Emperor. Strong and commanding. Justinian reminds me of him.
After leaving my tunic in the room just inside the entrance, I go to the frigidarium. Will anyone else be here? If so, how will I explain my presence? The baths are empty, thank God. I step gingerly into the tank, my nipples becoming erect as the freezing salt water, pumped directly from the sea, reaches up my body to kiss my quim. Next, I immerse myself in the warmth of the larger pool of the tepidarium, and finally into the heat of the caldarium, fired by a brazier underneath the hollow floor. It’s too hot here and I go back to the tepidarium, immersing myself again.
I sit bolt upright. Someone has come through the door. Dear Lord, it’s Justinian. Naked as the day he was born!
‘Mind if I join you?’
I can hardly throw him out of his own baths. I take a quick look at him from beneath my lashes. He’s magnificent: hips form a perfect V; his chest seems forged from iron; and his cock his cock! – the head protruding from its cover is slick and narrow, but just beneath the swollen rim it broadens, widening all the way down to unbelievable breadth at the base. What would it be like to be stretched by it? A flush creeps up my neck. Catching a smile curving Justinian’s lips, I glance away.
Sinking down, I recline against the edge of the pool as the water rises up to my chin. I need to cover the tell-tale evidence of my erect nipples.
Justinian picks up a cloth. ‘I’d like to wash you.’ It’s more a statement than a request. ‘I import this special soap from Naples. Let me rub your shoulders.’
His fingers trail down my arms and graze the sides of my breasts. I can hardly believe I’m being washed by the Emperor’s nephew. My breathing slows as I close my eyes and sink deeper into the water. Turning so I face the edge of the pool, I fold my arms over the side and rest my head on them, exposing my back. His hands work the muscles in my neck and, in spite of myself, a shiver of pure pleasure runs down my spine.
‘Who was the first woman you took to bed?’ I ask him, emboldened by what he’s doing to me.
He pauses for a moment. Have I overstepped the mark? ‘A courtesan,’ he says. I’m not surprised. In my old profession, it was typical to de-flower young men of his background.
‘So she took you to bed,’ I tease.
‘You could say that,’ he laughs. ‘Her tastes were… unusual, though. Bed didn’t feature highly in our activities.’
The washcloth travels down my spine again, following the curve of my back, and sliding over my buttocks and thighs. I move my knees together to deny him access. Except Justinian doesn’t seem to notice. He washes the backs of my legs and then once more returns to my shoulders. By the end of this bath, my shoulders will gleam they’ve received so much attention.
‘And you, Theodora? Who was your first lover?’
‘I expect you know the answer to that question already, sir.’
‘Humour me! I like to hear you tell of your life in your own words.’
I speak about Gaius, leaving out the fact that I fell pregnant. Justinian can’t possibly know about that. But he does know. Of course he does. He knows everything. ‘I’m sorry about your daughter,’ he says. ‘Infant mortality is far too high among the poor of the City.’ He kisses me on the forehead. The touch of his lips is tender, sensual. His warm mouth moves down the side of my neck. I let out a gasp and pull away from him.
‘Theodora… Theo… so sweet, so delightful. Can you feel the fire between us?’
He takes my hand and lifts it to his lips. My fingers encounter the stubble on his upper lip, then brush against his nose. His skin feels warm, soft yet rough. Oh, sweet Jesus! He kisses up my forearm to the inside of my elbow and heat rocks through me. Hot soft wet lips, kissing me so tenderly, sending warm tingles to my quim. A moan forms in my chest and escapes from my throat.
His rich melodic voice murmurs in my ear. ‘I can’t wait to make you mine.’ His lips skim the ridge of my shoulder and into the curve at the base of my throat. ‘Yes… you feel it. You feel what I could do to you. What I will do to you.’ He trails kisses up my neck, one… two… three… and then his lips are on my jaw, nearing my chin; they pause at the corner of my mouth.
With a groan he sweeps his arms around me, pulling me fully against him. Desire flames through me, hot and fierce. At the same time, warning bells are jangling in my head. His tongue thrusts and, in spite of myself, I arch against him. He tastes of wine and spices – and want. My heart pounds. I feel the press of his firm chest against the softness of my breasts. Blood rushes in my veins and my quim truly aches.
He strokes his hands over the curves of my bottom, gripping it as he surges against me. My open mouth clings to his, and my fingers curl in his hair. He crushes me against him in the warm water, his erection hard against my belly. Soft pants issue from my kiss-swollen lips. He could take me now. Right here. In this bath. All my resolve has dissolved in the heat of his kisses. My nipples are tight and my sheath is on fire.
‘No, sir. Please, sir.’ Reason has returned to me, and I tear my mouth from his.
He draws ragged breaths. Oh, God! Have I angered him?
‘The hour is getting late, Theodora. You’ll join me for dinner and we can talk more.’ He kisses me chastely on the forehead and gets out of the bath. I stare at him, open-mouthed. Is he not going to force himself on me? Most men would. Does he not find me desirable? Of course he does. Didn’t he say so? Then I remember him mentioning “unusual tastes”. What can they be? Clearly not fucking me in the bath. I don’t know whether I feel rejected or relieved. A mixture of both, I suppose.
Hilda, the slave-girl, wraps me in a clean linen towel and pats me dry. She appeared as soon as Justinian left the tepidarium. Did she see what transpired between us? If so, she will not mention it to others if she wants to serve me well. And, in return, I’ll be good to her for I know what it’s like to have nothing.
Back in my room, my clothes, such as they are, have been placed on a chest in the corner. I choose a long, close-fitting tunic of cream-coloured satin that sets off my dark eyes and hair. It has a high collar and is embroidered with scrolled leaves down the front. I used to wear it with a long string of pearls, a gift from an admirer, and pearl drop earrings; I left the string of pearls behind when I escaped from Hecebolus. A shudder passes through me and I block the memory from my mind.
Hilda helps me loop up my hair and fasten it with my gilded pin, my one remaining piece of jewellery. I dab behind my ears with rosewater. If only I had some expensive perfume! Why are you making such an effort, Theo? I’m torn, that’s why. I run my hands down the sides of my body, remembering the feel of Justinian. But my brain tells me I should beware. Look where your impulsive behaviour led you before!
In the dining room, he’s reclining on his couch and indicates I should join him. Slaves arrive with trays of food and set them on the table in front of us. He claps his hands to send them away. ‘Let’s eat first, then talk.’
He passes me wine, offers me nourishment – tiny chunks of sweet chicken in an almond-paste crust, shredded lamb rip
ped from the bone and wrapped in fine flatbread, a vine leaf stuffed with spiced grains, another with smoked fish, water, then more wine, then pastry dripping honey and scented with rose oil. He’s attentive and I eat from his hand, eat what he offers. What will he do next? His tunic is tented with a formidable erection. Oh, dear Lord! My heart thuds.
He takes a sip from his goblet. ‘Ah, sweet Theo. You will be the undoing of me or my salvation. Which is it to be?’
I lick a pastry crumb from my lip. ‘That depends, sir.’
His eyes are on my tongue. He takes another sip of wine and swallows. ‘On what does that depend?’
‘You.’
He puts down his goblet. ‘My overriding need is to satisfy you and ensure that everything is perfect for you at all times.’
‘Sounds too good to be true.’
‘It’s true all right. This is what will make me feel complete.’
‘Won’t running the Empire do that, sir? I’m sorry to be blunt.’
‘You think I will be the next Emperor, do you? My uncle hasn’t named me his successor yet.’
‘He will after your consular celebrations. The people will love you so much he’ll risk a rebellion if he names anyone else.’
‘You aren’t just a pretty face, Theodora. I’m glad to have you on my side.’
‘And I’m glad to be on your side, sir.’ I look him in the eyes, and they seem to dare me what to say next. ‘Tell me more about your plans for me.’
‘Just that I will never do anything to you that you do not want. Let me show you!’
He appears thoughtful, then he pulls me to him, his arm sweeping tightly around my waist and his hand slipping up to undo my hair. I take a sharp breath and my resolve is already unravelling. His tongue thrusts between my parted lips. My eyes close and my blood rushes. His hand cradles the back of my head; retreat is not an option. I let out a moan and hold him. His body is hard against mine. I taste his spicy breath and his male fragrance fills my senses.
