My Wicked Gladiators

by Hawkeye, Lauren

  After a hesitant moment, his movements echoed mine. His hands slid up my arms, over my shoulders, and then twined into my long, scented hair. There was still space between us, but I could feel the hard ridge of his cock pressing against my belly.

  Ah. I was beginning to see just how obedient a slave he was.

  I arched my hips against him. After pausing a moment again, as if to make sure that I had really meant it, he rocked against me in return, and the friction of his coarse cock hair against my labia made me gasp.

  I now saw. He would not do anything unless I told him to, or indicated that it was what I wanted. He truly was a man bound by the oath of honor undertaken by the gladiators.

  For reasons that I could not quite explain, this excited me terribly. Drawing him to me, my arms struggling for purchase against the solidity of his flesh, I let myself kiss him as I had wanted to be kissed for years, hot, wet, and open.

  His breathing was as ragged as mine when I drew back, shuddering through his great frame, and his skin flushed. He wanted me as much as I wanted him, this I knew.

  So I would take it, and I would enjoy it—we would enjoy it—this opportunity that the blessed gods had thrust in front of us. It seemed that Venus was in a fine humor that day. I would have to pray to her later, would have to offer up wine and bread in thanks.

  “Drusilla, you may go.” I was taking a risk, allowing my slave to leave—being alone with a gladiator, a man whose only purpose in life was to fight, was not a smart or safe thing to do. I knew that she would be irritated beyond belief with me, and that I would endure the sharp side of her tongue later on.

  But I did not desire an audience. I wanted to drown in the feeling of man and woman fucking, and nothing more.

  My slave girl exited silently, shaking her head but not daring to speak in front of a fellow slave, for fear that he would see our closeness. The friendship was not something that we hid, but nor did we flaunt it, for fear of upsetting the balance of the household.

  Had we been alone, Drusilla would have had much to say. But we were not, and she did not. She left, and I was alone with the gladiator. My gladiator, the one who waited silently for orders.

  I shivered with anticipation.

  “Enter the pool.” I gestured toward the stone steps that were swallowed by the wet, and heard the soft slice of his body through it as he descended and the silky water lapped at his hips. I seated myself on the side of the pool, ass against the chilly marble, legs dipped into the liquid from the knee down.

  I saw his eyes move from the breasts that were half hidden by the long coils of my hair to the area between my legs that he would not get a clear glimpse of until I parted them.

  He kneeled in the shallow water, facing me. Slowly, bit by bit, I opened my legs and let him see what he wanted to see.

  I saw the smallest of flickers in his eyes when I finally was spread open wide, and a slight tremor in those tremendous muscles.

  He wanted to do this, but would not until I gave him permission.

  It was intoxicating.

  “Place your mouth between my legs.” Before he could reach me, I took up the goblet of wine that sat at my side and poured it over my belly. The bittersweet liquid ran down my pale flesh in rivulets, streaming here and dripping there, the excess falling in fat drops into the water, where it dispersed quickly, a kiss of ruby in the deep blue.

  “As you wish, Domina.” Bending at the waist, he moved into the space between my legs, pushing them further apart to accommodate his large frame.

  I gasped at the first touch of his hard fingers on the soft flesh of my inner thighs. He looked up and smiled for the first time, just the faintest kiss of a smile that held a tinge of wickedness. Then he pushed me back, flat, the ridges of my shoulder blades pressing against the damp, chilled stone until I could no longer see him. His touch was gentle, far softer than I had ever felt the touch of my husband’s hands upon my skin. Startled by this, I immediately rose back up to my elbows and stared at him, brow furrowed.

  “You need not be gentle.” My voice was guttural, raw with wanting.

  His stare never wavered from my face as he nodded in acknowledgment, though the press of his hands on my flesh did not deepen in their pressure. “I would not hurt you. I would never hurt you.”

  My mouth opened to reply, but my words were lost as he moved his face roughly until it brushed the hot outer folds of my cunt. I understood that though he would wait for permission, and though he may not be gentle, I was safe with the warrior.

  He bit first, and a strangled scream escaped my throat. I tried to swallow it, for though I doubted that Lucius was home yet, he could be, very soon. It was a risk that I would take. But it was so very hard to swallow the sounds that kept exploding from my throat when Marcus buried his face between my thighs, the rasp of the stiff hairs on his jaw scratching and inflaming skin that was growing more tender by the minute.

  He soothed the sting left by his teeth with his tongue, though there was no softness in his movements. He swiped the rasp of his flesh through my slit firmly and forcefully, occasionally connecting with the inflamed area hidden a little deeper, and I couldn’t hold still.

  Raising my hips from the hardness of the floor, I begged him soundlessly for more. Replacing the hand that branded one of my thighs with an elbow, he used his newly free fingers to separate the folds of my labia, baring my clitoris. I hissed when the cool air hit it, but the air stopped when his mouth closed over the engorged nub, hot and wet, because the sensation shocked the breath out of me.

  I tried my hardest not to scream, and at the same time to close my legs, because the sensation was nearly too much to bear. But I had told him that this was what I wanted, and he was following through. His strength kept my legs apart, and his mouth stayed busy, stroking with his tongue, long, firm strokes, and I could feel myself careening out of control. My fingers scrabbled for purchase on the slick marble but found nothing to grab hold of, so I clenched them in my own hair and tugged as the whirling pleasure built.

  It had been so long that the orgasm nearly drowned me. I didn’t know if my screams had echoed off the corners of the room or merely off the walls of my mind when the shaking had subsided, but I shook my head from side to side regardless, knowing that I wanted still more and also knowing that time was coming to a close—Lucius would be home soon.

  I groaned and arched my hips again, raising myself onto my elbows and willing my quivering muscles to allow me to sit. When Marcus again came into view, I saw him swipe a hand over the excess moisture on his mouth, and I wanted to give him back some of the pleasure that he had given me.

  I moved my ass closer to the edge of the pool and let the water lap at my screaming clitoris. I huffed impatiently when he did not immediately move between my wide-spread legs, then remembered through a sex-fogged brain that he would not do so until I bid him to.

  “Fuck me.” I could not bring to mind any more detail than that . . . and indeed, I did not care how it happened. I just knew that if I did not feel the girth of the cock that was bobbing in the water inside my cunt, and soon, I would surely die.

  It happened so quickly that I was not entirely sure of how, precisely, it came to be. I only knew that one moment I was empty, and the next full, a cock of a surely impossible size impaling my most tender cunt. My legs were wrapped around his waist, my arms his shoulders, my bottom still braced against the edge of the pool as he rocked me back and forth. Though he was still on his knees in the shallow bath, he did not lose purchase, though I could feel his thigh muscles, hard as the rocks that covered the mountains outside, bunching beneath the globes of my rear with the effort to stay upright.

  I no longer cared if my husband was home and heard me, no longer cared about the fact that this was a forbidden gladiator and I his mistress. I let him ride me, hard and then harder still, until he grunted and the thick smell of salty come tickled
my nostrils.

  The feel of the viscous liquid as it dripped down my thighs was so immensely satisfying, after so very long, that I again spasmed. Though not nearly as intense, the orgasm still brought a wave of pleasure, and I sighed with amazement at the feeling that I had been so long denied.

  Breathless, I lay back on the cold stone, sighing my complaint when he began to ease his thick cock from my body. Every nerve in my body was spent with pleasure, and I felt the ridiculous urge to pull him back down toward me, to wrap his arms around me and enjoy the feeling of skin on skin. But though I wished it, he must have understood as well as I did that he needed to take his leave, and soon. The consequences for Marcus of Lucius finding him wandering the upstairs, let alone what he had just done with the wife of his master, his domina, would be severe. Never mind that Marcus’ temporary freedom was because of my husband’s carelessness. No, it would be expected that Marcus would have known his place enough to make his way back downstairs.

  The reminder of where he lived, where his life was, caused the reality of what I had just done to begin dribbling down upon my head, the chill mixing with the remnants of warm pleasure until the two were indistinguishable. I heard him splash water against his skin in an attempt to clean up, and felt shame.

  I had made a slave have relations with me. Never mind that he had enjoyed it—I had not given him a choice, and that was something that I had never entirely agreed with. Biting my lip, I shifted restlessly on the stone floor, closed my legs tight and also shuttered my eyes as I heard him leave the silky wet of the pool. He paused for a moment by me, searing my all-too-naked skin with his stare before padding away to again don his sandals and his subligaculum.

  When I again opened my eyes, he was gone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I could not sleep.

  Seeing Marcus earlier that day—having him connect gazes with me and reveal nothing, no feelings at all over our encounter, had shaken me to the core, though I could not have said why I cared so much. He was a slave, one of my husband’s prized slaves, to be sure, but a slave nonetheless. As far as most of my peers were concerned, he did not have feelings at all, or at least none that mattered.

  There were Romans who did not agree, however, and I counted myself among them, though Lucius did not want to hear it. And I could not condemn him for his way of thinking, not when so many others did the same.

  But I saw our slaves as people, and sought to treat them as such. Perhaps my way of thinking was different because of my own girl, Drusilla. We had been children together, and she had been the closest thing to a friend and playmate that I had ever had. We had even learned lessons together. I had never seen her simply as my slave. This, perhaps, was why I could not condone my commands, the situation that I had put Marcus in. Nor could I seek him out and apologize to him without throwing the dynamics of the entire household off kilter.

  If I could just forget about it, I would be fine. But all I could think about as I lay on top of my soft silk sheets was how much I wanted his hard hands on my soft flesh again. He had pleased my flesh in a way that it had never been pleased before, but more than that, his tender assurance that he would never hurt me still whispered in my ears.

  I had heard Lucius come in not that long before and retire to his own bed, in the room next to mine. He had not been alone. This was not a surprise to me—he made no secret of the fact that he preferred to take his pleasure quickly and effortlessly by letting one of our many slave girls ride him into oblivion, whether they wanted to or not. It was his due, as pater familias. His favorite was Marina, a beauty who had been purchased from a pleasure house and knew things that many of the others did not. What had surprised me this time was that the grunts coming from the next room that I could not identify as belonging to my husband sounded distinctly male, low and dark.

  No matter, I supposed. Lucius had had sex with men before, as I had with women—Romans were fluid in their sexuality, though we were allowed to marry only the opposite sex. But I had never known him to seek a man out, alone, for fucking. And as I had lain there in the dark, the chasm between my thighs aching and my cunt dripping, I pictured Marcus with the husband who had once made love to me in every way imaginable. One dark head and one light, silken strands of hair splayed out across the sheets. Two masculine bodies straining together.

  I imagined that Lucius would try to dominate. He would pull Marcus close for a kiss, hard and unyielding, before pushing him down on all fours. My gladiator, my stern warrior, would not acquiesce, would fight his way from underneath. He would lay Lucius out flat on his front on the bed, would smack a large palm across one of the globes of his ass before spitting into his hand and rubbing the stickiness through the crease. Then he would grab his cock by the base, and, ranging his body atop that of my husband, would push into Lucius from behind with the brute strength of a warrior.

  The vision made me shake with wanting.

  But of course it was not Marcus with my husband in the next room, and I did not really want it to be, though the pictures that it made in my mind’s eye aroused me beyond measure. It could not have been Marcus. Lucius would not permit himself sex with a gladiator any more than he would me. Sex sapped the strength that a champion needed in the arena, and though of course the men dallied with each other occasionally, and had visits from whores, visits that Lucius turned a blind eye to—a man could go for only so long without a release, after all—the rule absolutely applied to us.

  Though we were of the plebeian class, we were firmly entrenched in its upper echelons—we were upstanding Roman citizens. There was a moral code that a true Roman adhered to, and fucking one’s gladiators was not a part of it.

  When the sounds of ecstasy faded through the plaster wall at my feet, I grew yet more restless still. Pulling my sheer sleep tunic over my head—I preferred to sleep nude in this kind of heat—I poured a cup of wine, a rich ruby stream from the pottery jug on my table, and pushed through the curtain that divided my sleep room from the rest of the house.

  It was silent, and the lack of sound was like a sound itself. It rang in my ears, and I was tempted to shuffle the bare soles of my feet loudly on stone still warm from the heat of day to temper the noise. I rarely strayed from my room after I had retired for the night, simply because I usually enjoyed that time to myself, in my own space.

  And also, if I could admit it to myself, because I knew that I could happen upon my husband with one of his slave girls, and though I knew that those couplings happened, I was not sure that I wanted to witness one with my own eyes.

  It should not have mattered to me in whom my husband dipped his cock. He was a good husband, a good provider. I was well taken care of, and though I might long for his attention, I knew that he did not withhold it to be cruel.

  It felt oddly freeing to be out of my room in the night, like I had escaped from a prison cell not all that different from the quarters that housed the gladiators below my feet. Though they each had separate sleep quarters, none was enclosed, and they were free to roam about their area—the sleeping rooms, the baths, the training area—as they would.

  Much like myself in the upstairs. With this thought in mind, I decided to visit a place that I saw entirely too often for my liking during the day, but had never seen at night.

  The balcony to the ludus was covered with drapes of thick velvet, meant to muffle the noises of the daily training should we tire of them. I pushed through them, and when I emerged on the other side it felt like rising into the air from underwater.

  The night air outside was as still as the air in the house but far less stifling. It refreshed me, washed away the weariness and sense of irritability that had plagued me since the afternoon.

  The stars were small drops of gold, illuminated against velvet heavier and richer than what hung at my back. The training area below was cast in shadows, empty, and I savored the feeling of solitude. As I lifted my cup to my mouth and let th
e rich taste of the wine spread over my tongue, I caught sight of a moving shadow in the periphery of the mock arena. Swallowing hard, I knew it was him before I could squint and lock my sight upon the figure thrusting his sword about in the dark corner.

  His movements were fluid and beautiful in an otherworldly kind of way. He was fierce and brutish in his actions, and I pitied the next man that he met in the arena, even as I ached to have his body cover mine with the same kind of fierceness.

  As I watched, I wondered if Marcus had once been a soldier. His bearing was so rigid, so unyielding—much as his manner had been in the bedroom. He seemed to me to be someone who would have a clearly defined idea of what was right and what was wrong.

  Though I supposed that those ideas must have some gray areas as well, for in submitting to my commands, he had dishonored my husband, his dominus.

  My guilt thickened.

  Scared of dropping it and having to explain how the cup had gotten there when it was brought back upstairs in the morning, I set my goblet down upon the polished wooden railing as carefully as I was able. Still, noise reverberated into the still night air when the pottery met the exposed grain, and Marcus whirled with unimaginable grace in the direction of the noise.

  When his eyes sought the sky and found me, standing at the railing of the balcony, watching him, he stilled. Though his face was cast in shadow, I knew that he studied me as intently as I did him.

  I did not move. Could not move. I was still ashamed that I had given him no choice in our encounter, though I knew that he had found pleasure in it. I still had not allowed him a say, and that made me no better than those who abused their slaves horribly.

  I wanted him with a need that rose up in my throat and choked me, and yet I knew that it could never happen again. Not only because it was not right, because it did not fit with my Roman code of ethics, but because Lucius would raise hell if he found that one of his prized gladiators, one predicted to become the new champion, was fucking his wife.