My Wicked Gladiators

by Hawkeye, Lauren

  “Remove your . . . what are they called, Alba? Their leather garments.” She had replaced her hand on my leg, and her thumb rubbed absently over my knee as she spoke to the men. Though it still felt wrong to have her hand upon me, the excitement of being near the two men whom I wanted so badly made any touch thrill.

  “Subligaculum.” My voice was quiet, and I remembered telling Marcus nearly the same thing. I also knew that Hilaria knew very well what the garment was called, but from the glassiness of her eyes and the flush of her skin, I could see that the drugs and the wine were beginning to take effect upon the woman.

  I was aware of all four men reaching for the ties at their waists, of strong fingers loosening garments until each man’s worn leather fell to the hard stones at their feet, slapping against the floor with the sound of a palm slapping flesh.

  The men returned to attention, their cocks at half-mast under our stares.

  “Fist your cocks.” I sucked in a breath at Hilaria’s command. I half expected the men to refuse, though I knew that they could not.

  Instead they all did as told. I watched Marcus close his large hand around the cock that had been inside me, hilted inside of me, and felt liquid pool and trickle down the insides of my thighs.

  I bit my lower lip as Hilaria inhaled deeply, and my vision narrowed to include just Marcus, Marcus and his brother gladiator Caius, who stood beside him. So similar, and yet so different, they stood frozen, their erections clasped tightly in their work-roughened hands.

  “Pleasure yourselves. All of you.” I could not believe the audacity of Hilaria, though I was as transfixed by the sight before us as she. I would not dare to tell these men to do such a thing, and they belonged to my familia.

  Though I supposed I actually had told one of them to do something very similar, and in fact worse. Though it had been so very out of character for me, ordering Marcus to fuck me made me no better than the spoiled, wealthy woman at my side, and I would do well to remember it.

  “Stop.”

  “They have not done anything yet, Hilaria.” I turned to look quizzically at the other woman, whose eyes were now bright and glassy.

  “I know.” She rose, moved toward the line of men, who all stood with their hands wrapped around their cocks.

  I could scarcely catch my breath. This was so depraved, and yet I could not deny that it was arousing beyond measure.

  “What . . . what are you doing?” Hilaria stood by Christus, who showed no sign of noticing her presence, save for the quivering of his planes of muscles as she drew near and leaned in.

  The woman did not reply with words, letting nothing but a breathless laugh fall from her lips. She was affected by being so close to one of the mountainous men, and it showed in her shortness of breath, the flush on her cheeks.

  “I am inspecting the merchandise.” As she had the evening before, Hilaria reached out with curious fingers and splayed a hand across Christus’ naked chest. Apart from a subtle intake of breath, one that I noticed only because I was watching so intently, he gave no sign of even noticing.

  I think his lack of response excited her.

  With a wicked grin tossed back over her shoulder at me, she slid those fingers down, trailing surprisingly gentle, feather-light touches over chest and belly that seemed as if carved from stone. When she reached the springy thatch of dark curls, she leaned in until her lips brushed over his jaw.

  I watched as Christus’ lips quivered.

  In a change as startling as a candle being extinguished, Hilaria abandoned the teasing play and grabbed hold of Christus’ cock, twining her fingers with his own. She began to pump, moving her fist roughly up and down the length of his shaft, forcing him to do the same with her, and I marveled at the man’s ability to stay composed.

  I myself was not composed, not at all. I was breathless and hot, and I ached—my breasts, my cunt. My skin felt too tight, as though the guilt at finding pleasure in this debauched spectacle wanted to punch its way free.

  A groan finally escaped Christus’ lips, and the muscles in his thighs bunched tightly. Hilaria noticed the same, and, with a mocking laugh, she wrenched her hand free from the base of his cock. It leaked just the slightest bit at the tip. but otherwise remained swollen, a bruised shade of purple, as if it had been beaten.

  I could not believe the cruelty. She had deliberately brought the man to the brink of finishing, then had stopped. I could not see the point, and said so, though inside I was trembling with the thought of having that much power over a man, any man.

  Gods knew that I did not.

  “I have to see if they will give me my money’s worth.” With another of those depraved grins, Hilaria left Christus, with his cock pointing toward the heavens, and slithered her perfumed body in close to Appius, who stood next in line. With the new man, she did not bother with the teasing trail of touches down his torso. Instead she simply pulled his fingers away from where they were clamped on his erection, lowered her head, and placed her mouth over the bulbous head.

  “Hilaria!” She paid me no heed, and in that moment I wondered if she was entirely sane. Perhaps the loss of her husband had driven her mad.

  Perhaps it was the effects of the opium.

  Perhaps she was just a heartless harpy with no thought but of herself.

  Lucius had told me to stay in control of the situation. It was evident that I had not, but how was I to control a madwoman?

  Did I even want to take control? Did I not wish, at least to my most secret self, that I could shove Hilaria aside and place my own mouth around the next man’s cock? That I could suck the seed out of Caius, while fisting the shaft of Marcus, the man I now was convinced was his lover?

  Who was I to cast stones at Hilaria, when clearly I was no better?

  “Oh, dear.” Hilaria’s tone was sweet as honey and yet terrible, directed as it was at Appius, who was losing control of his stony demeanor, and fast. Hilaria found it amusing, if the upward turn of her lips even as they rhythmically sucked his cock was an indication.

  The man was rapidly approaching release. Instead of pulling back, as she had with Christus, she added her hands, one spreading his thighs and allowing her to stroke the sensitive seam that lay hidden between them, and the other to cup the heavy orbs that dangled below his erect cock.

  A harsh moan grated against the otherwise silent air in the room. Hilaria laughed as Appius lost control, threading his fingers through her hair and thrusting between her shimmering lips.

  The smell of salt saturated my sense of smell, and Appius lost his seed in Hilaria’s mouth. She continued to laugh as the thick liquid filled her mouth, her throat, and trickled down her chin.

  When he had finished, when his hands disentangled themselves from her hair and dropped limply to his sides, Hilaria wiped the back of her hand over mouth and stood. She smiled at Appius, a smile jagged with ice, and then slapped him across the cheek with the flat of her palm.

  “That will not do, not at all.” Her words were thick with desire. “You will not do.” When she turned to look at me, I could see clearly that her pupils were dilated, the black nearly swallowing the blue that was the color of the skies. The rosy flush of arousal had spread from her cheeks and flowed down her neck and into the deep vee shown by her tunic.

  “It is your turn, Alba.” She again wiped her mouth, this time with her palm, and then held that hand out to me. “It is not fair for me to have all of the fun.”

  I went to her like a woman under a spell. I knew that this was not fair to the men, that it was not right, but the ambrosia of desire hung heavily in the air, and I was drugged with it as surely as I would have been drugged if I had ingested the opium mix.

  Hilaria wiped her hands on the folds of her tunic before placing them on my shoulders and rubbing slowly, languorously before positioning me in front of Caius. I swallowed past my distaste at the touch as I lo
oked up, up the long golden length of his body until I was looking straight into the sea-colored depths of his eyes.

  I wanted to think that if I had seen anger there, or shame, that I would have stopped. That I would have had the strength of character, the morality to draw back. But what I saw was desire, matching my own in intensity. Whatever his relationship with the man to his right, he wanted my touch.

  I wanted to touch him.

  I took my eyes from Caius’ only long enough to glance at Marcus. His dark eyes were hooded, his breath coming short and fast.

  He, too, wanted. I would think about what that meant later.

  Slowly, tentatively, I reached out and placed fingers on Caius’ erection. It quivered under my touch, and I heard his rapid intake of breath.

  I looked up to his face sharply. Something in that breath had sounded familiar.

  Still tentative, I reached out with both hands. Placing them on his chest, palms flat and fingers splayed, I paused for a moment and simply reveled in the sensation of skin on skin.

  It was so awkward with Hilaria there, watching my every move. But need overcame nerves, and I shut her from my mind.

  I let my palms trail down, down, until my fingers tickled Caius’ hipbones. They were so familiar. But were they actually, or did I simply want them to be?

  I brushed across from his hipbones and through a gilded nest until I reached my goal. Softly, slowly, I twined my fingers around the rigid column.

  The shape, the hardness. The scent. It took me straight to that dusky chamber where I had met my masked warrior.

  Senses collided as the very real possibility that Caius was the man who had been given the job of impregnating me penetrated my mind.

  But my senses were fogged, and I could not be sure.

  From behind me, Hilaria’s breathing grew louder and more ragged, as if she, too, was waiting to see what I would do next. The noise was all that it took to break the spell for me, and within the merest of moments I felt disgust wash over me like frigid rain.

  I forced my fingers to release their hold, one by one, and though I knew it was the right thing to do, it made me ache.

  Who knew when I would again touch these men who made me feel so much? Who made me feel so safe and yet wild? I reminded myself yet again that it was the right thing to do.

  “Hilaria, this is ridiculous.” I stiffened my spine and turned, jutting my chin out in a display of confidence that I certainly did not feel. “You already know what you want. Let us finish with the games.”

  The other woman started as if she had been slapped, and I watched, shaking inside, as the languor of desire and perhaps a shade of insanity faded from her eyes. They again became cold and calculating, cold as the depths of the sea.

  “I rather thought you were enjoying the games, my dear.” Her voice was flat, and I was terrified that I had overstepped. Would she complain to Lucius? Would she make trouble for us with Baldurus? I shuddered to think what would happen to me if that was the case.

  I kept my stance rigid, even a bit annoyed. “I am not, Hilaria. I am a married woman.” I tilted my head to the side, waiting for her reply, determined not to let her see my nerves.

  She considered me for a long moment, and I had not a clue what was going through her head. It was a completely valid excuse, though like a wild animal around a wounded one, she seemed to sense weakness and was determined to sniff it out.

  She did not. Instead, she drew herself up tall and nodded in my direction.

  “Of course you are. Apologies, Alba. I did not consider that this would be uncomfortable for you.” Her words said the right thing, but I still sensed that she was not completely appeased.

  I did not know if it was the drug speaking, or her.

  I would have to take her apology at face value; it would simply have to do for now. I called for Drusilla, who I knew would be waiting on the other side of the door, and told her to escort the men back down to their quarters.

  I steadfastly refused to look at Caius or Marcus as they walked by me. No matter that I had seen desire in their eyes, as well.

  I was ashamed.

  “Farewell, Hilaria.” I walked with my guest to the door of our home. I had expected to find Lucius and Justinus hovering outside of the chamber, anxious to know of Hilaria’s decision, but they were nowhere to be scene.

  I wanted to know, myself, however.

  As I was steeling myself to ask, Hilaria stopped unexpectedly in her tracks. Turning, she grasped my hands with a fervor that startled me.

  “Alba, we are friends, are we not?”

  “Yes.” I replied cautiously, for though I knew that that was the answer expected of me, I considered us nothing of the sort.

  Hilaria nodded, satisfied at my response. Her stare fixed in the distance, behind me, and she was silent for a long moment before she spoke.

  “Did you know my husband?” She still stared beyond me, and I wondered why she would not meet my eyes.

  I had not been expecting the question. “I met him on several occasions, yes.” Where was this leading?

  “What was your impression of him?” Still she would not look at me.

  I hesitated before replying. My acquaintance with her husband had been brief, true, but I had not liked the man. I had sensed a cruel streak in him, visible in the way he delighted in the games, in the quickening of his breath with a particularly harsh coupling demonstrated between slaves.

  “I fear I did not know him well enough to form an impression. He . . . he seemed to be an honorable man.” This was the highest compliment that could be paid to a member of Roman society.

  “Honorable.” Hilaria’s eyes sharpened momentarily, and I saw something dark swim through their depths. “The word covers so many things.” She paused, long enough that when she again spoke I was not certain if she still spoke of her husband, or was simply speaking in generalities.

  “Tell me, does a man who rapes his wife, who makes her wear chains, who beats her with a whip have honor?” She finally pinned me with her stare, and I found all words fleeing my mind.

  Surely she was not speaking of herself, of her married life? Surely a true Roman man would not perform such atrocities?

  But Hilaria did have that streak of . . . well, very nearly of madness, that I had witnessed in her moments of lessened control.

  When I did not respond, Hilaria shook her head, her eyes clearing. “No matter. I will take my leave.”

  As I stepped back to allow Drusilla space to open the large wooden door to our home—no easy feat, as it swelled in the insufferable heat—I gathered my strength and asked.

  “Have you made your decision then, Hilaria? Will you have one of our men? Which one?” I tried to make my voice sound as if we were girlfriends, sharing secrets, but I heard the undercurrent of desperation in the words and hoped that she did not.

  The noble woman stepped out into the late afternoon sun, then turned on the heel of her expensive leather shoe, which was dyed the color of an emerald.

  “I will make my decision soon.” And then she was gone, lying lazily atop her litter, swept away by her slaves, who had been waiting for hours in the heat.

  Her reply brought me no peace. But it was better, I supposed, than what her decision could have been. And still I wondered at her final question. An uncomfortable thought had occurred to me.

  Was the silly, flirtatious woman simply a persona that Hilaria had adopted in public to hide the shame of her husband’s actions?

  Was the sharp businesswoman the real Hilaria? Had she been humiliated and tortured by her own husband?

  Had it driven her partially mad? My mind flitted to past occasions in which my path had crossed with Hilaria’s. I realized that I had never paid the woman much mind before her husband had passed. Surely if she had been the same person then that she was now I would have noticed her mo
re.

  She was the kind of woman who commanded attention. Who demanded it.

  Regardless of how she had been in the past, or how she came to be as she was, the woman that she was now was dangerous indeed. Though the thought of a woman with such emotions made me ill, and I felt sick at the idea that it might be true. And, selfishly, I was worried: What would a woman such as Hilaria do with my Marcus and my Caius?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I did not send for him because I was bored.

  I did not send for him because I knew that I could.

  The day after Lucius and Justinus left for business on the coast, I had Drusilla fetch Marcus up to my chambers because I simply could not stand the loneliness.

  The decision had been hastily made. I had selected Marcus because, well, because he had already proven that he desired me. And now I waited, nerves combined with something equally potent skittering over my skin.

  “Domina.” And there he was, pushing aside the curtain to my room.

  I had planned to speak, to tell him that he truly did not have to do this, not unless he wanted to. To apologize for giving him no choice the last time.

  I had no opportunity to speak. Marcus crossed the room, placed his hands so that they spanned my waist, and lifted me off of my feet. He was so strong, so certain in his movements, so sure that I would reciprocate.

  “What are you about?” My voice when I spoke was breathless.

  I was lowered to the bed as if I weighed no more than air. My tunic twisted around my legs, hampering movement. With one quick movement, Marcus had the fragile cloth grasped in his large hand, and the next moment it was rent in two.

  Whatever my next words would have been, they caught in my throat at the action, causing me to choke. His strength, his dominance, aroused me beyond measure.

  Marcus froze in the act of ranging his body over top of my own. His expression serious, he swept away the downy dark strand of hair that had fallen across my eyes.

  “Is this not what you want, Domina?” His eyes were deep, starless pools, and to have them focused so intently on me gave me a small clutch in the stomach.