by Chloe Cox
“Don’t you worry about fleas?” Paolo asked. Jesella and Marina tittered nervously, and David’s shoulders stiffened. Paolo continued, oblivious, “Doesn’t matter. Once I’d had you, you’d never think of anyone else.” He slapped Jesella’s ass with a loud thwap and then turned away from her abruptly, his attention coming to rest on Lucia.
“Fleas?” Lucia asked. She had been holed up in her father’s still for a month, working on the Duke’s Blend. There were always serious gaps in her knowledge of gossip.
Immediately she knew she’d said something wrong. The laughter stopped, and no one seemed to want to look at each other. It was a typically warm, humid spring night in J’Amel, the breeze from the harbor bringing a tinge of salt to the heavy scent coming off the canals, and the wet air made everything feel closer, more intimate. And now that intimacy felt uncomfortable; there was something no one wanted to be the first to say.
It was David who eventually cleared his throat. “Lord Cesare has been out in the wild a long time, protecting the city.”
“They say he came back changed,” Marina chittered eagerly, as if a seal had temporarily been breached. “The ‘Wolf!’” And she laughed.
“Shut up, Marina.”
“He’s gone native. A barbarian heir to the most sophisticated city in the world?” Paolo scowled. “It’s pathetic.”
“Changed how?” Lucia couldn’t help herself. She was met with a wall of silence.
Suddenly Jesella shrieked with laughter, and pointed to a building on the right side of the street. It had been festooned with the colorful chalk graffiti of Bacchanal, full of boasts and taunts, invitations from secret admirers, announcements and declarations of love. Lucia looked hard for something shocking, something outrageous, and followed the line of Jesella’s finger to find a drawing of a wild wolf, gifted with an enormous cock.
“Idiot!” David hissed, and snatched Jesella’s hand.
Lucia wanted to know more, but it was too late. They turned the corner, and there it was: the amphitheater, rising above the city like a massive stone wave.
They were at the Dance.
~ ~ ~
Most of the important people who came to the amphitheater arrived—by tradition and convenience—via the canal, where the water ran right up to the ancient stone steps. The entrance on the plaza side, where Lucia and her friends nervously huddled, was normally for the common people only, when the amphitheater hosted competitions, or performances, or blood sports. Tonight there would be no common people, except for them. Lucia was grateful that they at least would not arrive by the canal. Paolo flashed some special signet or token that he produced from his pocket, and the giant hooded guards, their bare chests burnished with oil, turned to show them the way through.
It still didn’t seem real.
They were overcome by a shared feeling of awe as they walked through the long, dark, arched tunnel, no one daring to speak as they followed the silent guard, not even to ask where they were going. Briefly Lucia wondered if they’d been recognized as insane impostors who simply didn’t belong, and they were being led by secret catacomb to the dreaded Basiglia Prison until the Dance was over. She’d almost prefer that dreaded outcome, if it meant she didn’t have to face the Dance. She could feel the rhythms of the Dance already begin to stir in her blood, rhythms that grew louder as they emerged out into the open amphitheater. She had no idea what was going to happen.
The amphitheater was packed wall to wall and high into the stands with nearly naked people, many of them drinking amberwine, flirting, touching each other, their faces hidden by masks. And they wore the most beautiful, elaborate masks Lucia had ever seen; these weren’t the crude, functional masks she’d seen from her window during Bacchanals past. These people were the richest, most powerful people in the city. Amongst the many cities of the Elbin penninsula, Lucia remembered; the rich and powerful of other city-states came here to welcome spring, too. No one did Bacchanal like J’Amel.
The smell of sex was heavy in the air, too, the feeling of fever thick and hot. Lucia remembered the strict edict of the Dance of the Seasons: once it began, no one could answer the call of Bacchanal—no one could actually fuck—until the Dance was over. No one would dare risk testing the limits of that taboo while in the amphitheater itself, and so the air was thick with impatient, growing desire. Lucia wasn’t immune. She felt it begin to swell from her center, bubbling up from the fire that the Severille couple had started, and took a deep calming breath.
“Come, Lucia, it’s Bacchanal,” Paolo said, pulling her back to the present. Lightning quick, he reached over and ripped away the first button of her bodice, grazing her breasts. They threatened to pop out of her dress. “You don’t want to be rude,” he smiled.
“You ass,” she said, but he grabbed her hand as it flew to her chest, holding it down at her side with an iron grip.
“It’s Bacchanal, Lucia,” he said.
He held her hand like that the rest of the way, not bothering to conceal his smile while he eyed her unprotected breasts. She felt her nipples stiffen at the humiliation, her lips tremble at the suggestion of force, and she hated herself a little for it, because it was Paolo. Bacchanal was threatening to consume her entirely.
Keep control, she reminded herself. Keep the promise.
The guard led them through the crowded aisles of the amphitheater, down into the pit in front of the stage. Even Lucia had to take a moment to admire the clout—or the wealth—that would allow a young upstart like Paolo and four of his nobody friends to gain access to seats like this at the Dance of the Seasons. They could almost touch the stage.
“Lucia,” David whispered. “Isn’t that Gaston Grimaldi?”
Lucia turned to look, and sure enough, poorly hidden beneath a mask that bore his family’s crest—the Grimaldis were so powerful that they had no need to hide anything, ever—was Gaston Grimaldi, heir to the bank in which Paolo’s father worked, and powerful rival to the ruling house of Lupin. Two of the most beautiful women Lucia had ever seen hung from his arms. They were both thoroughly naked, except for their masks.
“I thought he was to be Winter tonight!” Marina said, a little too loudly. Jesella kicked her. To be chosen as one half of the Dance’s most important couple was not only divinely portentous, but politically significant. The ever-shifting currents of power in J’Amel could often be seen in the Dances of the Bacchanal season, and Baron Grimaldi was apparently not included.
Lucia watched, fascinated, as one of the women fed Grimaldi a single grape from the well-laid table beside his seat. He caught Lucia watching, and smiled before pulling one of the women onto his lap so he could fondle her breast. He did not seem bothered at all by his place in the audience.
Lucia wondered what Lord Cesare could be doing at this moment, if he’d really gone native amongst the Berkari barbarians as Paolo had implied, and then shook her head at the absurdity. Wherever he was in this crowd, he probably had a convent’s worth of virgins lined up for the moment the Dance was finished. The Wolf, indeed.
There was the sudden, hard clap of hundreds of boots stamping the ground in unison. Lucia looked up, amazed. She hadn’t even noticed the lighting in the amphitheater, but saw now that it was provided by seemingly infinite lines of uniformed young men—the youngest sons of the most respected families, she remembered—all holding specially designed lanterns. They covered and uncovered the lanterns with hoods in time to the stamping of their feet, bathing the pit in light, cloaking it in darkness. The gathered luminaries of J’Amel fell silent and turned forward.
It was time.
In the dark she felt someone come close behind her, a hand at her hip, as there had been before, and instantly flashed back to the image of the Severille master astride his slave. Remember yourself, she thought, remember it is Paolo. To her right, she saw Gaston Grimaldi lean back, revealing the enormous bulge in his leather trousers just before one of his women dropped to her knees between his legs. She saw couples all around her
prepare to hold themselves taut and tortured while they watched what was to come.
The lights on the stage came on one by one, and the hand on her hip dragged her backwards, crashing her into Paolo’s warm body, pressing her against his erection. He wanted her to feel how hard he was, and, as much as she disliked Paolo, as much as she disliked her fate, Lucia couldn’t deny that her body wanted to know what it would feel like to have that inside her.
It’s just Bacchanal, she told herself. Get a hold of yourself.
Even with the feel of Paolo behind her, Lucia found that couldn’t take her eyes off the stage, where a group of statuesque women broke into dance in perfect time with the drums. Where were the drums? It didn’t matter; these women, who started out wearing more clothes than most of the attendees, were slowly taking them off. Paolo’s dick ground harder into her back, and, to her right, Gaston Grimaldi’s face tightened around the mouth, his hand on the woman’s head as she bobbed up and down on his cock.
Lucia, herself, could not fight it for long. The crowd around her surged in time to the drums, which beat faster and faster until it seemed people were panting with the exertion of restraint. Paolo’s hands danced their own dance on the sides of her body, coaxing the fire in her belly, drawing it higher and higher. She couldn’t tell him no, but she couldn’t surrender, either—not fully, not to him; she couldn’t show him what she truly was. She didn’t trust him. And yet, when he moved his hands to her belly, she groaned and leaned into him, betrayed by Bacchanal.
Suddenly the music stopped, and the lights went out.
Lucia moved to turn around, but Paolo clasped a rough hand to her lower belly, pressing her to him and sending streaks of fire through her. She felt wet between the legs. She wasn’t going anywhere.
One by one, a circle of lights illuminated the stage. The Dance was not over.
In the exact center of the stage stood a raised platform, about waist high, made to look like a natural rock. On it reclined what even Lucia had to admit was an extraordinarily beautiful woman. The woman was clothed in a draping robe of sheer, shimmering white fabric, so that there were only hints of the beauty underneath. She wore the golden mask of the Goddess of Summer over her nose and eyes, with the addition of a small crest at the corner, meant to look like a glint of light from her bright eye. It was the Grimaldi crest; that was why Gaston did not care to be Winter—his sister, Lucrezia, was Summer, reclining in peace, pretending to be innocent and unaware.
Then the drums began again. Slow, deep, soft. Something was coming. Every child knew the myth, how the world was torn between the harsh extremes of Summer and Winter, until Winter seduced Summer and begat Spring. But the myth was boring, Lucia thought. The Dance was everything.
From the back of the stage, behind the circle of light, there was the hint of a shadow prowling around the edges. Lucia thought her eyes were playing tricks on her; there was no prowling in the myth. She leaned forward to get a better look and was reminded of Paolo’s iron grip. He wrapped his arms around her, his mouth by her ear, hot breath on her cheek, and her body yielded to him yet again. It was getting easier for him each time, and harder for Lucia to resist the growing hunger between her legs.
The drums beat harder, louder. Summer began to look over her shoulder, worriedly. There really was someone prowling the edges of the circle. The figure of a man who moved like an animal, stepping in time to the rhythm, taunting his prey. The drums grew louder, more insistent, and the man burst into the light, upright now, tall and hard and muscled, with shoulders broad enough to carry two women at once, and abdominals that rippled as he moved with easy grace. He was covered in the scars of battle, and wearing the white mask of Winter, his dark hair tied back at the nape of his neck. Lucia gasped. He was magnificent. Better than the god, himself, Lucia thought, and couldn’t bring herself to regret the blasphemy. She couldn’t even bring herself to turn away.
And his loose white cotton trousers barely contained the bulge of his erection. Winter was ready. The crowd moaned as one.
Paolo gripped Lucia close with one arm, freeing his other hand to explore. He moved slowly, in time with the drums, his hand flat on her stomach, all the way to her ruined bodice. The drums quickened pace, and Paolo grabbed her breast hard, pressing the nipple. Lucia sighed, and through half-lidded eyes she saw Summer turn around, looking for Winter.
It was Winter that Lucia watched as the warmth pooled in her core, as her breath came fast, as her pussy grew wet. Not Winter—the man beneath Winter’s mask. She imagined his hands tormenting her nipples, his mouth on her ear, his dick pressed hard against her, and for a moment she was able to forget her situation, and simply enjoy the Dance.
Winter circled around Summer and stood before the crowd. He seemed to be looking for something. The drums beat on, through the confusion of the crowd and of Summer: this was not the myth, Winter was supposed to come to her, and her alone. Winter shook his head at some unknown frustration, but then he raised his arms to the crowd. There was a cheer, and every able foot in the amphitheater kept time with the drumbeat as Winter finally turned towards Summer.
Paolo’s hands wandered over Lucia’s confused body, and Winter advanced upon Summer, and in the back of her mind Lucia was sure there was something wrong with all of it. Paolo was not the right man, and this Winter was not like the myth at all, but the Dance was taking over anyway. Summer raised herself to meet her god, her chest heaving, her skin flushed, and instead of bending to his knees to kiss her feet as the god had, this Winter ripped away her gauzy robe.
Summer’s breasts trembled, and her belly flattened. The echoes of her surprise rippled through the crowd. Winter’s arms corded with muscle, and Lucia burned for him. She could almost close her eyes and pretend that Paolo’s mad hands belonged to the man who played Winter.
Winter pushed Summer to the rock, one hand on her chest, the other working to free his cock.
Paolo pulled down Lucia’s bodice.
Lucia was suddenly as bare as the Severille slave had been, her nipples rising to hard little points in the gentle breeze. But she could not tear her eyes away from the stage. Summer opened her legs and the crowd screamed, louder than it ever had during blood sports, louder than anything. Thousands of people throbbed together, all wanting only to fuck, and they needed Winter to make Summer come first.
His cock was incredible. Even from where Lucia stood, it was incredible. Lucia ached for him while the rest of J’Amel ached for him to complete the Dance, to come together with Summer and let the city join them in final, blissful release. But Winter paused. He stood above Summer, his massive, swollen cock held in one hand, and looked out over the crowd one last time. Lucia could have sworn she heard him growl.
And then he reached down and flipped Summer over onto her belly, as easily as if he had tossed a pillow. Her limbs flailed in surprise as he dragged her back to the edge of the platform, the round pink of her buttocks resisting as he lifted her up to his waiting cock. She squealed as he entered her from behind, and the sound traveled the length of the shocked amphitheater. Lucia’s pussy pulsed with heat as she watched Summer melt, watched her head fall into crossed arms, her hips begin to strain, grasping, grinding into the man taking her from behind, completely overcome by the god of Winter.
But Lucia was completely overcome by the man who wore Winter’s mask, so much so that she forgot whose hands mauled her naked breasts, whose dick pressed into her back, who was hurriedly gathering her skirt up by her waist. She was blinded by Bacchanal. And maybe it was only the fever of Bacchanal, but she imagined she saw Winter looking out into the amphitheater, looking for someone, even as he performed the holy rite that would ensure a bountiful season for his beloved city…
Summer’s screams rung out in the heavy air as her orgasm rocked the amphitheater. Lucia heard the echoing moans of citizens who came with her, just from watching, and from the corner of her eye she saw couples begin to flood out of the performance area, some to private rooms, some just to dar
kened corners, and some didn’t have the patience to wait at all, coupling on the floor and benches of the amphitheater itself. But she could not take her eyes off of Winter. He pulled away from the spent Summer, his masked face still turned toward the crowd, as though he were searching for something. And then he pulled off his mask.
It was Lord Cesare Lupin. The Wolf.
A part of Lucia’s heart broke as she realized she’d never have him, that he was so far out of her league that it was laughable. And yet, another part of her was relieved, because she felt that darkness, that part of her that ached to surrender to a man, stir at just the sight of him.
And then his eyes met hers.
Lucia would have been lost in that wonderful moment if it weren’t for Paolo. She heard him mutter, “Finally,” and then he twisted her around for a kiss. She balked, throwing her head back. There wasn’t time to think, but it was somehow clear now that this was wrong, no matter what her situation, no matter how drunk she was with Bacchanal. No matter what she owed.
Paolo’s wide eyes turned angry. Lucia suddenly realized her bodice hung limp, her breasts bouncing in the air, and he held her skirt up at the back, exposing her ass and more. She tried to cover herself with one hand, pawing at her skirt with the other, and shook her head.
“But you’re mine,” Paolo said.
He snatched at her hand, exposing her breasts again, and she slapped him. In the shock of the moment, Lucia looked for an oscario, one of the toothsome masked guards of the Bacchanal, but there were none in their private section, and it would be hard to see her from the edges of the amphitheater where they stood sentry.
Paolo grabbed at her again, and she struggled and lost her balance; whether he threw her to the ground or she fell, she’d never be able to say. But she lay at his feet, and when she looked up she saw the terrible mixture of anger and lust in his face.