by John McKeown
If I was breathless a moment before, I was now gasping like a landed fish. I’ve never felt such blind panic, I struggled for breath, but just as I managed to snag a tail end of air, his great black ballista pushed it out of me. I felt ashamed, for I was quaking and shaking like a drunk in delirium, thrashing against him like a fever sufferer. I, Faustina, had lost control.
Numidius kissed and soothed me into ease, but not enough to quell the savage blood-surging energy to live he’d aroused in my flesh. He pressed me against the hard hairy trunk and pushed his whole length up inside me.
I’m not usually a fan of the standing position, Flavia. Most men aren’t strong enough to hold me in this demanding posture for long. But not my African. His hands supporting me by the arse effortlessly, he fucked me deeply and slowly, raking my clitoris with each long motion and caressing my stretched anus-hole and the even more tightly elongated, liquefied lips of my cunnus.
Safe in this active cradle of his hands, I responded to the ripping slide of his increasingly rapid thrusts with a matching abandon. Wasn’t I afraid of waking Mannus and the other slaves? No, nothing wakes Mannus, and besides, my slaves are more than used to their Mistress’ nocturnal antics.
But I think we created very little noise. I still barely had breath for any oral exhibition, so intently focused was I on the inverted well of bliss slowly but surely filling my body to overflow. And Numidius’ liquid motions, like those of a rutting sleek black panther, were so rapid now as to be beyond hearing.
I dug my heels hard into those rippling haunches, sucked at his bulging neck vein jumping with the wild pump of his blood. I dug my heels in and felt our single motion fuse into the blinding rapid surge of a joint orgasm.
But darling Flavia, if only I wrote with the rapidity of Numidius’ great African cock. I must get on to to tell you of my discovery of the plot against Honorius, my meeting with him, and imminent embarkation for Britain.
Numidius, whom the ignorant Quislincus and company took for nothing but an African sub-human, had been privy to their discussion of the plot by a group of senators to assassinate our intrepid Emperor Honorius and, with the aid of a similarly disaffected group of Alaric’s Goths, to install a puppet Emperor who would advance the avaricious aims of both groups. The senator I had seen with Quislincus in the Gardens of Sallust was one of the chief conspirators. My first instinct was to run to the Senate House and warn the Fathers of Rome, but what would that achieve apart from alerting the conspirators that they’d been rumbled? My best bet was to fly immediately to Honorius’ court at Ravenna and warn him. But why help the pusillanimous Honorius at all, I hear you ask. Better a weak legitimate Emperor in Ravenna, brother to the young but rapidly developing Arcadius, Emperor in the East, with his still largely undepleted resources to call upon, than a puppet in Rome who would oversee its final ruination.
After setting my household in order and arranging things for my lovely new African employee, I took myself to the horse-fair in Ostia and picked myself out a magnificent Arab stallion who I immediately christened Bucephalus. As soon as he saw me, I had him eating out of my hand. The magnetism I exert over the male sex doesn’t stop with homo erectus, my dear.
While most of our Italian roads are now in a sad state of repair, the Via Flaminia, being used by the court and government, was still in good condition and Bucephalus and I found ourselves within sight of Ravenna’s walls in eight days. But it was another three days before I could get to see the Emperor. As each year passes, our Emperors, the heirs of the great Julius himself, wrap themselves in ever deeper layers of court ritual and bureaucracy, more like perfumed Persian potentates than austere sons of Romulus and Remus. Of course, it was all started by my great-great-great grandfather Maximian’s co-Emperor Diocletan well over a century ago, and he, at least, had good reason for it. It did surround the Emperor’s office with a much-needed layer of mystique, a protective envelope of awe. And it worked, for them and their successors. But no amount of gilded glory, clouds of incense or rustling purple silks can imbue that stupidus Honorius with a trace of mystery. Not only is he completely un-martial and physically unimposing, though not entirely unattractive, there isn’t a wisp of intellect or artistic sensibility or any other redeeming virtue between his dullard’s temples. This young man, the son of the brilliant Theodosius, consists of nothing but vanity and milksoppish piety in regards to the Christian god; his only concern, apart from more and more of his bloody doves, is to preserve his own pampered skin.
The doves. You may have heard about his obsession with these damned birds, nothing more than pigeons in togas. He spends most of his time within a string of dovecots, feeding the pesky, perpetually shitting airborne vermin. While he feeds and waters and grooms them, his bishops, eunuchs, and other corrupt courtesans run our rapidly diminishing Western Empire into the ground. My first thought on being ushered into his presence was to kill this wastrel myself.
He was sitting on an ivory throne, clad in loose purple linen against the heat, and wearing the diadem. He was also wearing a selection of his dovish favourites, who paraded up and down his arms pecking greedily at the seeds cupped in his palms and lining his lap. Comically languid though his manner was, I could feel that my presence made an impression upon him, as, of course, I’d intended.
I didn’t want to speak of the plot before his bishops and courtiers, who, surrounding the ornate, dove-infested ivory throne, made no attempt to hide their admiration of my charms, and I managed to get him to agree to confer with me alone.
“Let’s stroll in the garden,” he said.
We did so, the bishops, eunuchs and perfumed jackals trailing reluctantly at a distance.
“Publius Clodianus and other senators in Rome, in league with Valamir and other Gothic chiefs, are planning to assassinate you, Imperator.”
“Imperator? There’s an old-fashioned term. Don’t hear that very often. It’s all ‘Serene Lord and Master of the World’ now.’”
“I’m an old-fashioned girl when it comes to the old Imperial observances, Imperator.”
“And a very attractive one. I’ll pardon this breach of protocol, if you dine with me this evening. I’m entertaining a delegation from Britain. All very tiresome. They want help again against some Germanic tribes called ‘Saxons’, and then there’s some others... ‘Picts’ or something, and God knows who else. Oh yes, ‘Irish Pirates.’ I do believe they invent these creatures just to get money and troops out of me, but I have precious little of either.”
“The Picts and Saxons and others are very real, Imperator, even on Amorgos I had heard of their depredations in Britain and Gaul.”
“Really? You know, you strike me as someone I could use here at court. Good advisers are as rare as the Mountain Witch Dove.”
“I’ll do everything to serve my Imperator and the cause of Rome. But I’m particularly concerned about this plot.”
“As am I, of course, my dearest Faustina.” He drew close to me and I felt his garlic breath upon the warm, sun-kissed mound of my breasts.
“But in my position one gets used to being plotted against—almost. Though I always have a ship ready in the port for a quick evacuation.”
How utterly craven was this ‘Roman Emperor’!
“This one does sound serious. I’ll have Publius Clodianus arrested immediately, and have a cull of those buggers of senators while I’m at it.”
“Arrest Clodianus by all means, Imperator, but as to the cull, be careful not to throw the baby out with the bloody bathwater. Most of the Senate are loyal to you.”
“‘Baby out with the bloody bathwater,’” Honorius giggled, “that’s good, very very good. Of course, you will join us for dinner tonight, and help me cope with those boorish Brits, won’t you? And of course, you can name your reward for your faithfulness to me, and to Rome.”
Dinner that night was a resounding success. I was at my dazzling best, cheering up the miserable British so much that they ceased importuning Honorius and his courtiers
with pleas for help against the Saxons and Picts and pirates for three whole days afterward. But, as you well know, my dear, Faustina rarely does things by halves. I regaled the whole company so well, with anecdotes and stories, not forgetting my larger-than-life physical assets, spilling like some fleshy cornucopia from out of the tight confines of my evening gown, as I reclined upon my couch, that Honorius insisted I remain at court as his Chief Hostess, entertaining, and wherever necessary, disarming ambassadorial and trading parties. This put me out considerably, for a while. The very last thing I wanted was to extend my stay in that horrible, corrupt, sycophantic hothouse, and particularly so after meeting the divine young Comminilingus, one of the leaders of the British delegation.
What a beauty he was, Flavia. You know how I adore big men. Comminilingus was one of the most beautifully made members of this category I’ve ever had the luck to come across. Short dark hair in the historic Julian style, cool blue eyes, and a warm, dry, playfully ironic tone of voice, beneath which I could sense the passionate nature held in check within that tall, firm, deep-chested, narrow-waisted, tight-buttocked form.
The Brits would soon be returning to their beloved, beleagured little island empty handed. I felt very sorry for them, and angry with Honorius for his unimaginative willingness to let this still important province be lost to the Empire. But my pity and anger were instantaneously transmuted into determination to return with them, and do what I could to help, the moment the three leaders, with Comminilingus, came to my apartment to bid me a sad farewell.
I put my idea to Honorius the next day.
“Indeed no, Faustina, you can do more for Rome here.” He meant of course more for his coffers as Chief Hostess, though I could also detect, however reluctant, an increasing reliance on my physical proximity. Reluctant? A mere stripling, struggling against Faustina’s presence? Astonishing as it sounds, yes, for I was coming between him and his flapping cloud of true loves: his damned doves. This realisation gave me an idea.
Honorius spent his afternoons in his most ornate and spacious dovecot in a tree-shaded grove in the palace gardens. The Praetorian Guards posted around it—very unhappy guards, as they felt their masculinity was permanently compromised by their being decked out in a mess of dove-feathers, on helmet, shoulders, greaves and spear—had strict orders to admit no one, not even Faustina, when Honorius was inside. There were rumours that Honorius indulged his erotic fantasies alone, amid his cloud of doves. If it was true it would provide me with the perfect opportunity.
One afternoon, when the guards were being changed, I slipped up into one of the oak trees that overhung the dovecot from the back. Pressing myself against the grill-work I peered down.
There he lay on a divan in the centre of the space, a space completely carpeted in doves, and lit by stray shafts of sunlight. He was naked but for a white silk gown slipping off his shoulders. He looked much better naked than I’d imagined, his firm flesh uniformly pale but for a coating of black hair on his chest and stomach, the latter blending into his pubic hair, out of which a long erect cock was cradled in his hand. As the doves fluttered around him he slowly, dreamily pulled it back and forth. As I watched, he reached beneath the divan and pulled out a bag of seeds which he sprinkled over his groin; the birds gathered, and as they pecked, his motions grew in intensity. I watched, amusedly entranced, the breasts of the doves bumping against his engorged shaft, their crowded heads swooping on the seeds buried in his hair, their ruffled necks twitching as they swallowed down. Honorius worked his cock swiftly and came, a gout of jism shooting up toward me and falling back in the feather-dusted sunlight.
I was back, two afternoons following, in a costume put together with the help of a trusted slave, and a length of rope. When Honorius had begun pleasuring himself with his birdseed I knotted the rope around a branch, cut away a thin panel of the lattice-work, and taking a deep breath, slipped down into the cloud of doves where Honorius lay, lolling in the fumes of wine, but fiercely erect. Here was a bird that would gobble down whole bagfuls of his Imperial seed.
My feathered ankles touched down either side of him on the divan. He didn’t remove the arm thrown across his eyes. I gently loosened his fingers from his cock and lowered my dove-feather clustered waist upon him. I crooned, I whispered, I coo-cooed as I slid down upon the Imperial punctum, caressing his hairy chest and neck and stomach. Some men have highly sensitive erogenous zones around their lower stomachs, and luckily Honorius was blessed with a very responsive belt of the stuff, and a press of my fingers elicited a deep upthrust of his punctum into my now generously lubricated, feather-enshrouded cunnus.
“I can have you executed for this.”
The whisper from beneath the blindfolding arm didn’t deter me.
“No need to execute me when I am dying of pleasure,” I crooned. “Feel my breasts, Imperator!”
He finally lifted his arm, and looked at me with bloodshot eyes in a hot flushed face. My nipples, red and hard as the beaks of his beloved birds pointed through the feathered ruffles of the mamillare that bound my breasts. I drew his hand up to them and gasped histrionically—though I was becoming genuinely aroused—as he squeezed them together. I gasped again, as it gratified his vanity, and began riding him slowly, gradually building up to a good gallop. I caressed his furred chest and belly, and moaned and groaned and pleaded for mercy. Through voice and motion, I soon had him so close to coming that the merest movement or pursed out syllable would bring it on. I brought my legs gingerly up onto his chest, and locked my feet, with their necklaces of dove-feathers around his neck. Supporting myself with the flat of my hands I leaned back and the Emperor of Rome and the West was completely at the mercy of the least flicker of my pelvis. This is a superb position for a woman, Flavia, and if you haven’t tried it, do so this very evening; it really does give you such control and such a feeling of mastery. I looked down at my Imperator, his wet-lipped mouth hanging slackly open, his eyes bulging, every muscle and sinew strung tautly at the brink of shooting. I paused upon his cock’s thick buried beating, savouring my power, and then thrust down and rapidly back up again in tight, clamping suctions that triggered the shivering release of volley after wild volley of cum I received with ever fiercer suction, my arse slapping furiously against his hot hairy thighs.
“Grant me permission to go to Britain with the embassy and there’s more, much more of this, Imperator. Though, you’re such a fantastic lover I’m not sure I can leave you now,” I panted as I rode the last of his motion.
“You will give me more, much more, before you leave, Faustina. Yes, I grant you permission, I can refuse you nothing”—or any other two-denarii charlatan, I felt like saying—“but I’ll send someone to watch you closely, to ensure your fidelity. But tell me, what is it you really want in that cold soggy island?”
“You forget I was cooped up on that other scorching piece of rock Amorgos, Imperator. I want to see the world, and serve you and Rome; nothing more. And then, I’ll settle down like a good old maid.”
“In Ravenna, or Constantinople, close to your Imperator.”
“Wherever Honorius is, is the centre of the world, and that is where I long to be.”
I had little doubt now that Honorius would barely last another year.
And so, with an Imperial Seal in my purse, I travelled with the British across the Alps and all the way through Gaul up here to Aldenburgensis on the coast of Belgica, just twenty or so miles across the Oceanus Brittanicus from Ultima Thule. As soon as the weather permits we sail for the Island at the Edge of the World.
Chapter Three
To: Flavia Maxima, Constantinople
From: Faustina Maxima, near Eboracum, Land of the Brigantes, February 413
Dearest daughter-in-law, thank you so much for your letter, which I read in Calleva Atrebatum, before I left. I am writing this to you from the saddle of my horse Bucephalus. We are on the hunt for Saxons. I have much to tell you and shall try to be brief, though not, as usual, you may trust, a
t the expense of the more amorous episodes of my thus far very colourful adventures in Britain. One thing I must get off my chest now however: was I not right about Symmachus? Is he not the ideal lover? There. And now on to your mother-in-law.
We crossed to Britain last September, before the autumn winds that can make the crossing dangerous came into force. It was, to my disappointment, an uneventful trip. The sea air had an extremely tonic effect upon me. I was bursting with health and vigour but denied my favourite way of expressing it. I had imagined that the beautiful Comminilingus would have succumbed to my reinvigorated charms, cooped up as we were on that cramped vessel. He did succumb, but alas, not to me.
In the nocturnal hours before we made landfall, I was at the back of the ship enjoying the heave and swell of the waves. My reverie was disturbed by a far more regular heaving noise. It was coming from close by. I stepped toward the sound. There, within a narrow space afforded by a gap in some cargo tied to the deck were two men enjoying a spot of coitus. The Moon, like a great silver lamp, spilled her light across the bare torso of a young deck hand who was being taken in hand by none other than Comminilingus, and quite a handful he was. In Comminilie’s lovingly moulding fingers his young cock vied with the ship’s mast in girth. I didn’t get much chance to indulge in comparisons with its height as this, all too quickly, was swallowed in Comminilie’s eager mouth. Envy shot through me. To have those lovely lips upon one’s prostrated flesh…
This explained how he had been able to resist me, and in my vanity, I’d failed to see that my new friend simply preferred boys. A perfectly natural preference, I’m enormously fond of them myself, but still, it galled not a little.