by John McKeown
Botilda rode her man down deep into the mud, a tide of the stuff lapping up her muscular thighs, and sopping up her belly and her breasts that flicked liquid pellets of mud as they swung off her body with the wild motion of coitus. Aquilina, gripping the parapet, kicked up a torrent of mud back at us as she was fucked by her blond stallion, the back of his legs and the bunching bellowing muscles of his arse spotted and streaked with mud. I looked at the king. His concubine was working his cock furiously under the loose fold of his trousers, while the interpreter, spoiled for choice, whacked himself while swivelling his bulbous eyes feverishly between the dual action in the arena and the jouncing mead and mud basted tits of Wulfflaed.
I was in heat too, as was Alexis, who was impatient for the tournament to end so she could do her share for the honour of Roman Britain. But Caeli didn’t look happy.
Botilda came, fiercely cursing, up to the waist in mud, her braided hair whipping wildly as charging cavalry horses’ tails. Quickly followed by Aquilina, her gasps mixing with the musical squeaking and creaking of the wooden parapet as she came violently with her Saxon following in rapid tempo.
“Next!” Cuthbert clapped his hands and two even bigger young Saxons trotted in, their great ballistas already bursting with rigidity. With a war cry, Alexis leapt onto the back of one before he’d even gotten into the churned-up arena and both fell, laughing into the juice-seamed spunk-seeded mass of warm mud. Caeli still stood by my side, reluctant and ill at ease. The other Saxon pulled her in and twirled his net around his big beaming head.
Alexis, with her Saxon’s net wrapped tightly around him was furiously riding his cock in reverse seating position, such were the force of his thrusts that she had to bend and grip his calves lest she be thrown completely off.
But Caeli was backed against the parapet, swiping her ineffective toy sword at her gladiator as he approached her, the gripped, fiercely empurpled head of his cock aimed at her cunnus.
“No!” she screamed and lashed out with her foot. The Saxon stepped back and then, dodging further kicks, grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around. His cock was piercing the beautiful cleavage of her arse cheeks when I pounced upon the interpreter, grabbed his knife, and, getting Cuthbert in a headlock, pressed the dagger against his throat.
“Enough! Call off your sex dogs, Bertie, or by Jupiter, your blood will enliven the mud of the arena!”
Wulfflaed grabbed my arm, but a swift flying kick from Botilda made her desist. At that moment we heard war horns blowing and the sounds of tumult. I released Cuthbert, but kept the dagger at his throat.
“This could be danger for all of us, Faustina. Sheath your weapon. I swear by Odin no harm will come to any of you.” I lowered the knife.
“You and I will have a rematch later.”
He smiled, and I was impressed by his bearing, which would not disgrace a true Roman.
The tumult increased. It was the unmistakeable din of battle. But who was attacking? In a moment we had our answer as the war cries of the Picts resounded through the forest amid the clash of sword blades and the crash of flaming wood.
The Saxon gladiators, a couple of them freshly erect from the battle in the arena, closed round the king with their swords to protect him and we all ran out of the wood.
Blue-painted Picts were streaming through the camp like a spring river surging with the high melt of winter snow, and for once, the Saxons, taken by surprise, and many of them the worse for mead, were being cut down by spear, arrow and sword. But Cuthbert rallied them, and gradually the Picts were diverted from the camp.
Overnight another eight thousand strong troop of Saxons arrived to swell Cuthbert’s number to over ten-thousand, and the king and the other chiefs discussed their plans. With such a huge host Eboracum could be sacked, and with Eboracum in their control, the north-eastern sea coast was theirs, providing another huge safe haven for the landing of their brethren across the sea. But there was a surprise awaiting them—and us—when the new day dawned with an angry, sore-eyed sun shooting its rust-coloured rays through the smoke-filled air.
There was a huge force drawn up between the Saxons and the level land that led to Eboracum. Thousands of Picts, erect on their mounts and standing shield to shield, armour glinting and flashing in the mounting sun, formed what looked like an entire Romano-British army. As it turned out, the Picts had relented, the promise of extensive lands south of the wall having been negotiated and agreed upon. But agreed with who? Can you guess, Flavia darling? With Comminilingus! After the destruction of Calleva my beautiful bisexual lover had crossed into Gaul and returned with reinforcements. I was overjoyed when a note was smuggled to me from him into the Saxon camp.
But how long before I could enjoy him again? And would the girls and I survive the terrible battle that was about to lock the two armies together and surely decide the fate of Britain?
Nothing happened that day and the girls and I were placed under heavy guard. Through our jailers, who could not withstand our combined charms, we learned that intense negotiations were going on between Cuthbert and company and the Romano-British-Pictish force.
The following afternoon the interpreter came to escort me into Cuthbert’s presence. His concubine, for once, was not in attendance, and the king himself lay sprawled, naked to the waist, on his fur-clad couch, a mead-horn in one hand, his other fondling the blond fur that coated the muscled shield of his belly.
“The king apologises again for the fact that he cannot speak your language, but is determined to learn it,” said the interpreter.
“Latin declensions are beyond him, and besides, what need has he to learn my language?”
I looked at him. He looked different. What was it? He was freshly shaved, his thick tightly-plaited hair drawn back from his smooth, tanned forehead, his blue-black eyes swollen amorously. I returned his look and at that moment Comminilingus was eclipsed.
“Every need, he hopes,” the interpreter went on, “as he will wish to commune with his Special Adviser on Romano-British affairs with no third parties present.”
“Ask His Mead-jesty what in Hades he’s talking about.”
And then I was told. Cuthbert had agreed to withdraw his Saxons from the area, and to effect a complete withdrawal of all Saxons from Britain for a space of ten years, providing I, Faustina Maxima, accompanied him to Thuringia as his ‘Special Adviser’.
“Faustina Maxima is no bargaining chip!” I spat, and turned on my heel.
That evening I was ushered into Comminilingus’ tent. If I did not return my girls would have their throats cut. Comminilingus fell upon me like a hungry wolf with its prey, tearing at my stola, and when it was off, pushing me to the floor and ramming his cock between my breasts, where he rutted in a fury of frustrated passion, while I covered his hot twisting muscular nakedness with kisses, eventually getting him down, but not in time to receive in my hot cunnus the explosion of cum that erupted between my breasts and splashed my throat.
Afterwards, we talked amicably, even ardently, but something had changed between us. Perhaps it was the fact that I had already decided what I was going to do before I parted the curtains of Comminilingus’ tent.
A ten year withdrawal by the Saxons would buy Britain breathing space to rebuild her defences and train fresh troops. Doubtless the Saxons, for all their wildness, were playing the long game, and were banking on returning in lethal force after ten years. But I would be able to gather invaluable information and intelligence and find a way of relaying it to Britain, perhaps through you, Flavia, if you’re agreeable. The Eastern Empire is still strong and if its Emperor Arcadius, when he’s old enough, can be persuaded—as which man can’t?—by you and I to send troops to Britain, the country’s Roman future will be assured.
Apart from all this, what is life without ever fresh adventures, Flavia? The Saxons are brutes, but today’s brutes are tomorrows senators, and they need all the help they can get.
I didn’t protract my meeting with Comminilingus but
decided to return to Cuthbert with my answer. The girls would be anxious too, especially Caeli.
He was still asprawl on his furs when I returned, greeting me with a quizzical but foxily assured smile on his handsome face.
“Your Special Adviser is here to draw up her contract.”
He beckoned me to his side and I inhaled the smell of fire-warmed man-flesh, mead, and wolf-skin, a smell that I would now find difficult to live without. He took my hand, and softly caressed my palm with his beringed thumb.
“Take this horn in token of our agreement.” He had had his interpreter translate the phrase while I was with Comminilngus.
I gripped it tightly, tall, thick, smooth, hard, curving, and already afoam. And it wasn’t the mead-horn.
THE END
About the author
John McKeown is a British writer based in Dublin. He lived in Prague where he was a teacher and freelance journalist and part of the ex-pat literary scene in the 1990s, then moved to Ireland in 2000 becoming a columnist for the Irish Examiner, and arts feature writer for the Irish Times. He was theatre critic for the Irish Daily Mail from 2006 to 2008 and is currently reviewing theatre for the Irish Independent and UK online theatre magazine Exeunt while raising his daughter Julia. His erotic short stories have been published by Xcite Books in the UK, who have also recently published his first novella Gooseflesh Abbey. JMS Books in the US is publishing two other erotic novellas, also in 2013, Prague Memoir and The Time Sex Machine. In addition to erotica John has four collections of poetry in print, the last, Night Walk published by Salmon Press in Ireland (available from Dufour Editions in the US). He has also collaborated with Leo O’Kelly of Irish folk-rock duo Tir Na nOg, on an album of songs entitled Will released in 2011 on Life and Living Records in the UK.
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