by Ily Goyanes
Cymone gulped and parted her feet.
“Wider.”
If she resisted, pleasing punishment awaited. If she complied… Oh, if she did as she was bidden, unspeakable tortures of the flesh would be dealt her. Bracing herself, Cymone walked her feet even farther apart.
“You’re wet,” Appolonia murmured.
Everything inside Cymone tightened to the snapping point. Her breathing grew shallow as she listened to the sound of Appolonia removing a leather strap from their bag of delights.
The tip of the leather teased up the inside of one thigh, stopping to lick lightly at the pulsing flesh between before slithering down the other thigh. Three hard successive smacks fell on her cheeks and rather than twist away from the pain, she pushed toward it, wanting it, wanting to be swept toward the very edge of endurance.
Cymone quivered as fingers teased along her drenched slit. Please…
But rather than plunge inside, the fingers trailed around her hip and reached underneath to drift over the sensitive skin of her belly before moving upward. Cymone held her breath as those same digits toyed with her nipple. Her shoulders shook as she struggled to keep her palms planted firmly on the cot. A cry escaped her lips when Appolonia pinched and gave her nipple the most exquisite tug. Sensation shot from Cymone’s breast straight to her throbbing clitoris.
More blows striped her bottom until she heard her own moans reverberating off the stone walls of the cell. She was poised for release, but her tormentor had other plans.
Two fingers slid up inside Cymone’s tight channel. At once, she felt herself beginning to spasm, but just as bliss hovered near, the invasion ended and the fingertips nudged her nether hole.
Her mind screamed No, but her body betrayed her. Dipping her back, she offered herself to be prodded like a slave eunuch. One slippery finger eased past her rim and burrowed inside.
Although she’d only drunk a small amount of watered wine, she felt intoxicated. Her head hung as she reveled in the slow, sensual invasion. Her muscles relaxed as she opened to the lazy thrusts of the finger inside her tight ass. When Appolonia’s finger slid all the way inside, her other fingers flirted with the needy flesh of her sex. Cymone tried, but in vain, to arch and bend to receive more contact. Frustration welled. It was no use. Her lover was too experienced to give in to her whims just yet.
When the finger withdrew, Cymone let out a moan of disappointment.
The strap fell on the cot and Appolonia pointed to the bag. “Fetch the olisbos.”
With lush warmth still radiating through her backside, she moved toward the bag to retrieve the thick leather phallus her lover used on her in the most torturous ways. Doubtless, it would find its way into her recently violated bottom. Cymone tried to swallow, but couldn’t. Anticipation fired through her veins.
“On your knees!” Appolonia ordered.
Cymone dropped to the floor and crawled the rest of the way to where the bag lay crumpled in the corner. The stones hurt her knees and palms, but she welcomed the discomfort. Her reward for obedience would come later. She pawed open the bag and retrieved the scarlet leather-covered olisbos.
“The salve, too.”
Oh, yes. Her bottom indeed. Cymone wet her dry lips with the tip of her tongue as she removed the jar of salve from the bag.
Appolonia sat on the cot and motioned for Cymone to assume the position over her knees. Dutifully, Cymone passed the olisbos and the salve to Appolonia before she bent across her lover’s lap. She knew well that the olisbos would not be used gently on her. Heart pounding, she waited as Appolonia took her time to coat the wicked sex toy with a generous amount of the greasy salve.
“Spread your cheeks.”
Cymone swallowed thickly as she reached behind to draw her asscheeks apart.
“Tell me where you want this.”
Cymone’s breathing hitched. “In my…in my ass, Dominatrix.”
A hard swat landed on her bottom before the thick tip of the olisbos nudged against her nether hole and pushed inside. Cymone gritted her teeth as the smooth, greased leather slid fully into her resistant flesh. Fire spread around her rim as she stretched to receive the intrusion.
As soon as she adjusted to the feel of the device inside her, it retreated only to plunge into her again. Her nails dug into the muscled flesh of her backside as she withstood thrust after hard thrust. Appolonia wrapped her free hand around Cymone’s throat, anchoring her, dominating her.
The noise of wet suction, of punctuated breaths and of Cymone’s impassioned groans filled the cell. Pain twisted into pleasure. Her legs trembled. Her grip on her own bottom slipped and she struggled to hold firm, to keep herself open to anything her dominatrix wanted to mete out to her.
Release hovered close. The hand around Cymone’s neck tightened dangerously, reminding her just who was in control of her pleasure. That knowledge shattered her. Hard bliss crashed over her like a tempest over the sea, a savage storm of sensation that radiated outward from the spot where the massive olisbos filled her to utter capacity. She cried out, unable to quell the long, low moans that escaped her throat. The pleasure seemed unending as Appolonia continued to urge the instrument in and out of her. Cymone wilted over her mistress’s lap, whimpering and shuddering as the waves finally eddied and tailed off.
The olisbos slipped out and soothing hands pampered her, rubbing her bottom and smoothing over her back and hair. Cymone gathered herself and moved in tandem with her lover onto the cot where Appolonia held her and kissed her for what seemed like hours.
Tears welled and spilled down Cymone’s cheeks at the stark contrast of pain followed by this. She loved Appolonia. She’d loved her since the lanista, Flavius, had bought her and brought her to the ludus three years prior. But with their future so uncertain, she’d never given voice to the words. What good would it bring to love another only to die on the sands? The life of a gladiatrix was a hard one.
Appolonia cradled her head and sought her lips, which Cymone readily gave. As their tongues twisted, sparred and explored, Cymone’s hands roamed over the hard, feminine body against hers: tight breasts, jewel-hard nipples, and down the flat plane of her stomach to the softness of her sex. Appolonia moaned into her mouth and Cymone slid her fingers through the slick folds and into the drenched warmth there. She reached, finding the soft pad of flesh inside, the key to her lover’s pleasure. She stroked the sensitive spot several times and soon, Cymone felt the telltale tremors of her lover’s climax.
Before the last spasm, Appolonia’s fingers delved between Cymone’s legs. Cymone’s thighs flew open as she rocked closer, sighing in pleasure at the sweet invasion. She clung to the lithe body countering hers as Appolonia expertly brought her to a second orgasm. Cymone’s lips stilled. Her breath froze in her chest as she surrendered to mingling emotions of lust and love that swelled to overflowing.
Her hands moved up Appolonia’s narrow back. Cymone held her head and sated herself of the other gladiatrix’s mouth. Whatever tomorrow would bring, she was ready. Appolonia had made her ready.
Cymone gazed into her lover’s eyes and smiled. “I have denied myself for so long but I must tell you, I love you.”
Appolonia’s lush lips parted in wonder and surprise. “I love you, too. You must have known. Since the first time I saw you on the training ground, dressed in nothing but a loincloth and drenched in sweat.” A smile stretched across her beautiful face.
Cymone thumbed back a strand of Appolonia’s hair. “Whatever Athene has decided our fates to be tomorrow, I know I can face it. Because of you.”
Cymone’s heart twisted at the softness in Appolonia’s dark eyes. And then, Appolonia moved lower to lave each breast before kissing a path downward where she buried her face in Cymone’s cunnus.
Cymone captured the head between her legs, holding it in place as a warm tongue flicked over her slit and circled her clitoris. Lips closed on the aching bud, sucking with seductive intent. She dragged in a sharp breath, opening her thighs impos
sibly wider as a finger joined the tongue in the slow, thorough assault of Cymone’s senses. What magical power did Appolonia possess to bring her to such bliss over and over again?
It was unlawful for gladiatrices to copulate with the men at the ludus or elsewhere, and while some of the warrior women defied the order, and others sought out the company of their fellow female fighters out of necessity, Cymone had always preferred a woman’s touch.
Appolonia’s touch.
A second finger joined the first and moments later, Cymone cried out as perfect pleasure crashed over her in rippling waves, eradicating all coherent thought.
Stillness descended in the wake of her orgasm, quieting her nerves and her brain, leaving her to bask in the comfort of her lover’s arms. For this one moment, she was no longer the gladiatrix prima, dominatrix of the arena. She was a woman who could be vulnerable and who could experience loving and being loved.
Cymone chased away the knowledge that this happiness was fleeting. For on the morrow, she would walk onto the sands a deadly warrior.
Appolonia closed her eyes as she strode toward the Gates of Life. Oiled and clad in nothing other than the subligaculum—a loincloth—she whispered a prayer to Athene. Here at the gates, silence ensued. Even the cheering of the crowds faded away until there was nothing but her thoughts to speak to her.
She knew not who she would face this day but honor demanded that she fight and fight well. In the arena, she ceased to be a slave. There, she shone as a gladiatrix ascending to the position of prima—a position she hoped never to take from her lover.
The great wooden gates began to lift and Appolonia spun each of her two swords in her fists. Adrenaline surged.
A roar arose from the crowd as she stepped into the light, anxious to see her opponent. But when she laid eyes on the warrior emerging from the opposite gate, her heart wrenched.
Cymone.
Appolonia gritted her teeth then straightened her shoulders and stepped forward toward her enemy.
GAME OVER
Elle
Jaysa’s bathing suit was low on her hips, and as she dove into the pool it went a little lower than she would have desired. Marisa didn’t mind; she actually enjoyed the view when Jaysa stepped out and adjusted her suit.
Marisa knew Jaysa from cheerleading. Jaysa was a new member, the only freshman allowed on the A squad in the past four years. Marisa, now a senior, had also made it as a freshman. Jaysa definitely didn’t look like a freshman either. She had an incredible body for an eighteen-year-old, Marisa thought. Beautiful rack, like a C-cup maybe, high and round. Great legs, so nicely shaped, toned and long. Very smooth skin, a deep brown color, with a great stomach too. This girl had to do at least two hundred crunches a day—she had a perfect six-pack.
Marisa had a wonderful body too. She was the voluptuous, hourglass figure type. A little shorter than Jaysa’s five seven, Marisa stood at five four. Everything about her seemed curved. Her hips, legs, ass, lips. Everything. While Jaysa was lithe, Marisa looked like she could bounce. Especially on her ass. She had natural red hair and greenish colored eyes, and while her coloring betrayed her Irish heritage, she had the body of a Latina. Marisa’s looks greatly contrasted those of Native American Jaysa, with her dark skin and long straight black hair, and those deep, dark eyes that Marisa felt she could fall into sometimes.
Along with all the straight guys on campus, every new school year, Marisa checked out the freshman crop. She had had a freshman fling every year since she was a sophomore. Since she had work study in the registrar’s office she had access to their files. That’s how she found out that Jaysa has been a cheerleader in high school. So she approached Jaysa and suggested trying out for the A squad. What fun would it be if they weren’t on the same squad? Marisa had a ready excuse for hanging out with the girl: she wanted to teach her the routines. It was also a good justification for physical intimacy.
Marisa loved handling Jaysa’s body. Since the first day of the fall semester, when she had seen Jaysa walk across the quad in her low-rise, tight jeans and red tube top, Marisa’s interest had been piqued. What a hottie! Marisa had been interested from that first view and so had a lot of other people, but Marisa happened to know that Jaysa had rejected every offer for a date made so far. Also, Jaysa had seemed very receptive when approached by Marisa, friendly even. Until then, Marisa had been turned on by Jaysa’s apparent aloofness and unapproachability. It was one of her many asset’s in Marisa’s opinion. That bitch factor was such a turn-on for Marisa.
That’s one of the reasons she liked the young’uns so much. Here was a smug little girl with these attitudes, who really didn’t know anything at all. Not compared to a twenty-one-year-old like Marisa. The difference in maturity between a freshman and a senior was monumental. Marisa felt herself responsible for closing the gap a little.
She taught these girls a thing or two, usually a lot more. She took away some of that righteous attitude that a lot of them seemed to carry over from ruling their high schools. Marisa enjoyed the rule of instructor. And a lot of them needed instruction, since the majority of their experience consisted of fumbling around in backseats with awkward teenage boys. Marisa without fail chose virgins. It wasn’t conscious, but every freshman she had chosen so far had been pure. Until they met Marisa.
Jaysa was something special, though, Marisa could feel it. She seemed wise, in spite of her years. She would give Marisa these looks that were so intense, Marisa would have to turn away. Maybe it was because she was Native American, Marisa thought. There might be some spiritual enlightenment Jaysa was privy to. Maybe it was that she was confident, really confident, not the pseudo-confidence other kids portrayed, which fell apart as soon as you got too close.
Whatever the reason, it set Jaysa apart from everyone else in Marisa’s life. Marisa came close to orgasm a few times when they had sleepovers, from being too close and affectionate with each other. Jaysa had this manner of sleeping where she would completely entwine her body with yours. At least she did with Marisa. When Jaysa’s legs were between hers, and Marisa could feel their breasts pressed against each other’s, their nipples rubbing with their slight movement, these were the “almosts” for her. She would be on the verge of coming, and have to force herself to return to earth.
They had also developed the habit of giving each other quick pecks on the lips, which was torture for Marisa because all she wanted to do was slip her warm tongue into Jaysa’s hot mouth. By now she would have the freshman literally on her knees. She had lost control with this one, most definitely. Jaysa somehow had Marisa doubting herself—or at least her techniques. Marisa was getting tired of it, even though she was also kind of enjoying the prolonged courtship in a weird way. It was like an extremely long striptease, but Marisa wanted more. Jaysa had started undressing completely in front of her and it was driving Marisa almost to the brink. There were two or three times already that she had to literally restrain herself from pouncing on Jaysa’s naked body. Especially when she would come out of the shower or the pool, soaking wet, and naked, walk around in front of Marisa. Marisa couldn’t pounce; she couldn’t react without a game plan.
One of those times she had offered Jaysa a massage, and the younger girl accepted, fully naked. Marisa really took her time, getting into every nook and crevice. Rubbing really near Jaysa’s breasts, kneading her thighs and her ass. All with the excuse of their grueling workout. Jaysa seemed to really enjoy it, letting out a few moans during the session. She was extremely satiated afterward, lounging around like a cat, smiling. Then she offered Marisa a massage. When Marisa accepted and turned to lie on her stomach, Jaysa asked why she wasn’t getting undressed. So, Marisa ended up receiving a massage from Jaysa fully naked too. Jaysa seemed to pay special attention to Marisa’s ivory inner thighs, rubbing between Marisa’s legs until she was sure Jaysa could tell how wet she was.
Oh, my god, Marisa had thought—what a gift! Jaysa’s hands were amazingly strong, yet soft. They made Marisa feel she w
as someplace else—surrounded by beautiful naked women all touching her and each other. This was a fantasy Marisa had when she was masturbating. Lately, though, her thoughts turned to Jaysa’s naked body pressed against hers, between her legs, the two of them grinding against each other. Or her face buried in Jaysa’s full breasts, grabbing Jaysa’s ass, sucking on those big, beautiful brown nipples. Gently tugging on them with her teeth, causing Jaysa to writhe, moan and gyrate against Marisa’s pelvic area, rubbing against her clit. Yes, lately this was getting her off. Marisa was dying to immerse her fingers in Jaysa’s wetness. To push inside her, to make her hips rock back and forth. To watch Jaysa’s tantalizing body as she fucked her. When was this going to happen?
Marisa felt like she couldn’t wait any longer. She felt like she was going to implode or worse yet, come when it wasn’t appropriate, like during a nudie massage session. How would that appear to Jaysa? No, that would definitely not be cool at all, and Marisa certainly had to at least maintain the image of being cool. At least the image of coolness, because she certainly didn’t feel cool around Jaysa whatsoever. In fact, it was the total opposite. She was nervous around Jaysa, flustered even. That was why she hadn’t made a move yet. She would’ve been knee-deep in panties by now with any other freshman meat. It definitely wasn’t for lack of desire. Marisa wanted Jaysa so bad; she almost constantly had her on the brain. The fantasies would get more elaborate and more frequent. Especially now that they were hanging out so often, every day after class and on weekends there was always one sleepover night at either of the girl’s houses. Jaysa had even dropped this bomb the other day: “You’re like my best friend now, Mar.”
Oh, god, the last thing Marisa wanted to be was Jaysa’s friend. Her lover, her instructor, sure, but not that…that word… friend. Even though that was sometimes a safe precursor for the girls to “experiment.” But when would that be?