Rome's Perfect Boy

by Alex Fox

  When he broke our kiss, he took me back to the carriage and said, “Tonight, Marcus, tonight..."

  "Tonight,” I answered.

  He put me back in the carriage and sent me home again. Though he himself did not follow. I went home alone and prepared myself for this evening's lesson; for I knew then he would take me fully. So I waited in the greatest anticipation of my life. And I made myself as perfect as I could be. All afternoon and into the evening, I fell into a dream, for Master Antonius loved me. When he came home, it was only a short while before he called for me to come to his playroom.

  I went, I ran; ran to him.

  And yet, still he controlled me. Controlled himself.

  As soon as I entered his playroom, he came to me. “Marcus, you are the only one left now; all of my boys are gone, save you. You are the one. Beautiful boy, my boy; please now, strip for me."

  Oh, yes, I would strip for him. I made myself naked before him and waited for his commands.

  "Give me an erection, Marcus; I want to see you hard and eager for my needs."

  He sat down on his chair. I stood before him and gave him my erection. All he needed to do was command it, and I would give it. And when I was standing up and trembling with excitement as his eyes drank in my throbbing cock, he stood up and took off his tunic. All he wore then was his kilt, still concealing his own desperate erection from under it. But my excitement tonight was unparalleled. He came to me, seized me in his arms, and kissed me again; long and deep, deeply penetrating my mouth with his tongue before he told me to get up on the padded table. I was so aroused that I shook as I climbed up on to the table and knelt on all fours for him.

  "Oh Marcus, so beautiful you are, such willingness to please me, to submit. Feel my crop."

  "Yes, Master, yes, yes!"

  This time, he did not blindfold me. Or gag me. Or tie me. Only I presented myself to him in the position he ordered, and I would not move from it until he told me to move. I watched him as he went for his crop, as he took it from his toolbox, as he took some oil from the bowl and oiled its length in front of me. He showed me all that he did—all, save his aching cock—that I knew he was longing to be free. But not yet...

  He oiled his crop, and went and stood behind me. “Open wide, present your buttocks and push up and open."

  I obeyed. He began to rub the length of the crop gently over my hole. He did this for a while, preparing me for the sting.

  I could not wait and began to squirm my arse against its oiled length. “Please, Master,” I begged him. “Please sting me now, I cannot wait any more!"

  "Endure it, Marcus,” he said.

  And he rubbed me again and again, up and down over my hole to tease me. Once or twice, he touched my aching balls with the stripped ends. Then, when I was not expecting it, he stung me with the strips—stung my balls—and I cried out with pleasure and pain and joy! “Oh, yes!"

  Three more times, he whipped my balls. I was reaching the Divine, my heart slamming in my chest. I sweated and whimpered for more; always I wanted more...

  Again he stung my balls, then my cock, and then up higher and he whipped my gaping hole. I almost passed out with the thrill of it; I fell forward and screamed. “Again! Master, again! There, whip my hole!"

  He did it again, three more gentle whips against my open anus. “Come for me now!"

  Another whip and I reached the Divine. I released a massive gushing load of streaming cum all over the tabletop, again and again and again. He grabbed my cock and milked me until I fell into a swoon, broken, used, whipped, and stinging. I fell into a trance. He lifted me off the table into his powerful arms and carried me with him to his chair. He put me on my feet before him and he whipped off his kilt and sat down, his legs open wide and there I saw him, saw it at last!

  I fell on my knees before him. So overcome I fell on my knees between his parted legs and he ordered me, “Worship it. Worship my cock!"

  Oh, I did, I did! Huge, upright, rigid as iron, throbbing and long, a massive cock like a pole, and more. I fell forward and buried my face against his huge dark balls, kissed them, licked them, and he cried out.

  "Marcus! My love! Lick me..."

  I went wild with desire and licked them, sucked them. I moved up to taste his cock for the first time. I kissed up his length, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten kisses to reach the top and then a little more. His cock-head, swollen and leaking, I slipped it into my mouth and sucked on the juices, and died and died again...

  I held his cock two-handed and worked it, huge like a horse. He moaned, “Marcus, yes; yes, boy, suck it..."

  But he was so big; his cock was a pole, rigid in my hand and thrusting up his chest. Worth the wait to see!

  He ordered again, “Get on your knees and worship it!"

  I let go and sat back and gazed at it, watched him as he worked it for me. When he could bear it no longer, he told me to open the playroom door. I ran and opened it; he got up, came to me, and lifted me up into his arms. He carried me out of the room and down the corridor. He kicked open the door to his own room, took me inside, and threw me down on his great wide bed. I had never been in his room before. I lay on his bed and gazed at him in a dream-like trance, panting, wanting him, my own cock again rigid.

  I watched as he went to the bowl beside his bed, where he kept his oil for lubricating his cock and he used it now. He oiled the massive penis in his hands, stroking up his great pole before me. He got up onto the bed and rolled me onto my stomach; he was going to have me! I sobbed and whimpered and lifted open my buttocks; he fingered me for a while, diving his oiled fingers deep inside me. He sat astride my hips, his powerful thighs holding me in place under him. I felt him take hold of his member and push it down into my desperately willing anus. I felt his great cock-head go in, and I gave a cry of pain and desire, loud and wailing...

  "Master, fuck me, fuck me.” I pushed up to meet him.

  "Marcus, oh Marcus, my beautiful boy."

  He gave a long slow thrust into me, splitting me wide and diving in deep with the sheer power of his cock. He forced his way in and I felt him burrow deep inside me; he was in! In! And he began to thrust into me, powering his way inside, his balls so huge I could feel them slapping against my own. Again and again, his great member filled me so full. I knew I could not live without him filling me, stretching me, whipping me, licking me, all of the wonderful joys of the Divine that he had taught me.

  I was dying of bliss as he pounded his cock into me, as he cried out. “Marcus, you are mine, my boy, mine to have and do with as I wish. I love you..."

  He fell over my back, he bit my shoulder and I reached up with my arse to have him go ever deeper; he loved me! He loved me!

  I cried out, “Antonius ... please ... please, fuck me so hard, you kill me."

  And I felt him thrust his hips, his balls against mine, his cock deep inside me, his teeth in my shoulder and my neck, his great aching moan as he orgasmed inside me, as he pulled out and sprayed over my back, long gushes of his powerful cum. I felt him splashing me again and again, heard his cry of release. I rolled over onto my back to watch him milk the last drops, to see that wonderful, huge member in his hand. At last! And I reached up for him and pulled him down over me and I kissed him. I kissed my Master, felt him push his still hard cock against my own, and feeling his huge cock commanding mine, I begged him, “Master, please let me come?"

  "Come now, boy,” he said. “Come now, Marcus, my perfect boy, Rome's perfect boy..."

  I cried out my pleasure, threw my arms around his neck and pulled his lips to mine. “I love you, Rome's perfect Master.” Intense delight flooded me as at last, on his command, I reached the Divine.

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  About the Author

  Australian L.A. Wilson, author of ‘In Blood Covenant’ and ‘Son of the Sun’ at EP has been writing speculative, gothic and Arthurian fiction for fifteen years; her writings can be described as powerful and unique, a la
rgely non-mainstream author who is highly dedicated to bringing to interested readers slightly out of the ordinary stories, especially in her Arthurian novels. “Rome's Perfect Boy” is L.A.'s first foray into hot M/M erotica, written as Alex Fox. Alex Fox hopes to bring you more M/M sizzling sex in the near future.

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  Available now from Eternal Press

  Masquerade

  By Clare London

  In BONDED, Chancellor Chariz imprisons a young man with strange ways and a shocking power. Chariz seeks only sexual entertainment, but Oriel offers something in return that will transform his captor for ever.

  In TRICKERY, two young servants are brave adventurers on their Prince's Quest, but when it's hijacked by a lusty Magician, they are dragged into a murky and magically sexy mess!

  In POSSESSION, Lucas is the young and passionate heir to the Fides Auction House. When charismatic Gideon Arnaud intrudes into his life, pursuing him both professionally and personally, Lucas struggles to keep both his freedom and sanity.

  In THREADBARE, Edward takes a young mill worker under his protection, and is drawn into a web of beauty and mystery. What price will he pay for the delight and passion that Mori brings him?

  Oriel stirred on the bed, hearing me, and his eyes slid half open. The flash of green was almost luminous in the darkening evening light. “Get up,” I said sharply. He struggled up to a sitting position, glancing around to see where I had brought him. He rubbed the back of a hand across his face in a sleepy gesture, and I felt that strange frisson again.

  "Are you recovered?” I asked, abruptly.

  His eyes hooded briefly, and he nodded. He swung his legs slowly over the side of the deep mattress. “Thank you for allowing me to rest,” he said, softly. “They only see your arrogance and aggression—you hide the compassion well."

  "You sound like a memory-caller at the fairground stalls,” I snapped. “Trite, cheap talk. Or do you expect some payment for it? You can have the lick of my whip around your shriveled balls, if you like."

  He didn't flinch, a slim, half-bare figure swamped by the plump comfort of my fleeced covers. “You use crudeness to intimidate them all. To keep people away from you.” His voice was a little sluggish, but still absorbing. “You're respected in your work, but they're all scared of you. They obey you without question. They accept your lies as truth."

  "Lies?” My heart beat a little faster. “I prefer to call it diplomacy, fool, and you'll watch that tongue or I'll slash it off for sport and let the servants sauce it for the supper broth!"

  He was shaking his head now, eyes wide. “No, not the lies of politics, of your work. I meant the lies to yourself, the lies about your love for your mother; about your loneliness; about the loss of your younger brother."

  I struck him then—the slap of the blow reverberated around the room. He cried out and slid off the bed on to the floor, scrambling with hands and knees to keep his balance.

  "How dare you talk about me with such familiarity!” I hissed. “Who gave you that right?"

  "You did,” he gasped. “You spoke to me, sir! Your sadness; your anger. I can't deny it, the connection's rarely been so strong. I didn't know not to say it."

  I bent down to him, wrenching his head back again. There was a red, shining weal on his face made by my hand. His pupils were dilated again and he was panting slightly. “Is this how people connect with you, Oriel? They strike you?"

  "Sometimes.” he whispered. His gaze met mine, a braver resistance than any of my servants had ever shown after such a blow from me. “They do what they want. Sometimes they use me instead."

  I grimaced. “Is that what the captain did? Saved you from the common soldiers only to use you himself? What kind of protection is that?"

  "It's how I serve,” he said. His voice was teasing at my nerves again, yet the tone was steady and almost unemotional.

  "You're a ridiculous mystery, Oriel! You describe yourself as a helpless, passive victim, used by your masters, sexually and otherwise, and still following like a household dog, begging for more abuse. Yet your eyes show strength you shouldn't have .” I looked back down on them, which was perhaps my greatest mistake. But I couldn't help myself; I felt drawn into his weird, disorientated gaze. Even as I felt an unfamiliar shame at losing my temper with him, I wanted the touch again. From finding him insipid and disinteresting, I now felt the strongest flame of desire that I'd ever known, flaring suddenly to life inside me.

  He drew in a deep gasp, as if he'd felt it too. I let go of his hair and forced myself upright again. For a moment I was frozen there above his kneeling form, trying to regain control over my feelings. My trousers tightened across my groin; my fingertips brushed lightly across the flat muscles of my belly, tormenting the goose bumps that sprang in response.

  "Is this your magic working on me?” I groaned.

  "It comes from you,” he whispered. His face was level with my groin, his hands fisted gently at his sides. He dropped his eyes from mine and gazed instead at my arousal, straining against the silk cloth. “I can only respond. Let me serve you.” His hands were gentle but confident as he teased down the fabric, letting my cock spring out to blessed freedom. I tried to remember when I'd last been swollen, so hotly, so swiftly.

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  Available now from Eternal Press

  Cult of Submission

  Book 3 in the First Nights Series

  by Eric Erato

  Lucy's fascination with a powerful cult drives her to quit her job as a newspaper reporter and infiltrate its inner sanctum. As she draws closer to the handsome and charismatic leader, becoming the object of his bizarre sexual rites, Lucy is both attracted and repelled. But most of all, she is afraid.

  Can she escape with her life, or will Lucy fall deep into the grip of this mesmerizing satyr and his fanatical followers?

  I allowed my thoughts of Turnquill's strength to flow like the water and mist over my body, imagining him instructing me to touch myself. The scent of lavender had been a subtle undertone when I entered the bathroom, but now grew overpowering, seeping from the steam and the soap and the walls themselves. Feeling lightheaded and aroused, I pressed a coarse and foamy loofa roughly against my skin. Lingering with the sponge, I rubbed it across my erect nipples and shivered with each abrasion. I thought of Turnquill grabbing my hair, twisting my nipples and taking the kiss that he wanted, then taking whatever else he wanted, his hands rough and brutal as the sponge. My head fell back and my lips parted, knowing the loofa would start working against my most tender parts soon, feeling him on me, over me, and being swept away with the sensation and the lavender and the fantasy.

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  Available now from Eternal Press

  Sacrifice

  by Lawrence Montgomery

  He has a dark side. and she wants to see it. Now she's at the mercy of a stranger who has her lover's face. What will she surrender to him as he methodically strips her body and her psyche bare? What will she have to sacrifice to get her lover back?

  The room was kept at a higher temperature than the rest of the house, and she felt herself relax a bit at the comforting warmth. His hands were soft on her skin, and she moaned and closed her eyes as he stroked his fingertips up her sides, raising her arms.

  There was a clink of metal, and she snapped back to reality when she realized he had clipped the cuffs on her wrists to chains that were attached to a bar, which in turn was suspended from a cable that led to a winch in the ceiling.

  She gazed at the man who used to be her friend. her confidant and lover, until this dark man had surfaced and taken his body and face. He was handling his toys with practiced ease and familiarity, even love, and she shuddered at the look on his face. It was eager, hungry.

  He was insane.

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  Alex Fox, Rome's Perfect Boy