by K. C. Cross
“Educational opportunity.” I can only shake my head. “That’s one way to put it. You’re about to see things that will make even me blush.”
She cocks her head. And everything about her expression is crooked. “I don’t know where you got the idea that I’m a good girl, but I’ll have you know that I was called a Babylonian whore by a nun two hours before I met you. Halloween night was…” She frowns. “Well, I don’t remember most of it. But let me tell you—those Catholic boys? Party central.”
I laugh so loud she startles. Then I laugh again.
“What? They had their moments.”
“Well. I’m glad you’re a properly seasoned Catholic college boy-toy, Pie Vita. Because you’ll feel right at home here in ancient Rome.”
Then I open the door to the closest room.
CHAPTER TWENTY - PIE
I’m still on the other side of the threshold when my senses are assaulted. The room before me is packed with people. And even though there was no sound—no hint that this party was happened before Pell opened the door—the noise level is almost deafening, a cacophony of commotion. Singing, laughing, yelling, moaning, screaming. Birds are flying in the high dome ceiling, which is painted to look like a blue sky with lazy clouds passing overhead. Monkeys cling to branches of real trees in the four corners of the long, rectangular space and vines climb up the many columns that line the room. They creep across the floor too, winding between the stone-paved pathways. There is a circular fountain in the center of the indoor garden and many people are stomping around in the water, laughing and falling down like children.
But they are not children.
This is definitely a not-safe-for-kids space. Naked men are everywhere. Young, taut, beautiful naked men, their hair tousled like they just got out of bed, and maybe they did. Most are carrying trays of drinks and food, but there are plenty of them paying special attention to men and women of status at the party.
There are several seating areas consisting of three slightly curved couches that almost make up a circle. Each of these seating areas holds at least a dozen people. Women with their legs open, the nubile young men between them. Men with whores on their laps.
Pell leans down and whispers in my ear. “Which one?”
I look up at him, confused. “Which one what?”
He grins. “Which one will you admonish first? For having no pants on?”
I slap his chest. “Shut up. But at least I know where you get it from now. This is some party.”
Pell looks around. “It looks like it’s barely getting started. Just wait until people are really drunk and all the whores and slaves are naked. It’s one giant fuck fest.”
I look around, trying to take it all in. But there is just too much to see and it’s immediately overwhelming. There is a long table with a stuffed hare in the center, legs stretched out, like maybe it’s running for its life. Or maybe it’s flying. Because the chef has attached goose wings to it. They are large, and gray, and outstretched. Surrounding it are all sorts of equally fantastical dishes, most of which I barely recognize. Crabs cradled in grape leaves. Hens stuffed with plums and pomegranate seeds. Honey cakes, and honey bread, and honey wine. There is a lot of honey and most of it isn’t on the table.
The beautiful men are holding honey dippers over the exposed thighs of the important men on the couches while the whores lick it off. But it isn’t just the men. Women I presume to be wives, due to their higher-status clothing, are also being drizzled with honey. Down their breasts, down their legs, between their toes. And tongues. Everywhere a tongue can be, a tongue is.
But not all of it is erotic. Some of it is just plain ridiculous. Acrobats spin along lengths of brightly colored silks attached to the ceiling, twisting and turning above our heads. The aerial dance isn’t the absurdity. It’s that they are singing as they do it. And the singing is not good. In fact, lots of people are singing and none of it is good. It’s almost as if all the singers are trying to outdo each other with their off-key crooning.
There is a camel, there are too many goats to count, and there are at least three horses. I wince as I look up at Pell. He’s smiling down at me, enjoying my shock. I begin, “The animals—”
He quickly puts up a hand. “Don’t ask.”
“OK, then. What are we gonna do here? Hmm? Eat weird food? Sing badly? Frolic in the fountain? Slather each other in honey and lick it off?” He raises his eyebrows at my last offer. And I can’t help it, I blush. “Kidding,” I add quickly.
He looks around for a moment, then tugs me along to the other side of the large space until we come up to a long bench where men are sitting down, their robes open, exposing themselves to the slaves at their feet. But they’re not getting blowjobs. They’re getting a foot wash.
I stop in my tracks, making Pell stop too, since he’s holding my hand. “Oh, hell no. I did not come to the fantasy hallway rooms to give you a foot-washing.”
“Relax,” he says. “And sit.”
“Sit where?”
He points to an empty space on the bench. “There.”
“Why would I sit there?”
Even though Pell looks like every other beautiful man in this room, I don’t really see Pell the man. I see Pell the monster. But not in a bad way. In fact, I don’t like this version of him. Sure, he’s handsome—he has human legs and no horns or hooves—but… it’s not really him, is it?
Until he grins at me. Until the illusion falters and those wild, straw-colored eyes of his light up with amusement. And then there he is. “Because,” he says, “I’m gonna wash your feet, Pie.”
“You? You’re gonna wash my feet?” There is no way to stop my laugh.
Pell just pushes me over to the bench. “Sit. I’ll show you how it’s done. And then”—he leans down into my ear again, whispering—“you’ll see.”
I sit. But I’m grinning up at him. Blushing too. “I’ll see what?”
He kneels down in front of me and takes my foot in his hands, caressing it softly, the pads of his thumbs pressing into the fleshy middle. “At no point during this foot-washing will I ever feel like a slave, Pie Vita. That’s what I want you to see.”
“Oh.” I’m… well. A little speechless. Because did he just insinuate that I will enjoy washing his feet after this is over because he’s going to show me how good it feels?
I try to quickly think up a sassy comeback, but he gets up and walks off, heading towards the corner of the room where there is yet another, smaller fountain, while I remain where he left me, tongue-tied.
Even if I tried, there would be no way to take my eyes off Pell as he procures a large shallow dish and fills it with water so hot, there is steam coming off it, even though this room is already the temperature of Rome in August. He grabs a cloth off a tray being held up by a gorgeous young woman with one shoulder of her toga thing pulled down to reveal one large breast.
And when I look around, I realize all the women with clothes on all have at least one breast exposed. And even though there are many, many naked people in this room, the single-breast thing is provocative for some reason.
When he arrives back at my feet he bends down, placing the bowl on the floor. Then he carefully lifts up one foot, slides the bowl underneath it, then picks up my other foot and rearranges the bowl so both of my feet are immersed in the hot water. He does all this with a surprising amount of gentleness. And he keeps grinning at me. Like he’s got something up his sleeve. “You’re gonna like this. Trust me.”
I don’t need to trust him. There is no possible way in hell I’m not going to enjoy this foot-washing thing. My entire body is buzzing with anticipation as well as… other sensations. And he hasn’t even started yet.
A young man bends down to the slave washing feet to my left, offering him pots of things. Pell takes two pots and one of them has a honey dipper.
He’s looking straight at me when he places both the pots on the floor next to the bowl. I don’t know how he manages to keep a straigh
t face, but he does. Meanwhile, I’m ready to burst out laughing. Not because this is funny, but because I’m embarrassed. I don’t know how to feel about any of it.
“You’re blushing, Pie. And I haven’t even started yet.”
“I know,” I breathe. And then I laugh. “But I can’t help it. There’s something—”
But I can’t even finish my sentence because he takes my foot in his hand and begins massaging his fingers up my calf, pressing on and kneading the muscles. I let out an involuntary moan and have to bite my lip to stop these unexpected noises from falling out of my mouth.
It should not feel this way. He doesn’t have his fingers between my legs. He’s not kissing me, not whispering things into my ear. He’s not doing much of anything and yet it feels like he’s in total command of me in this moment and I’m ready to beg for more.
Like what the hell?
And then I let out a squeak.
“Everything OK, Pie?” He knows what he’s doing. Of course he does. He’s two thousand years old. He’s done this many times, to many women—or men. He understands perfectly well how good it feels. And he wants me to understand it too. So that when we get back home, and I do this for him, I will remember this feeling and I will picture him enjoying my attention the way I enjoyed his.
I point at him. “You’re sneaky.” But my words are already breathless. Already heavy with lust and dripping with longing.
Pell says nothing. Just continues to massage my feet and legs.
The man next to me is moaning. His slave is working the cream from the pot all the way up his thighs. I look away. Look across the room instead. But there’s a woman over there, an important woman with one breast exposed, her hand to her sweaty forehead, her eyes closed, her legs open and one of the beautiful slave men between them, licking her.
Shit.
I find someone else to concentrate on. But everywhere, there is nothing but naked bodies, and singing, and dancing, and wine. So much wine. And the scent of honey mixed in with sex.
“If it’s overwhelming, just close your eyes,” Pell says.
I take his advice.
“Or”—Pell pauses his massage—“we could stop. Move on to another room.”
I can’t open my eyes. I can’t look at him. If I look at him, I will blush. I will get embarrassed. And I don’t want to do either of those things. I really do just want to enjoy this because in my twenty-five years of life, I’ve never, ever felt this consumed with… whatever this is.
And it’s not this stupid sex party, either.
It’s his touch. It’s him. Not Pell the man dressed up like a Roman citizen. Pell the monster.
Because that’s who I’m picturing doing these things to me.
And I don’t want to spoil it by looking too closely or thinking too much.
I relax and Pell lets out a breath. “That’s it,” he encourages. “Just enjoy. That’s all it is. Just joy.”
He pauses his massage and then something cold is drizzled down the inside of my thigh. I shudder and hiss a little, because I know it’s honey and I know what he’s going to do next. But I do not open my eyes. I let the sounds and smells of the party overtake me and drift into a state of sedated acceptance.
And when his lips touch the soft, soft skin and kiss it, I let out a small moan of ecstasy.
He bites me. Not hard, but it has the same effect. My back bucks, my eyes still tightly closed. And I hiss and twist a little as he begins to lick off the honey. His hands never stop massaging my foot, pressing even harder now on the soft, tender flesh of my sole. And this combination of his attention is too much.
That’s what surprises me most.
I am more turned on by this monster’s subtle ministrations than I ever have been having actual sex with a man.
Then one hand is on my knee, pressing it open just a little bit, and I almost come apart. Not in a bad way. But my fist comes up to my mouth and I bite the side of my thumb.
“Everything still OK, Pie?”
How did he get so close? His soft words pour into my ear and my entire body shivers.
“Pie?”
Yes. Yes. “Yes.” I finally say it out loud. “I’m fine. I swear. It’s just…”
“Good?” I can hear the snicker in his voice.
“Yeah.” I sigh.
“Want me to stop?”
“No.”
“Will you open your eyes, at least?”
“Why?”
He presses a fingertip up to my lips and I don’t know what comes over me, but… I open my mouth and suck on it.
He tastes like honey.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “I really hope you let me keep going. Because you’re driving me crazy.”
I do not open my eyes. If I open my eyes, it’s over. I will pull him towards me and kiss him, and then… I will let him have his way with me.
Hell, who am I kidding? I will have my way with him.
“Is that a yes or a no? I can’t tell.” And he pauses. Everything. It all suddenly stops. His hands are still on me, one still pressing my knee open, the other still holding my foot, and he’s still very close. I feel his breathing. It’s not slow, but not fast either. Like he’s on the cusp of letting go. But this pause tells me he’s not going to until I participate.
I open my eyes. Then I reach down, take his hand off my knee, and pull it up to my mouth. He grins. And he’s a very handsome human man. Like… I’m talking young Brad Pitt hot, but not that young. He’s got age to him. No wrinkles or anything that obvious. But I can see it. I can see all those years he’s lived in his eyes. I smile at him and slowly bring his fingers up to my lips, never breaking eye contact with him. I kiss the tips of them. Each one gets attention.
And then he’s kissing me. Hard, punishing kisses. Pressing his tongue inside me. His knees straddling my lap, his chest pushing up against my breasts.
The next thing I know, he’s lifting me up and carrying me across the room. When he places me on a couch, I take another long look at him. His Roman robe is open, his eyes hungry for more when he lowers his upper body down on top of me.
His kisses are softer now, his words nothing more than a whisper. “If this isn’t what you want, tell me no right now. Or I’ll just keep going.”
There isn’t a single moment of hesitation before I say, “Keep going.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - PELL
I want to do things to this girl.
So many things.
But not like this. Not in ancient Rome. Not as a man, either. Because while I don’t mind being this guy, this isn’t me.
If I were stronger, I’d make her wait. I’d pull her into another room, take my chances, and make her wait for a better—more real—version of who I am.
But I’m not feeling particularly strong in this moment. In fact, my desire for her body far outweighs my desire for her to want the real me instead of this poor substitute.
I don’t want to be in this room either. I don’t want to be at this party. It’s affecting her. Of course it’s affecting her. How could it not? I knew what would happen the moment we stepped through the door. That’s the whole purpose of these parties. If you’re here, you participate. You do things. Things you normally wouldn’t. This is why the ancient Roman men allowed their wives to attend. It was a win-win all the way around.
But Pie isn’t my wife. And our relationship is already lopsided enough. She doesn’t need this kind of added pressure.
I should be strong. I should be the one saying no.
But she’s already said yes, so even this small bit of hesitation on my part is dangerous. She’s starting to think… Did he change his mind? Will he tell me no? Should I have been the one to tell him no?
And that’s not good for anyone. Because that line of thinking comes with shame.
She’s just about to ask me what’s wrong, but I don’t give her the chance. I wipe all her doubts away when I reach down with one hand and open up her legs.
She moans into
my mouth as I kiss her, becoming soft and pliant, willing and eager.
I pull back from the kiss but immediately lean down into her ear and whisper, “We’re not here.”
She giggles a little. “We’re not?”
“No. We’re not here. We’re somewhere else.”
“Where are we then?”
“In a wood. In a summer wood. With water nearby. We know this, Pie, because we can hear the slow stream trickling over the rocks.” I pause here to let her use the sound of the fountains as her trigger to another world. “There is no bad singing in this wood. No off-key music. No smelly animals and no sticky honey.”
“Mmm. I kinda like the honey.”
“No honey. It’s just you, and me, and the forest. Because that’s where I belong. And this is where I want us to be right now.”
She lets out a breath. Not a sigh, though. Not something tired or exasperated. It’s a breath of… OK. It’s a breath of giving in. And in that same moment, I push inside her. She gasps and I know it hurts. But I don’t say anything. She could tell me to stop if she wanted, and she doesn’t. And anyway, I go slow for her. It’s not rushed and hurried, like the sex going on all around us in the palace room. It’s not primal and hedonistic, either.
It’s easy.
So easy, and gentle, and quiet. Just the sound of the birds. Not the screaming ones from the party. Not the frantic song of caged things. But the lazy, content chirping of freedom.
Her hips rise up to meet mine, letting me know she’s good now and I can continue. I keep it slow, gently pulling back and pushing inside her again. She bites my shoulder and I love that. I fucking love that. Because biting is something I like to do as well.
I continue the slow pace for a little bit longer, but it doesn’t take much long for her to catch on and begin to subtly ask me to go faster with her body language. She moves her hips with mine. Bucks her back. Digs her nails into my shoulders and back. And when we kiss, it’s not frantic—because that would ruin the illusion—but it’s definitely more passionate than erotic.