Chapter 3: A Shared Breakfast
The cool marble of the triclinium couch was a relief against Audrey’s skin, still faintly humming from the bath. She wore a simple stola of undyed linen, the fabric soft against her tender flesh. Every slight movement sent a little aftershock of sensation through her, a private reminder of the night and morning past. She sat perpendicular to Fulgur, close enough that her hip touched his thigh.
Morning light streamed through the high windows, cutting through the lingering torch smoke and illuminating the feast. Platters held figs split open like wounds, cheeses sweating oil, and bread that steamed when torn. A clay amphora of last year’s vintage, dark and spicy, stood open.
Andromache reclined opposite them, her expression serene. One bare foot, however, stretched out beneath the low citrus wood table. Her toes traced a slow, deliberate path up Fulgur’s calf. He didn’t visibly react, merely took a sip of wine, but his gray eyes flicked to hers, holding a banked heat.
Angobroda, fresh from a dawn run, her skin glowing, plucked a fat grape from a silver bowl. She leaned across, her tunic gaping to reveal the hard lines of her chest. She placed the grape between Fulgur’s lips, her calloused fingers lingering on his mouth. He caught her thumb gently between his teeth before releasing it. She smiled, a flash of white.
“You’re quiet, little flame,” Fulgur said, his voice a low rumble directed at Audrey. His hand came to rest on her leg, a heavy, warm weight through the linen.
“I’m… thinking,” Audrey murmured, her Brittonic accent still thick around the Latin syllables.
“Don’t think too hard. It’s bad for the digestion,” Andromache said lightly, her foot creeping higher on Fulgur’s thigh.
The arrival of the other two women punctuated the moment. Sophonisba, a serene Iberian with knowing eyes, carried a bowl of olives. Behind her came Arsinoe.
Arsinoe moved like smoke. Her hair, a waterfall of jet, was still damp at the ends. She wore a chiton of such a pale blue it was almost gray, and it clung to every curve the humid air offered. It did little to contain the swell of her breasts, the dark nipples pressing against the thin fabric. Her eyes, the color of lapis lazuli, swept the room, missing nothing. She settled on a couch adjacent to Andromache, stretching out with a feline grace that made the simple act of reclining look like an invitation.
“The water was tepid. Lazy furnace slaves,” Arsinoe announced, her voice a husky melody. She took a fig, bit into it, the juice staining her lips. “I complained. They will be stoking it now.”
“You could stoke a furnace by looking at it, Arsinoe,” Angobroda said, tossing a grape into her own mouth.
Arsinoe smiled, slow and lazy. “It is a gift.”
Conversation drifted—talk of a storm brewing in the east, a broken wagon axle in the village, a new scroll that had arrived from Massilia. It was all mundane, civilized. Yet underneath, a current thrummed. Sophonisba watched, amused, her eyes tracing the foot still moving under the table, the proximity of Audrey to their master. Andromache’s fingers now drummed a restless rhythm on her own thigh.
Fulgur’s hand on Audrey’s leg began to move. It was a slow, absent-minded stroke at first, riding the linen up her thigh. No one at the table could see. Audrey tensed, a flush creeping up her neck. She glanced at the others, but they were looking at Arsinoe, who was demonstrating a particularly scandalous dance step from Antioch.
His fingers found the hem of her tunic. They slipped beneath. His palm was rough against the soft skin of her inner thigh. Higher. Audrey’s breath hitched. She took a frantic gulp of wine.
He found her core, covered only by a whisper of damp curls. She was soaked. The sore, stretched feeling from his earlier taking had melted into a hot, insistent throb. His fingers slid through her slick folds with ease. He circled her clit, once, twice, a brutal, expert pressure that made her jolt. A soft, choked sound escaped her.
Andromache saw the girl’s eyes flutter. She understood. Her own foot now pressed firmly against the hard line of Fulgur’s cock, confined beneath his tunic. He was fully erect.
“Fulgur,” Audrey whispered, a plea and a warning.
He ignored her. His gaze swept his triclinium, his strange kingdom. “Enough talk,” he said, his voice cutting through Arsinoe’s story.
In one fluid motion, he hooked his hands under Audrey’s arms and lifted her. She gasped as he settled her onto his lap, facing the table, her back to his chest. Her linen stola was rucked up around her waist. The others paused. Sophonisba took a slow sip of wine. Angobroda leaned forward, elbows on the table. Arsinoe’s knowing smile widened.
Fulgur’s own tunic was already pushed aside. His cock sprang free, thick and urgent against the small of Audrey’s back. He guided her hips up, then down. The broad head pressed against her swollen, dripping entrance.
“Oh, gods, not again… it’s too much,” she whimpered, but her body arched, pushing back against him.
“It’s never too much,” he growled into her ear. He pulled her down.
She was still impossibly tight from her first taking, but slick enough from her own arousal and his probing fingers. He sheathed himself inside her in one long, slow, conquering push. The fullness was breathtaking, a burning stretch that bordered on pain before exploding into a deep, resonant pleasure. A ragged cry tore from her throat, echoing in the sunlit room.
He held her there, impaled, letting her feel every inch of him. Then he began to move. Not the frantic pace of the bath, but a slow, deep, almost torturous rhythm. He lifted her and pulled her down onto his shaft, each stroke a deliberate claiming of her tender cunt. The wet, squelching sound of her taking him was obscenely loud in the quiet room.
His mouth found the juncture of her neck and shoulder, sucking a dark mark into her milk-white skin. One hand wrapped around her torso, pinning her to him, the other remained under her tunic, his thumb finding her clit again, rubbing in harsh circles.
Audrey was beyond coherence. Her head lolled back against his shoulder, her cries punctuating each deep plunge. Her hands scrabbled at his thighs, finding no purchase.
Andromache watched, her own breath coming faster. The melancholy in her eyes was burned away by a sharp, voyeuristic lust. She saw Audrey’s face, transfigured by pleasure-pain, and it stoked a fire in her belly. Her gaze slid to Arsinoe. The seductive woman was watching, one hand idly cupping her own breast through the thin fabric, her thumb rubbing a nipple to a hard peak.
Without a word, Andromache shifted. She reached across the narrow space between their couches. Her hand slipped under Arsinoe’s chiton, finding the smooth skin of her thigh. Arsinoe’s lapis eyes locked with hers, a challenge and a consent. Andromache’s fingers moved higher, through the nest of black curls, and plunged into the hot, ready wetness they found.
Arsinoe moaned, a rich, throaty sound, and spread her legs wider. “Yes, Greek. Fuck me with your fingers,” she sighed, dropping her head back.
Angobroda watched them for a moment, a smirk on her lips. She then turned her attention back to the main spectacle. She picked up a piece of honeycomb, letting the golden nectar drip onto the table. She caught a drop with her finger and leaned over, smearing the sticky sweetness onto Audrey’s parted lips. Audrey’s tongue darted out, licking it blindly.
“Good girl,” Angobroda murmured.
The meal continued in a surreal tableau. Sophonisba ate an olive, spitting the pit into her palm, her eyes dark with interest as she watched Andromache’s wrist working between Arsinoe’s thighs. The air grew thick with the smells of sex, wine, and food.
Fulgur’s pace began to fracture. The slow, deep strokes became harder, faster. He was grunting now, animalistic sounds against Audrey’s skin. His thumb ground against her clit without mercy.
“I’m… I can’t…” Audrey sobbed, her body taut as a bowstring.
“You can. You will,” he commanded, slamming up into her. “Come on my cock. Show them how well this little cunt milks me.”
The command, the overwhelming sensation, the watching eyes—it shattered her. Her climax was a silent scream for a second before the sound broke free, a raw, piercing shriek of absolute surrender. Her inner walls clamped around his pistoning length in violent, rhythmic spasms.
The feeling of her tight channel convulsing around him destroyed his control. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and roared. He pumped his seed into her, hot and copious, marking her insides as his own once more. He held her there, shaking, as he emptied himself.
For a long minute, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the wet, soft sound of Andromache’s fingers still moving in Arsinoe’s cunt. Arsinoe’s own climax followed, quieter but no less intense, a series of shuddering sighs as she ground herself against Andromache’s hand.
Slowly, Fulgur’s grip loosened. Audrey slumped against him, utterly spent, a sheen of sweat on her freckled skin. He gently eased her off his lap and onto the couch beside him, where she curled into a ball, eyes closed.
He looked around the room, at the disrupted feast, at the women in various states of undress and satiation. Sophonisba offered him a damp cloth with a quiet smile. He cleaned himself and then tenderly wiped Audrey’s thighs.
“A productive morning,” Arsinoe purred, adjusting her chiton. “Better than discussing axle repairs.”
Andromache brought her fingers to her mouth, tasting Arsinoe’s musk with a thoughtful expression, then reached for her wine cup. Her melancholy had retreated, for now, replaced by a sated calm.
Fulgur leaned back, the sun warming his face. The verses of Troy awaited him in the library, tales of doomed heroes and fallen cities. Here, in this triclinium smelling of sex and honey, was a different epic. It was alive, breathing, and his to write in the language of flesh and whispered commands. He took a piece of bread, tore it, and began to eat. The day, he knew, was far from over.