Chapter 4: The Evening Lesson
The myrrh was thick in the air of the bedchamber, a sacred smoke that did little to mask the deeper, human scent of sex and sweat that lingered in the tapestries. Fulgur entered, the solid oak door closing behind him with a soft thud that echoed in the cavernous space. The torches in their sconces were low, casting a pulsating, amber light that made the mosaic stars on the ceiling swim.
He saw her immediately.
Sophonisba lay on her stomach across the width of his vast bed, the dark silk like a pool of ink around her. She was not asleep. The garment she wore—if it could be called that—was a diaphanous weave of pale gossamer, more suggestion than cover. It did nothing to obscure the lush, perfect curve of her rear, the round, plump cheeks lifted invitingly in the air. Her dark wavy hair fanned across the pillows.
She heard him and smiled into the fabric, but didn’t turn. Instead, she gave a little wiggle, a slow, deliberate roll of her hips that made the flesh of her backside jiggle enticingly.
“The great poet returns from his banquet of the senses,” she said, her voice muffled and playful. “Did you leave poor Audrey in one piece, or is she just a lovely, trembling puddle in the triclinium?”
Fulgur untied the sash of his own tunic, letting it fall to the marble floor. “She’ll recover. She’s stronger than she looks.” His eyes never left her. “And you, Sophi? Why are you here, preening like a dove in a lion’s den?”
Now she turned her head, resting her cheek on her arm. Her dark brown eyes glittered in the low light. “I was bored. The others are… spent. Or plotting. Andromache is in a strange mood, and Arsinoe is likely oiling herself for a later performance. I wanted you alone.”
She pushed herself up onto her knees, turning to face him. The gauzy fabric slipped, catching on the peaks of her small, firm breasts before pooling at her waist. Her smile was knowing. “I had a thought. A specific thought.”
“Tell me.”
“That mouth of yours,” she said, crawling towards the edge of the bed. “It commands legions. It recites Homer. It drips with honeyed promises.” She stopped before him, still on her knees, her face level with his stomach. “I was wondering what else it could do.”
Her hands went to his hips, her fingers cool. She nuzzled the coarse hair below his navel, then lower, taking his already-stiffening cock in her hand. She didn’t take him in her mouth. Instead, she looked up, her playful demeanor shifting into something more intense. “I want you elsewhere tonight, Domine.”
He knew what she meant. It was a game they played, one she initiated more than the others. She loved the shocking fullness of it, the illicit thrill.
“Your greedy little cunt isn’t enough?” he asked, his voice rough.
“It is. But my other hole is feeling neglected. And it’s so pretty, isn’t it?” She turned again, presenting herself once more, this time reaching back to part the round cheeks of her ass with both hands. The dark, tight furl of her anus was exposed, a secret star against her olive skin.
A groan rattled in his chest. He climbed onto the bed behind her, his knees settling between hers. His hands gripped the lush swell of her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh. He leaned forward, not entering her, but lowering his head.
“You want my mouth? Here it is.”
He didn’t kiss her. He licked. A broad, flat stroke from the damp seam of her cunt all the way up to the tight pucker she offered. She jerked and cried out, a sharp, genuine sound of surprise and pleasure. He did it again, slower, circling the tight ring of muscle before pressing his tongue against it. He fucked her with his tongue, shallow, insistent jabs that made her shudder and push back against his face.
“Oh, fuck… yes… open me up,” she chanted, her voice cracking.
He used his thumbs to spread her wider, spitting onto the clenching entrance before driving his tongue in deeper. She was panting, her body taut with anticipation. When he pulled away, she was gasping, her entrance glistening and slightly relaxed.
He reached for the vial of oil on the bedside table, the sharp scent of olives cutting through the myrrh. He poured a slick stream onto his fingers, warming it, then anointed his own cock, stroking himself to full, brutal hardness.
He positioned the thick head at her prepared opening. It bumped against the tightness, a palpable resistance.
“Slowly,” she whispered, her face buried in the silk. “Make me feel every inch.”
He pushed. The head of his cock began to breach her, stretching the impossible ring of muscle wide. She hissed, her back arching, her fingers clawing at the bedsheets. It was an exquisite, burning invasion. He held there, letting her adjust to the searing stretch.
“More,” she gritted out.
He obliged, feeding another inch into her, a slow, inexorable conquest. Her body fought him, clenching violently around the intruding girth, then reluctantly yielding. He could feel every ripple, every frantic pulse of her inner channel. It was tighter than any cunt, a hot, silken vise.
“You take it so well, my greedy whore,” he grunted, his own breath short. “This perfect, plump ass was made for my cock.”
He bottomed out, his hips flush against the full, round curves of her backside. She was full to bursting, stuffed impossibly, and a wild, broken moan tore from her lips. He gave her no quarter. He began to move, setting a deep, relentless pace. Each withdrawal was a gradual, sucking release, each thrust a hard, claiming slam back into that incredible tightness.
The sounds were obscene—the wet slap of flesh, the ragged grind of his pelvis against her, her choked, pleasured sobs. He gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, using her body for his leverage. The gauzy fabric was soaked with sweat, tangled around her waist.
“Is this what you wanted?” he demanded, pistoning into her. “To have your dirty little asshole reamed open?”
“Yes! Gods, yes! Fuck it, ruin it!” she screamed, pushing back onto him with every thrust.
He felt his control fraying. The visual was too much—the dark silk, her flawless olive skin, the way her entire body jolted with each drive of his hips. He reached around, his hand sliding over the slick mess between her legs from his earlier attention. He found her clit, swollen and throbbing, and pinched it hard.
That was all it took. Her climax seized her with violent intensity. Her back arched like a bow, and a raw, guttural shriek ripped from her throat as her ass clenched around his cock in a series of brutal, milking spasms. The intensity of her pleasure, the shocking tightness of her convulsing channel, ripped his own orgasm from him.
With a final, grinding thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and roared. He pulsed deep inside her rectum, jet after hot jet of his seed filling the clenching channel, marking her in this most forbidden of places. He collapsed over her, both of them slick with sweat, their breathing ragged symphonies in the quiet room.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of their slowing hearts. He softened and slid out of her with a soft, wet sound. She winced but sighed, a sound of profound satisfaction.
They lay together, a tangle of limbs on the dark silk. He pulled her against him, her back to his chest, and kissed her damp shoulder. His hand drifted idly over her flat, smooth stomach.
She placed her hand over his, stilling it. Her playful demeanor was gone, replaced by a quiet, profound seriousness.
“Fulgur.”
“Hmm?”
“There is something there now,” she said softly.
His hand stilled completely. He understood, immediately. A bolt of something—shock, elation, profound disbelief—shot through him. He turned her gently to face him. In the dim light, her brown eyes were wide, earnest, no trace of a joke.
“You’re sure?”
She nodded. “Two moons now. My courses have never been late. And I feel… different. Fuller here.” She guided his hand back to her lower belly. “Not much. But I know.”
He stared at her. For years, across continents, with women of every nation, he had spilled his seed to no effect. He had come to believe the gods, or some old battlefield wound, had made him sterile. It was a quiet sorrow beneath his pleasure.
And now this. Sophonisba. His playful, sharp-witted Sophi.
A laugh broke from him, a short, disbelieving sound that echoed in the chamber. He pulled her close, burying his face in her hair. The scents of sex and myrrh and her own skin filled his senses.
“A child,” he whispered, the words foreign and immense on his tongue.
“Your child,” she affirmed, her voice muffled against his chest. Then she pulled back, her playful smile returning, edged with something fiercer. “He will be strong. And he will have my ass.”
Fulgur laughed again, a full, rich sound that seemed to startle the shadows. The mosaic stars above them blurred before his eyes. The epic in the library was forgotten. A new one had just begun, its first chapter written in sweat and seed and silent, blooming life deep within the woman in his arms. The Villa would never be the same.