The Gladiator's Touch, Page 2

  Any but the gladiators. And it was a gladiator, one particular gladiator, whom I wanted.

  But to have caught the attention of my husband, a man whom I did care for after a fashion, after so long a respite made me hopeful, and added to the heat that had begun to pool in my cunt.

  Added to the heat was a hope, one that I tried to keep hidden, that I could still, possibly, carry a child.

  I shook my head, a move fraught with impatience. It would not do any good for me to go down that route again, to think too long on the one thing I wanted more than anything and couldn’t have.

  “Lucius?” I held out a hand to him, beckoning him forward. “Join me for my bath.” Drusilla, anticipating what was to come, slid her hands from where they had rested at my shoulders, forward and down to cup my breasts.

  I had not had her touch me for a long time, though we had once been lovers, experimental young girls. But my husband liked to watch us touch, liked to watch us play.

  It excited him.

  Lucius’ stare grew more avid, and he absently rubbed a hand over his clothed cock as he watched my slave caress my nipples. Relaxing into my girl’s familiar touch, I allowed a sigh of pleasure to fall from my lips, and beckoned him forward again.

  The movement broke the spell. With a start, he shook his head and stilled his hand.

  “I do not have time for this, Alba.” Crouching again, he poured handfuls of cool water over his head, seeming not to care when they made large wet splotches on his crisp tunic. “I will be late for my meeting if I do not leave now.” And with that as his explanation, he took his leave, leaving me alone with nothing but the attentions of a girl who, though I knew found them pleasant, still had no choice but to give them.

  I watched him walk away, watched the beaded ornaments tied to the backs of his red sandals glinting in the undulating beams of light.

  A meeting. Of course. I knew better than to ask him with whom or where. I also knew better than to argue, which could result in his foul mood for days. His dealings here in Rome were what supported us, and I knew it. I should have been thankful for the popularity of the gladiators, and for our standing as the top school for them.

  We would not stay at the top if Lucius did not do as he did. And I knew that he felt tremendous pressure to live up to the reputation of his ancestors, those great men who had trained giants and champions.

  But I was envious of the wives who were doted on by their husbands, who were prized for their beauty and their grace. I missed the ministrations of my husband, the one who had once stroked my skin and whispered in my ear sweet words of wooing. I had not received one of those whispers in a long while, and had been deprived of his touch for even longer.

  Shaking Drusilla off, knowing that she knew my feelings well and would not take offense, I stepped into the sparkling pool unaided. The cool water clung rather than refreshed, sucking at me, pulling at my skin.

  Though I tried to stop them, thoughts flooded my mind.

  They were all thoughts of Marcus.

  ***

  Sometime later, the slight shuffle of worn leather on stone alerted me to a new presence. Assuming that it was simply Lucius, I took my time opening my eyes, hoping, as always, to lure him into the bath with me, if for nothing else but entertainment’s sake.

  I was incredibly bored. I had nothing to complain about, since my every need was cared for and my every desire granted, but I had no purpose. Nothing with which to fill my day but leisure.

  Leisure was tedious, the feeling of uselessness unpleasant. I was also suffering the inattention of my husband, and was beginning to wonder if perhaps I’d become dull, or unattractive. And here was something new, something bright.

  Something burning into my skin with its embarrassed yet entranced stare.

  “I beg pardon, Domina.” It took me but the blink of an eye to place him.

  How was he here, in front of me, as if the gods had suddenly willed it so?

  With a noise of distress, Drusilla moved to cover me. I should have let her, but the gorgeous beast of a man who stood before me threw my thoughts and wishes into turmoil. And so instead I cast a look at Drusilla, communicating without words to leave me be. Though she pursed her lips in disapproval—something I would not have tolerated from anyone else—she removed the towel and stepped away.

  “What are you doing here?” I made sure my voice was sharp, though in truth I was not at all upset by the appearance of this magnificent-looking man. Clad in nothing but his subligaculum, leather briefs worn to preserve modesty, and cheap leather sandals, his muscles were sculpted and raw from what I knew was incessant training, and his gleaming honeyed hair was a delicious contrast to shadowy depths of the eyes that stared.

  My husband had summoned him upstairs, eager to show off his newest prize to the visiting noble with whom Lucius was meeting. But his visitor had fallen ill in the dreadful heat of the day, and Lucius had chosen to escort him home, through the streets of Rome, with the help of Justinus.

  It would not do for anything amiss to happen to the man, not when it had been known that he was in our home.

  In the confusion, no one had thought to show Marcus back down below, to secure him behind the iron gate that separated the quarters of the gladiators from our upstairs lives.

  He had wandered, or so he told me, admiring the beautiful things that were displayed in our home: the artisan vases, the rich, finely woven hangings of silk; the gladiatorial galley, where the stone busts—and cocks—of our former champions stood.

  This has brought him here, coming upon me in the bath, looking curiously through the arched doorway, while Drusilla rubbed scents into the long coils of my ebony hair.

  I was inclined to believe him, since it was a rare thing for a gladiator to wander, unaccompanied, through the halls of our home. I knew that I should have Drusilla escort him back downstairs immediately, back behind the iron gate—knew that that was what Lucius would have me do. Knew from watching Drusilla shift anxiously from foot to foot that that was what she would have me do, too.

  I also knew that Lucius would have him punished for coming upon his wife in the bath. I was also more than a little upset that a gladiator would know the contents of my husband’s meeting while I, his wife, did not.

  Though I did not want the man punished, still I could not say where the boldness that overtook me came from.

  I had never been bold, not even as a curious child. I had always been shy, acquiescent—qualities that my husband had praised at our marriage.

  I also knew that, despite my own feelings, he had not come to me. He had been summoned by my husband and had happened upon me accidentally. I had not premeditated our encounter, but I was still the one who had initiated it.

  He would not be able to refuse. A slave could not refuse his mistress, and though their lives were different from those of many who served, gladiators were still slaves.

  And still I proceeded.

  Remaining silent, I motioned Drusilla back and dipped my head under the water to remove the residue of the scented oils. When I surfaced, I refrained from looking across the room to where he stood, instead turning and rising from the water.

  I knew what I looked like, naked, with droplets of irresistibly chilled water running down my curves. My mirror, an ornately edged sheet of polished metal that had been a wedding gift from my husband, told me that my skin was fashionably pale, nearly as translucent as the wet, and a stark contrast to the shadows of my hip length hair. My eyes were bright, my features even, and my body free from disfigurations brought about by disease.

  I knew that I was pleasing to most eyes, and I exploited that now. After a long moment in which I simply stood, the bath lapping at my ankles, the excess water running down my limbs I turned. My nipples had peaked under what I knew was intense scrutiny, and I was not disappointed when the gladiator again came into view.

  His cock had risen, hardened, and pressed against the leather that covered him there. If it had not, if he had re
mained unaffected, I might have been able to stop then, to send him away.

  But he wanted me, too, obviously so, and so I shoved the nagging guilt away, buried it deep in my gut, and beckoned him forward.

  “Remove your subligaculum and your sandals.” His eyes widened, just a fraction, but he moved to comply. The leather ties around his ankles were loosened first, and then the ones at his waist. But instead of the gratifying sight of his skin, the leather stubbornly remained in place, a barrier between me and what I wanted.

  In my life it seemed that there was always such a barrier.

  “Remove your subligaculum.” Though I tried to school my voice into sternness, I could hear the tremor that sounded through it. I was certain that both Drusilla and the man could, as well.

  What would I do if he did not comply?

  When the clothing fell with a wet sounding slap on the ground, I drew in a breath, one filled with both relief and desire.

  I had not seen a cock besides my husband’s for years, even though I was permitted to do so . . . so long as that cock did not belong to a gladiator.

  Though I was permitted to fuck a male slave, any slave but one of our warriors, the only one that we had was Justinus, my husband’s boy, and I did not care for the man at all.

  As such, it had been so very long since I had allowed arousal to whip through me. The thrill of the forbidden, added to the chance that my husband might happen upon us, collided with desire and drugged me. Swallowing thickly, I reached out a hand.

  “Come here.”

  “Domina?” He hesitated, but just for a moment. I was, after all, just as much his mistress as my husband was his master. Still, I could see the war between morals and desire swirling in his stare. Guilt washed over my skin, and with it came anger.

  Why should I feel guilt over taking something that I desired, finally taking something that I desired? Did my husband not do the same every day of his life?

  Slowly, as if unsure that I could really mean as I said, he stepped out of the pool of clothing at his feet, moving toward me. His flesh gleamed in the dim, flickering light of the room, shining with a faint sheen of sweat, one that I could all but smell—the heady aroma of a man who used his body, and used it well.

  Though a small voice in my head told me that this was not the wisest idea, I hushed it. I had been deprived of a male touch for far too long, and I wanted this man’s hands on me.

  He stopped an arm’s-length away from me. Seeing this big beast of a man, one who was so sure in the arena, with uncertainty painted over his features caused my stomach to clench with something that I could not quite identify.

  I needed the endless cycle of thoughts to cease. I had always thought too much.

  “Kiss me.” My words caused him to start, then to hesitate again. “Kiss me!”

  My every muscle clenched as I waited. I knew that he would do it—he had no choice but to, after I had commanded him to. I knew that he felt, as I did, that these actions were not proper. But even more than that, what if he did not want to? What if this man, this man who had surely not had a woman in a very long time, could not find me attractive enough to even feign enjoyment?

  I kept my eyes open wide as he leaned forward. No part of him touched me except his lips, and they were dry, firm, and salty.

  I groaned and rocked myself closer to him, until there was but a whisper of space between our naked flesh. I expected him to draw me close, to lift me up and shove his cock into me, as Lucius would have done once.

  Instead, as the kiss ended, he straightened and again stood still, his eyes deep and dark and revealing nothing.

  I felt tears prickle at the backs of my eyes. What was going on? Was I that undesirable? My beautiful mirror told me that that wasn’t so—again, my hair was thick and long, my features even, my skin smooth and unblemished. I had ample hips and breasts, and a small waist with the curve of belly that was pleasing to the eye.

  And his cock still quivered under my gaze. So why would he not take me in arms and do as he would?

  “Kiss me.” I demanded this time in a voice more guttural than it had been, for his first kiss had aroused me, and the arousal combined with my confusion to create a deep morass of . . . I was not sure there was a word for it. “Kiss me again. Now.”

  And again he leaned forward and pressed his lips to mine. Just a press, nothing more. Angry now, I opened my mouth, licked at the curve of his mouth, slid my tongue in to trace his teeth.

  He echoed my movement, kissing me back with lips, with teeth, and with tongue.

  Again, he seemed to enjoy it, but would move no further.

  Well, the kiss was more than I had had in a long while. I would enjoy it while it lasted. Breathing deeply, I slanted my mouth against his own, rising up on tiptoes to gain purchase. My fingers sought his shoulders, then his neck and the thick glory of that flaxen hair.

  After a hesitant moment, his movements echoed mine. His hands slid up my arms, over my shoulders, and then twined into my long, scented hair. There was still space between us, but I could feel the hard ridge of his cock pressing against my belly.

  Ah. I was beginning to see just how obedient a slave he was.

  I arched my hips against him. After pausing a moment again, as if to make sure that I had really meant it, he rocked against me in return, and the friction of his coarse cock hair against my labia made me gasp.

  I now saw. He would not do anything unless I told him to, or indicated that it was what I wanted. He truly was a man bound by the oath of honor undertaken by the gladiators.

  For reasons that I could not quite explain, this excited me terribly. Drawing him to me, my arms struggling for purchase against the solidity of his flesh, I let myself kiss him as I had wanted to be kissed for years, hot, wet, and open.

  His breathing was as ragged as mine when I drew back, shuddering through his great frame, and his skin flushed. He wanted me as much as I wanted him, this I knew.

  So I would take it, and I would enjoy it—we would enjoy it—this opportunity that the blessed gods had thrust in front of us. It seemed that Venus was in a fine humor that day. I would have to pray to her later, would have to offer up wine and bread in thanks.

  “Drusilla, you may go.” I was taking a risk, allowing my slave to leave—being alone with a gladiator, a man whose only purpose in life was to fight, was not a smart or safe thing to do. I knew that she would be irritated beyond belief with me, and that I would endure the sharp side of her tongue later on.

  But I did not desire an audience. I wanted to drown in the feeling of man and woman fucking, and nothing more.

  My slave girl exited silently, shaking her head but not daring to speak in front of a fellow slave, for fear that he would see our closeness. The friendship was not something that we hid, but nor did we flaunt it, for fear of upsetting the balance of the household.

  Had we been alone, Drusilla would have had much to say. But we were not, and she did not. She left, and I was alone with the gladiator. My gladiator, the one who waited silently for orders.

  I shivered with anticipation.

  “Enter the pool.” I gestured toward the stone steps that were swallowed by the wet, and heard the soft slice of his body through it as he descended and the silky water lapped at his hips. I seated myself on the side of the pool, ass against the chilly marble, legs dipped into the liquid from the knee down.

  I saw his eyes move from the breasts that were half hidden by the long coils of my hair to the area between my legs that he would not get a clear glimpse of until I parted them.

  He kneeled in the shallow water, facing me. Slowly, bit by bit, I opened my legs and let him see what he wanted to see.

  I saw the smallest of flickers in his eyes when I finally was spread open wide, and a slight tremor in those tremendous muscles.

  He wanted to do this, but would not until I gave him permission.

  It was intoxicating.

  “Place your mouth between my legs.” Before he could reach me
, I took up the goblet of wine that sat at my side and poured it over my belly. The bittersweet liquid ran down my pale flesh in rivulets, streaming here and dripping there, the excess falling in fat drops into the water, where it dispersed quickly, a kiss of ruby in the deep blue.

  “As you wish, Domina.” Bending at the waist, he moved into the space between my legs, pushing them further apart to accommodate his large frame.

  I gasped at the first touch of his hard fingers on the soft flesh of my inner thighs. He looked up and smiled for the first time, just the faintest kiss of a smile that held a tinge of wickedness. Then he pushed me back, flat, the ridges of my shoulder blades pressing against the damp, chilled stone until I could no longer see him. His touch was gentle, far softer than I had ever felt the touch of my husband’s hands upon my skin. Startled by this, I immediately rose back up to my elbows and stared at him, brow furrowed.

  “You need not be gentle.” My voice was guttural, raw with wanting.

  His stare never wavered from my face as he nodded in acknowledgment, though the press of his hands on my flesh did not deepen in their pressure. “I would not hurt you. I would never hurt you.”

  My mouth opened to reply, but my words were lost as he moved his face roughly until it brushed the hot outer folds of my cunt. I understood that though he would wait for permission, and though he may not be gentle, I was safe with the warrior.

  He bit first, and a strangled scream escaped my throat. I tried to swallow it, for though I doubted that Lucius was home yet, he could be, very soon. It was a risk that I would take. But it was so very hard to swallow the sounds that kept exploding from my throat when Marcus buried his face between my thighs, the rasp of the stiff hairs on his jaw scratching and inflaming skin that was growing more tender by the minute.