Gold coins,
slipped surreptitiously into outstretched hands, have accomplished their
objective rather nicely. No one from
the slave to the merchant to the centurion guard has refused them or questioned
that the profile stamped upon them was that of an emperor who had been dead for
dozens of years. Armed with what the
coins have purchased, I am able to go and do what I desire. Live the life of a rich, freeborn Roman,
without annoying questions. Being in
Rome sure beats a rundown farmhouse in the Greek countryside.
This life is
not new to me. I am not a stranger to
Rome.
I was once
mentor, advisor, and teacher to perhaps the greatest Roman of them all. Caesar, Julius Caesar. We shared the love for war and the desire
for conquest. We also shared love and
desire. I was one of the few who could put Caesar on his knees, or across a
chair. All of that power under me was
only a hint of my true strength . . but
that is not this story.
Augustus Caesar
hired me to train a young woman under his guardianship. A black haired beauty named Livia who became
known as the Bitch of Rome. She had
spirit, fire, desire, lust and skill.
She was one of my greatest successes . . . and my greatest mistake. It is because of her that I am here, in this
condition . . . but I suppose you know that story, too.
I am here in
Rome because I am still in hiding. My
gold enables me to purchase the things that allow me to blend into Roman
society and there is a whole pantheon of Roman Gods – purportedly alive and
well -- to serve as a smokescreen between myself and those looking for me. Let those who want to wear the head of a god
on their belt find Mars. Anyway, I’m
not a god anymore . . . but I you know that, too.
Perhaps they
would not recognize me; my hair is cut short and I am clean-shaven. I wear a toga and not black leather. I do not carry my sword. My body is still lean and bronzed, but if
you look closely there are a few new lines around my eyes and streaks of white
in my dark hair. I am a mortal. I made a dumb-assed move because I was in
love, thinking with my heart, or was it with my penis? Look where it got me. .
.
Oh yeah, I’m in
a huge gathering of Romans citizens reclining on a strategically placed dais at
an outdoor feast. Soon we will be served fine wine and exotic food and be
entertained by nude slaves performing sexual acts. Basically we are waiting for
the orgy to start. . . everything here in
Rome definitely fits with my lifestyle.
I am known only
by my pseudo-praenomen, Arlus. I
couldn’t be too creative because Roman’s have such a limited range of names,
but it really doesn’t matter much here.
No one asks your name at an orgy.
They care about my body, especially my cock, and what I can do with it.
Somehow in
Greece the word has gotten around that a large penis was not something to be
valued. Someone said the sperm cools
down traveling its length and cuts down on fertility. Yeah, as if fertility is what most men think about when they’re
fucking – unless they are heirless. Why
does that make me think of Caesar and laugh to myself? A god with a tiny prick probably started
the story. Hermes is the most likely
suspect, but why anyone would listen to him . . . I diverge, from my
diversion. What I really wanted to tell
you was that here in Rome my large penis is a badge of honor.
I reach for
another sea urchin ready to suck out the soft yellow flesh and my arm grazes
that of the man reclined next to me. I
have chosen to avoid eye contact and conversation during the eating and
drinking portion of the evening. I do
not wish to explain my being here, just indulge. My anonymity serves as my shield.
He upturns the
corners of his lips just enough to communicate interest. Despite the fact that his most noticeable
feature is his fine Roman nose, I am drawn to his eyes. In color they are soft and light, with no
tinge of blue or green, but flashing the colors seen when the sun strikes upon
wet river rocks. Of course I notice
things like that, you don’t think I spend all my time thinking about blood and
gore. But there is something more, his
eyes show a deep intelligence that belies the youthfulness of his body just as
much as the fine lines in their corners, a spark of amusement that I find
beguiling and a deep question that I don’t believe I have ever seen asked. I immediately want to know this man better.
Stuffed sow’s udders, roasted gazelles and barbequed flamingos be damned!
It suddenly
dawns on me that my seduction skills are probably a little rusty. Understatement. What seduction skills?
I’ve never had to seduce, people – men and women – have always wanted
me. Everybody but . . . oh shit, I
sound. . . What would one say anyway? Let’s skip the orgy and go fuck?
I reach for a
plate of oysters and watch him while I slurp them, dripping their juices on my
white toga. A slave hands me a towel to
wipe my face and hands. The man beside
me has turned to scrutinize me several times.
I drop the towel on the ground and resume eating the oysters.
We carefully
watch each other through the numerous platters of exotic food presented for the
main courses. It has been a long time
since I have eaten this well. If it
can’t be ambrosia, make it this. The
wine flows freely and he drinks as much as I do. I wonder if it is time for me to make my move.
“Would you care
to accompany me to the vomitorium?” He asks me matter-of-factly and then lets
loose a golden twinkle from his eye.
It has to be flat out the worst pick-up line I have ever heard. So much for rusty seduction skills.
“Won’t we be
missed?” I bite hard on the inside of
my cheek to keep the laughter from exploding.
“Next on the
agenda are five maidens from the isle of Lesbos. You tell me?”
He’s
right. We rise and work our way through
the groups of people. The event is
huge, filling a large urban park. At
this point, I adopt what I call my 100-pace stare. I find that, if I look at
people, I might want to fight – or fuck.
Others are probably already doing that in the hedges that frame the
park.
“I’m Adam,” he
says to me as we walk. It isn’t a Roman name, but his Latin is flawless, as is
mine. I have noticed his body, tall
and slender, as if he were a runner or a wrestler in his youth.
“Arlus.”
“Well, I guess
we’re both alphas then.” For some
reason I think he is talking about more than the first letter in our
names.
I take comfort
when we turn in the opposite direction of the vomitorium. We are now on the streets of Rome. Two men masquerading as nobles walking
together trying to read each other’s thoughts and both hoping that they haven’t
made huge mistakes. At least that’s how
I see it. I know now how men must have
felt following me into the darkness with only the promise of sexual
excitement. I didn’t hurt them – unless
they wanted to be hurt.
I follow him up
a narrow staircase. He lights an oil
lamp and the darkness disappears. What
emerges definitely isn’t a vomitorium.
It is a comfortable Roman room, nicely furnished and filled with scrolls
and artifacts that I recognize as coming from all over the known world. I also realize that any comment would mark
me as other than an ordinary citizen, something that I am not entirely sure is
a good idea. I notice a sword – a fine
sword – leaning against the wall.
“Mea casa,” he
says with a sweep of his arm. “Would
you like a drink?”
He has wine,
good wine. He pours us both glasses.
“I am a
lecturer at the university. I was
brought here to teach the secrets of other cultures to the sons of nobility and
while I am here I expect to learn those of Rome,” he tells me. That doesn’t explain the sword.
“Where are you
from?”
“Does it
matter?” He tosses his head seductively
and flares his nostrils. “And you?”
“I thought you
said it doesn’t matter.”
We look at each
other as we unpin and wind off our togas.
I chug my glass of wine before I uncover the full extent of my
nakedness. He smiles, the first full
smile of the night, and speaks quietly.
“Before we
surrender ourselves to passion, let us evoke a pledge of silence,” he
states. “And, I think we need to agree
that these Roman’s foolish ideas about the rules of manhood will not deter us
from that which we truly desire.”
Well
stated. I nod my head in agreement as
he drops to his knees and takes my cock not only into his mouth but also deep
in his throat. I can feel his lips,
tongue, and even that little flap of skin that hangs down . . . I may be the
one who is penetrating but he is definitely the active partner. I cannot believe what he is doing to my
cock.
With silent
motions he tells me that we would be more comfortable lying on his bed. I concur and move with him. Instead of concentrating on my cock, he
moves to my balls, lifting my legs on to his shoulders and, continuing with the
tip of his tongue, moving to areas even more sensitive. There is no question now who is in charge or
what he is going to do; the only questions are when and how many times.
Suddenly he is
gone from the bed. I realized that we
started so quickly that he has not amassed any more accoutrements to our
fucking than the glass of wine. I hear
him whistling, and think for a second of my brother, Hercules. I bet he
whistles while he gathers his sex toys.
He comes back
and fastens a cock ring on my erect shaft.
I want to tell him that I don’t need it, but remember our vow of
silence. At least I know that he isn’t
just interested in a quick fuck.
He has oils
that hint of spices that I may have encountered before and not remembered, but
I am not sure. He rubs them on my body
and they penetrate muscles that for the first time have felt work and pain and
fatigue. Now they feel pleasure and the
warmth of his large hands. He rolls me
on my stomach to give me a backrub, not from the usual astride position, but
kneeling in front of my head, reaching over me with his cock and balls situated
tantalizingly before my mouth. I know
what I want, and what I have agreed, and finally I succumb to temptation. Of all the exotic foods presented that
evening, this is the most delicious.
One of his hands is stroking my cock; I rise to my knees to give him
better access. The other hand reaches
over me and finds the same spot his tongue tried to invade earlier. His finger
has much more success.
I try hard to
remember the recent motions of his tongue and lips. This not an act with which
I have a great deal of experience, usually relying on others to do it to
me. He showed me things that were new
to me and I want to try them, but the fingers wrapped around the length of my
cock and invading my ass have seriously fogged my memory.
My hands grasp
his long slender thighs and hold on tight. I expect him to withdraw when his
semen explodes in my mouth, but the act continues as waves of excitement travel
through both our bodies. His hands don’t miss a beat as he vibrates around and
in me. I try to resist the mortal
tendency to release, but am unsuccessful.
I spend myself on his bed. He
removes his hands and pats me gently on the ass, then places his arm around my
shoulder. He seems gentle, caring and
loving -- all traits that I generally detest in a man.
An old anger
rises from within me. I am not just an alpha; I am a god – or at least I used
to be. . . I roll from under him and straddle his back. I am about to plunge my dick into his ass,
lubricated only with my cum and I realize, I am not hard. My penis is hanging limp. I could give it a few seconds, but that
would be too long to wait. I plunge a
finger into his ass and he gives a satisfied shrug. That is not the feeling I want.
I don’t bother with two, and insert my index, middle finger and thumb. I have not used oil; I have not even used
spit. The next step is the whole hand,
a move that is only for the very stoned, very submissive or the very
hated. This man is none of these, and I
hesitate for a second. I don’t have to
continue, because I am now erect, and I can proceed with what I do best.
In the same way
he took control while sucking my cock, my attempt to exert power over him is
transformed into a means to his pleasure.
He fucks like a man who knows what he likes. He raises his ass into my dick and follows me with the strokes,
in point and counter point. His lean
lineation excites me. The body of a youth combined with the
experience of a man.
He wasn’t just
saying words when he talked about defying the rules or manhood or
alpha-ness. Warlords, generals,
princes, kings, emperors have never exercised this power. We are more than equals; we are integral
parts of the production of pleasure. At some time, as the two of us engage in
multiple sexual practices and positions, including him fucking me, I stop
thinking. Eventually I fall asleep.
When I awake he
is sleeping behind me holding me in his arms.
I feel his warm breath on my neck.
I am used to sessions that last all night, but then I always leave. I spin in his arms and stare at his
face. His eyelids cover those wonderful
eyes, and he has long thick lashes. I
loosen a hand, run my finger along his nose, and then on his lips. I wonder if he is some god that I have never
met or even heard about. He blinks and
the eyes return.
“I enjoyed last
night a great deal. You were most
wonderful.” He breathes the words softly,
obviously the pledge of silence is over.
He grabs me and
kisses me. I wonder if the session has
really not ended but rather only taken a respite. This could go on for a long, long time . . . but he pulls back
and studies my face at arms length.
“Who are
you? What are you?” He asks me with a look that I read as far
from rhetorical.
“I thought you
said it didn’t matter.”
“It didn’t when
my goal was fucking, but that was last night. Now, I have to know. I ask again.”
“My name is
Arlus, and I am a man. A mortal man.”
“Wrong.” He looks deeply into my eyes, trying to read
something written there. “Tell me your real name, and if it is not who you are
now, who you used to be.”
“What?” His comments are coming way too close to the
actual truth.
“I know there
is more. Tell me.”
“Or you’ll
what.” I am not about to relinquish my
secrets easily.
“Or I won’t
fuck you again. You loved being
fucked. I know you’re not used to it,
but you really, really like it. . . don’t you?” He is smiling, or is he just being smug?
“I can live
without your arrogance. I’ll be on my
way.” I rise from the bed to find my
toga. My cock gives me away.
He stares at me
and laughs. “Actually, I think I
already know. I’ve heard stories about
what happened in Greece. The so-called
Twilight-of-the-gods. These damn
Roman’s don’t even realize that their expatriated gods are dead or dying. Come back to bed; I know who you are.” He extends his hand to me, “I’m just as
ready as you are.”
I have never
been so naked and exposed. I realized
that the story of my life and my renounced godhood are recorded in the numerous
scrolls in this room. He is more than a
lecturer; he is an observer and an archivist.
If he know my secrets, what more does he know?
I return to the
bed and a few more kisses progress to his fucking me gently, from the rear,
side by side, with his long fingers surrounding my cock. It is soft like the morning sun filtering
into the room. It takes a long
time. We are comfortable and
relaxed. I don’t remember every feeling
like this during sex.
He whispers,
“You are still a god to me, Ares.”
I don’t want to
say anything. It is the ultimate of
worship.
He slowly
nibbles on the ear and whispers again.
“I have a Greek name, too. It is
Methos. Sometime today, we need to get
dressed and talk.”
I sense that
this man has a story as remarkable and impossible to believe as my own. But, why is he giggling?
McJude
October 17,
2003
On December 19,
2003 Ares will again show up in Rome as part of the Slash Advent Calendar http://www.kardasi.com/Advent/2003/
in my story JUST THE SCOTCH TALKING – another Highlander X-over.