Conquest of the Gladiator (An Erotic Romance) Page 2

  “I think you’ve greatly overestimated your skill, swordsman.”

  “No,” he stated confidently. “You’re about to get an education, Floriana. You won’t soon forget this.”

  My name on his lips sounded surprisingly pleasant, and, to add to my confusion, my tummy began to tingle in little flips and turns. He sat on a barrel, and I was on his lap. His thighs were hot and hard beneath me.

  “The soldiers will come. Aren’t you worried?”

  “My new lanista will take care of it. Now give me that lovely mouth.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut and braced myself for something horrible. “Do it quickly!”

  Laughter rumbled in his chest. “As you wish.”

  Soft lips pressed to mine, while his hands wound around my back, bringing me further into him. Our mouths moved together, until his tongue begged entrance, sliding silkily against my lips. I had once seen my mother kissing my old master, and I knew such an act was pleasurable, but I had never engaged in it until now. His hands held my face, while he began to plunder with more aggression.

  “Hum…” he groaned, deepening the encounter even further.

  If I’d had any experience, perhaps I could have prepared for my own reaction, but my response was out of my control. I wound my arms around him, clinging, sucking from his mouth, as if I were starved. Every breath I took was filled with the sweet scent of him, which was laced with wine. He nibbled on my neck, biting into the skin gently and sucking on the lobes of my ears. This sent tingles down my spine that pinged one after the other. His hands had taken to roaming freely, feeling their way over my hips, up to my waist and further, cupping my breasts. Far too gone to stop him, I bit into his neck and sucked, tasting a delicious saltiness. He groaned, which pleased my female sensibilities.

  Growling, he grasped my hips, thrusting up from beneath me, driving something steel-like against my anatomy. The dampness between my thighs was alarming, but what was more so was the desire to tear my clothing off and feel him naked against me. I gripped the material of his loincloth, having every intension of freeing him from it. Before I could carry out my naughty mission, the sound of feet registered, as what seemed like a hundred men entered the small inner courtyard, dressed in bright red tunics, with shields and javelins. The gladiator was unperturbed by this display of Roman authority, keeping me on his lap, while an indolent grin spread across his face. I recognized the two soldiers from just minutes ago, and they glared angrily.

  “You’re a foolish man,” I murmured.

  He slapped the outer part of my thigh. “Off you go, little wench. You’ve been a delightful diversion.”

  It bothered me immensely that I had been so easily dismissed, but what had I expected? He would be executed for his behavior, and I would never see him again. For someone with a death sentence, he seemed entirely detached and blasé in his carriage and demeanor. I snatched the package off the ground and worked my way around the soldiers, while curious glances followed me.

  “She is easy on the eyes, isn’t she?” taunted the gladiator. “While she spurned you Roman lot, she gave her kisses to me, freely. I’d have had my cock in her in five minutes, if you hadn’t interrupted. But the women always swoon for the gladiators, don’t they?”

  My face burned with shame. Oh! The arrogance!

  “Your name, slave?” demanded a tall, dark-haired soldier.

  Mortification had me slinking from the courtyard, but not before I heard his answer.

  “I’m Marcus Ahala. My master is the Dominus of the house of Getha.”

  The shock of this announcement had me tripping over my own sandals. It felt like a plank had sideswiped me. I had just met my master’s newest gladiator.

  Chapter Three

  I hoped that the swiftness of my feet would make up for the time I had lost in the courtyard. Knowing that the gladiator belonged to the house of Getha, my fear of his execution had diminished. The senator would secure his release easily, being a man of great power and fortune.

  Since having been sold, I now found myself living in a majestic villa in one of the Seven Hills of Rome, overlooking the sprawling city. Neatly arranged walls gave way to the homes of the elite, with their expansive gardens, multistoried floors, and indoor plumbing. This was a sharp contrast to the squalor of the slums, which most of the populous lived in, built from straw and clay and crude bricks.

  Hastening through the gate, I wound my way around the back of the building, using the slave entrance, while guests and the Getha family entered through one of two front doors. There was activity today because of the feast tonight, and the aroma of something delicious lingered in the air. I passed the kitchen with its cooking fires and worktables, walking briskly to the stairs leading to my mistress’s chamber. The sound of a baby crying echoed in the otherwise quiet house, the baby belonging to my mistress. Seneca was a fussy toddler, and his screeching was an annoyance, especially in the early hours of the morning.

  “Where have you been?” a familiar voice asked.

  I turned to see Alba, Mistress Getha’s slave. “I have a story for you.”

  “She’s in a mood today, Floriana. We’ve come and gone to the baths, but she’s still unhappy.”

  Octavia was prone to mood swings, which I was only beginning to adjust to. “I’ll make her happy with a beautiful wig. When she sees herself in it, she’ll find her humor again.”

  “She hates what we’ve done to her stola. I wish I were more skilled. I’d die if I were demoted to the kitchen.”

  I had an eye for design, having a natural skill at crafts and painting. My previous owner, Master Macer, had been generous in every extreme, teaching me to read and giving me art lessons. I was fully aware of how lucky I was, which had saved me from a lesser life.

  “I’ll help you with it, but I have to make this wig. I’ve had such an adventure.”

  “What happened to your hair?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it.”

  In a small room off my mistress’s chamber, we sat at a table that held a basket filled with needles, thread, and glue. I would use Alba for the correct measurements. The inner portion of the wig consisted of thin straps of woven leather. The hair would be meticulously attached, sewn with thread, and glued in places. I talked while I worked.

  “I was attacked by soldiers. They were going to rape me.”

  Alba’s eyes widened. “Why is that not a surprise?”

  “I need to be more careful. I’m always lost in Esquiline.”

  “That’ll pass with time.”

  My fingers worked dexterously, as I sewed small clumps of hair to the leather. “Don’t you want to know how I escaped?”

  “Of course.”

  “A gladiator saved me.”

  “You lie!” Her smile revealed charming dimples.

  “No. It’s true.”

  Her look was dubious. “Stop fibbing.”

  “He fought the soldiers. They scurried away like the cowards they are. He broke one of their arms. Don’t you want to know who he was?”

  She shrugged. “You always have the best adventures.”

  “It wasn’t an adventure. I was terrified.”

  “Was he handsome or was his face all mangled?”

  “He was scarred, but he was handsome.” Remembering the kiss, I felt suddenly warm. “You’ll faint when you hear who he is.”

  “Go on.”

  “Marcus Ahala.”

  Her mouth fell open. “You jest!”

  “I swear on the gods, Alba. I was rescued by our Dominus’s newest acquisition. But…” I smiled slightly, “he’s in trouble, of course. Master Getha will be angry. Marcus struck me as insolent and proud.”

  “He’s a novicii. He has yet to fight in the arena. That behavior will be beaten out of him in due time. He’d have to be a free man to behave that way. A slave wouldn’t dare.”

  “I suppose. He must be auctorati then. That does explain a few things.”

  She eyed me shrewdly. “He’s ma
de an impression on you. You like him.”

  “Not at all. I found him boorish and rude.”

  “And now he’ll be in this house. You’ll see him often.”

  “No. The ludus is next door.”

  “That’s only a stone’s throw away.”

  I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’m my mistress’s slave.”

  Alba leaned in conspiratorially. “You’ve not been here long enough to know what goes on. Now that the Dominus has returned, you’ll see what perversions he’s inclined to.”

  This had my attention. I had heard the rumors. “What? Tell me.”

  “He enjoys watching the gladiators and the slaves.” Her insinuating look spoke volumes.

  Just the thought of Marcus’s hands on me again made my tummy tingle. “Go on.”

  “I suggest you hide behind your mistress’s skirts, Floriana. Do not draw his attention. He prefers the younger girls, and…you would interest him.”

  “Have…have you been forced…”

  “Yes.” Her head dropped. “Several times.”

  I touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s our lot to please our masters. Just as we must please our mistress.”

  That brought a rush of heat through me. Octavia enjoyed the personal attention of her slaves. We were required to satisfy her using our tongues and fingers. The sound of a baby crying was a sudden distraction. Seneca fussed in another room.

  “I need to get this done.” I held the beginnings of the wig. The newly attached hair shone in the light of a small window.

  “That’ll be lovely.”

  “It had better be, otherwise I’ll be punished for my failure.”

  “Surely.”

  Hours later, after the task was done, I stopped by the kitchen to eat a small bowl of porridge with cheese and olive oil. The Domina spent the rest of the afternoon having her bronze skin powdered to milky-white perfection, as was the custom.

  Upon seeing the finished product, Octavia clapped her hands together and exclaimed, “Mirus, Floriana! You’ve created another masterpiece.”

  The back of the wig held a huge, braided bun, while the front was layered in tight curls that rose several inches above her head. It was a miracle of construction. A diadem of silver and gold completed the look. Her silken stola was made of the finest material, reaching to her ankles. A shawl wrapped over her left shoulder, under the right arm, and then over the left arm.

  “I have the best ornatrice in Rome,” gushed Octavia. She patted her head, smiling with satisfaction.

  “Yes, mistress,” I murmured, bowing my head.

  “You’re excused.”

  “Thank you, mistress.”

  Exhausted, I retired to my room, which I shared with Alba and another slave. The sounds of a cornu, with its deep, buzzing tones resonated throughout the villa. I sat by the window and watched as brightly covered coaches arrived, along with guests on foot, who strolled amongst clay pots, filled with oil, illuminating the way. I used this time to rest, knowing that once the evening had ended, my mistress would require I attend her. My bed, which was a thick mat on the floor, was utterly comfortable, and, as I lay upon it, I closed my eyes and slept.

  A strong hand shook me. “What is it?” I asked, drowsily.

  Decima knelt before me. “Mistress Getha has called for us.”

  “Yes, of course.” I tried to shake off the haze that felt like a leaden blanket. I had duties to perform. The house was oddly silent tonight, with only a hooting owl in the courtyard. “Where’s the master?”

  “He went to a brothel.”

  “Oh.”

  Several lamps lit the hallway, casting shadows against the frescos on the wall, which depicted happy, rural scenes. Octavia’s bedchamber was luxuriously appointed with a large bed draped in lavender damask. The headboard was inlaid with shell and ivory. There was a mosaic table with two chairs and a cathedra, which was my mistress’s favorite chair. The sloping back was perfect for lounging and applying makeup.

  She stood before the open window, the sheer curtains moving in the soft wind. “Tonight was a smashing success.”

  Decima and I bowed our heads, murmuring, “Yes, mistress.”

  Her robe was transparent; the white fabric clung to her curves, emphasizing the smallness of her breasts. “Our newest acquisition will elevate our position.” She sat on the cathedra, reclining, letting the front of the garment gape. “It would be marvelous to win in the arena. It happens so seldom.” Her features weren’t unpleasant, but I found her nose slightly too long for my tastes, although her eyes were large and expressive. She carried herself with the natural grace born from the knowledge that she was superior to the rest of us. “Training begins tomorrow. There’s nothing quite like grown men sweating and grunting.” She sighed. “My goodness. Just thinking about it makes me warm in places.” Her hand stroked her thigh, as she spread her legs marginally. “I’ve been in a state all night wondering what it would feel like to have the rough hands of Marcus Ahala on me. What a fantasy. I’d never let that heathen touch me, mind you, but the thought is wicked.”

  “Yes, mistress,” murmured Decima. “It is.”

  “Have you ever had intercourse, Floriana?”

  “No, mistress.”

  She smiled smugly, a secretive glimmer shone in her eye. “Shall we plan your ravishment? Do you want to remain a virgin?”

  “I…I…bow to your wishes, mistress.” This conversation was disturbing.

  Her hand had drifted to her stomach, where her soft skin jiggled slightly. “Let’s imagine his hands on your thighs and his lips on your mouth. Have you ever been kissed?”

  It was ironic that the very person she spoke of had been the first to kiss me. “Yes.”

  “Just think of his big, scarred hands on your stomach, moving towards your thighs.” As she spoke, she stroked herself, her finger dipping into her pussy. “Oohhh…just the idea of it is making me drip, my darlings.”

  I cast a worried glance at Decima. She stared straight ahead impassively.

  “Come to me now,” entreated Octavia. “I have something that needs attention. You’re going to make me moan with pleasure.”

  “Yes, Mistress Getha,” we uttered obsequiously.

  Chapter Four

  Since being sold to the house of Getha, I had been introduced to several new vocational skills, which I found surprisingly pleasant. At first, I had been shocked and repelled, but since those early days, my views had changed drastically. My mistress loved sex; she adored it. She was a demanding, yet giving, taskmaster, who craved attention from our tongues and fingers, but she also required that we seek our own satisfaction, as this seemed to arouse her even more. As a consequence, my body began to hum with sensual vibrancy, knowing that not only would our mistress scream with release; the same could be said of us, her humble slaves.

  She held out her arms. “Come to me.” Decima and I approached. She lounged seductively, one slim leg crossed over the other. “Undress now.”

  In the softened glow of lamplight, we began to remove our tunics, the garments falling to the floor. We stood in only our underthings, made of soft leather, which we soon discarded as well. A rectangular piece of polished metal stood against the wall, a sort of mirror, which revealed our naked forms. My body was lean and strong, the result of daily jaunts to the market and running up and down the stairs to serve my Domina. My breasts rose before me firm and high; they had never experienced the ravages of childbirth. The tininess of my waist emphasized the graceful curves of my hips, which descended to pale, shapely thighs. The plump cheeks of my buttocks exposed the generosity of my genetic make up. Thick, shiny strands of hair fell down my back, the longest wisps nearly touching my bottom.

  Octavia sat up, reaching for us, her hands skimming our breasts. “You’re so young and pretty. I’d be envious, if you weren’t slaves.” Her touch was light, yet exploratory, as a finger toyed with the hardened pebble of my nipple. She glanced at me. “You, my pet
, are flawless. The sweetness of your face and those bee-stung lips. I can’t wait to feel them on my cunt.” Decima was on the other side of the chair. “Make me moan, my slaves. Worship at my altar. Do it now.”

  She smelled of rose perfume, which barely masked the rank odor of her makeup, which had yet to be removed. The whiteness of her face was a stark contrast to her olive limbs and belly, which had not received the coating of powder that all but obscured her face, neck, and chest. Her eyes had been darkened with kohl; the concoction of ash and soot needed to be retouched, as flakes had fallen to her cheeks.

  Decima kissed her thigh, while her fingers stroked and massaged, pressing into doughy flesh. “Yes,” she breathed. “That’s it.” I followed suit kissing her leg, flicking my tongue out and tasting the saltiness of her skin. “Oh, yes.” She settled into the chair, lying back with her chin up, as her pert breasts jiggled; enormous, circular dark patches surrounded the nipples.

  There was movement by the door. It was Alba. “I’ve brought you wine, mistress.”

  “Yes, wine.” She sounded drugged.

  My hand progressed upwards along the inner portion of her thigh, nearing the shaved mound of her pubis, which we stripped of hair regularly with an eight-inch strigil. This procedure sometimes nicked our mistress, leaving small red streaks around the inner folds of her genitals. Even with these dangers, she demanded that we remove or pluck every remaining hair. While Alba poured wine, Decima ran her tongue across the hairless mound, pressing into the sensitive portion of flesh that concealed her clitoris.

  “Ooohhh…yeeees…” she hissed through her teeth.

  “Your body is as heavenly as Venus, mistress,” cooed Alba. It pleased her to be flattered, even if our words stretched the truth.

  “Ooommm…”

  Decima spread her scalloped flesh, revealing the inner folds of her cunt, exposing a small black hole that emanated a musky scent. I toyed with it, dipping the tip of my finger into the wetness and retreating. Alba’s hands were on my shoulders; her mouth was near my ear.