Faustina and the Barbarians (2 page)

One day I was thus engaged, with the whole tree shaking as one fucked me and the other fondled himself with a free hand as he tried to keep my calves around his friend’s neck, when the sound of girlish moaning came unmistakably from nearby. There, up several branches in the adjoining tree, was a pretty young girl with pigtails almost as long as the bare jiggling legs hanging down either side of the thick branch. She was watching us while obviously in the throes of orgasm. Never one to willingly interrupt another woman’s pleasure, I watched her spend herself furiously against the branch, one hand buried between her milky thighs, the other rubbing the balls of her breasts round and round through her thin frock.
 

“Come down here at once,” I ordered.

Eventually she slipped down and my boys let out a confirming groan of recognition.

“It’s Brunhild. Shit!”

“Girl, do you know it is death to intrude upon the business of Rome?” The still bursting cock of Roderic, who’d been holding my legs, chose this moment to discharge against my thigh. Brunhild laughed, and my spell of authority was broken.
 

“But you will all die if I tell Athalaric.”

She was certainly a bold Gothic lassie, and as you know, I revere boldness.

“What is it you want, my dear?” I asked, stepping forward, loading my finger with the warm cum on my thigh and bringing it appraisingly to my lips.

“I want to play with you.”

We really had no choice. But thankfully Brunhild was an invaluable addition to our team. She had nursed a tremendous double crush on both Roderic and Ricimer since she was a child and it was her lust for my boys she wanted seeing to first. We bathed in the little stream that gurgled through the bottom of the clearing, had a light snack and set to work satisfying our potential informer.

I spread her arms along the branch we had recently vacated, stripped off her short frock and, pouring some fragrant oil over her taut young buttocks, administered a massage, my fingers slipping in to her cunnus and eliciting deep-throated moans. I oiled my other hand and massaged her breasts, all while the boys watched. I couldn’t understand why they hadn’t fucked her previously, she was extremely pretty and inspiringly uninhibited. Soon I noticed my cocks were in full bloom, for I was naked too, and the oil was spilling over my rhythmically working breasts and down my thighs. I felt a cock entering me from the back already but jerked aside, and after working Brunhild’s arse and thighs and breasts until they gleamed like the very skin of the Sun, I steered one stiffly elongated prick into her arsehole and the other, from the other side, into her copiously moistened young cunnus. I then left the boys to pump away while I went for a horse crop. It was a beautiful day. Returning, I set to whipping the boys’ sweating muscle-rippling buttocks to greater efforts, though Brunhild was near screaming with ecstasy already, a little too loudly. I closed her mouth with mine and.... It’s from this occasion that my odd forays into Lesbia’s territory begin.
 

As I sucked at those ripe lips, Roderic came, and then, shortly after, Ricimer. But I hadn’t heard the final ecstasy break from Brunhild. The boys fell back on the grass. I untied her and pushing her down between them pushed apart her sweat-soaked thighs and thrust my tongue into her tenderised cunnus. I’d never suspected I had a hidden talent for cunnilingus, Flavia. The boys evinced not a little jealousy as I made Brunhild groan, plead, beg, and rave for mercy. I bade them pin her arms and tongued her some more. Then I lay inverted upon her, exposing my quim to her mouth, and ordered her to tongue me, which she did with alacrity, despite her near faintingness. And, thus, tongues in
 
each other's cunnus, we both came together, rattling like two furious turtles in the same shell.

But, my dear Flavia, I must rush to close this letter, for I hear a slave calling me with some urgency.

Our happiness in that sun-kissed grove was short lived. Somehow Athalaric’s alliance with Flaccus was discovered, though our Brunhild was not the whistleblower. In a savage flash of revolt, Athalaric was executed. Roderic and Ricimer managed to flee, and I, now legitimate war booty, was brought bound hand and foot before the new Chief, a horrible, pox-faced runt of a Goth with rotten teeth. And worse, he was Christian.

I was given a choice before this halitosis-soaked tribunal. I could either be given a head start before being hunted down by the Chief and his men or handed over to his elite personal bodyguard. The word ‘bodyguard’ immediately aroused my interest.

“Pusillanimous wretch!” I rose to my full height, stretching my bonds with out-thrust breasts.

“You dare address a descendent of the Emperor Maximian without kneeling? On your knees, vassal.”

This unexpected reprimand took the grin off the wretch’s face in an instant.

“Faustina Maxima laughs at your threats, pig. Do you think the might of Eternal Rome rests only in Her armies? Bring on your ‘bodyguards’, as many as have the spunk to confront me, and I shall show you what one Roman woman can do.” You could’ve heard a hairpin drop in that tent, let me tell you. I can’t say I felt as fearless as I spoke, but I certainly wasn’t about to be hunted through the woods like a slave or a dog. How could I explain it at my next cocktail party?

The Chief was obviously afraid of losing face in front of his new retainers and, ruffling up his wrinkles like an old rooster, addressed me,
 

“If you are still standing and breathing after one hour with my men I will consider letting you live… as my slave, Roman whore.”

“I spit on your mercy, cur. Enough. Bring on your men.”

The tent was cleared and eight of the tallest, most muscled, most gorgeous specimens of Gothic manhood filed in, stark naked. I looked each in the eyes. One or two might cause me some difficulty, but they were all men, and, being men, already intimidated by Faustina Maxima.
 

“Let the games begin,” I mocked.

A slave stripped off my bonds and the shreds of my dress. I faced them, hands on hips, breasts like shield-bosses, and beckoned them with a crooked finger.

They circled me, eyeing my exposed treasures, becoming hard. Suddenly, one had me from behind and was inserting a thick cock into my cunnus. I fell to working it immediately. There are certain moves, a kind of pyrrhic pelvic-vaginal dance, which I had studied and which can get the cum out of a man’s cock very rapidly. Coupled with a stream of verbal instigations, I’ve reduced hundreds of men to a state of non-plussed premature ejaculation. None of my warriors were quite ready for this. Crooning Ovid, and some of our lesser erotic poets, while simultaneously enveloping that first punctum in increasingly tight loops of raking rhythm, I brought it to spasm. He shot and fell back, with a bemused look on his face. The next one thrust precipitately into my anus, while another got me to my knees and pushed a great vein-engorged bulla into my mouth. This enabled me to get a balance of work rhythms that complemented each other. I sucked and blew hard and fast, in tandem with the masticating contractions of my sphincter. This was hard work, but as with all work, the secret is to enjoy it. Fortunately, I bore my warriors no ill-will; to disobey the Chief meant instant death. And thankfully, they were beautiful specimens. These thoughts spurred me to new efforts, and within seconds my arse and mouth were sticky with cum. Immediately, another began to blunder his punctum into my vacated mouth. I grabbed it, turned him around, and wanking the bemused warrior, and squeezing his balls hard, I pulled him toward the Chief, who was sitting jacking himself off, and fired its contents into his lap. The spent cocks had recharged themselves, but at the end of the hour I was proudly standing, as the bodyguards lay panting, one or two beatifically, soaked in sweat.

Suddenly, the back of the tent was rent asunder and in flew Roderic and Ricimer! They grabbed the Chief and, throwing a cloak over me, hustled us out to their waiting horses.

The Chief sobbed for mercy as we paused in the woods close to Flaccus’ headquarters.
 

“Stifle your sobs, Christian. I am merciful to my slaves, whose grateful ranks you have now joined.”

The boys became decorated army auxiliaries, and I saw them often, secretly, before we finally lost touch.

My darling, the Gods be praised. Flaccus is dead! His brains dashed out after falling off a cliff in pursuit of the goat herder’s son. I’m free. I am leaving this accursed rock.

I shall be with you in Rome.

Chapter Two

To: Flavia Maxima, Constantinople

From: Faustina Maxima, Aldenburgensis, September 411

My darling Flavia, wing-footed Mercury speed this letter to you full of a mother-in-law’s most ardent blessings. I’d been back in Rome almost five months and I still couldn’t get used to the fact that you were not there. I read and reread the letter you left me, along with the keys to your house. Thank you so much for those, my dear. I really didn’t relish the idea of house hunting in the summer months in Rome.

You are right in your suspicions—they confirm me in my feeling that you are shaking off that pernicious naivety of yours and, belatedly, growing up—my son had you removed to Constantinople less out of concern to keep you safe from the lustful Goths than to protect you from what he calls my ‘pagan immorality’. But I have no doubt that you will soon be free of him. Yes! You must accept that private dinner invitation from Symmachus. I knew his father, a beautiful man who spawned a beautiful son. And I have no doubt that Symmachus is as discrete and gentlemanly as his father was. He will make a perfect lover. And, though I see your pretty features pout, I will repeat again, make the most of your youth for it flies quickly. But to business… I have much to tell you before my departure for Britain. That fog-shrouded rain-swept island where the sun never shines? Yes, a thousand times yes, for it’s home to one of the most splendid men I’ve ever had the good fortune to meet: the Count Comminilingus. And though I love Rome with all my soul, I shan’t be sorry to leave it, for a while at least—and do I not carry the best of Rome within me, wherever I wander?—for it’s become a dreadful bore of a place. All of the best pagan temples torn down or converted into churches. Bishops and priests thick as buzzing flies in dispute over the latest theological turd. The best of the bathhouses closed because of ‘immoral behaviour’—as if we went to the baths for anything else. And half of the bars and taverns of my youth converted into shops selling over-priced trinkets for gullible tourists. Apart from all this what really galled me—for I’ll tell you in a moment what I did about it—was the continual moaning about how Rome was finished simply because a few hundred Goths had gotten in and carted off a few wagonloads of gold and silverplate. It was through the lazy perfidy of our Emperor Honorius—was ever a son less like his bold martial father Theodosius the Great?—that Alaric the Gothic leader, who really only wanted to settle in one of our most modest provinces and become Roman, was practically compelled, as a matter of honour, to encamp beneath the walls of Rome. And as you may know by now, the Goths would never have gotten in had not a group of disaffected plebeians opened the Salarian Gate to them.

Sneaking treachery of this kind has always infuriated me, and I swore to avenge the Gods and the divine Emperors by doing something about it, and rousing the senate and people of Rome to shake off their self-pity and face up to the conditions of our chaotic modern age.

I decided to track down the slaves responsible and have their heads—and I don’t mean the ones between their cur-like shoulders.

I was pleased to find that the name of Faustina Maxima still had much influence in Rome, particularly among the upper classes, though it was not they who could help me much in my detective work. No, it was the mob, the plebs alone who could help me. And though, these days, they hardly care who runs the City and the Empire, a Gothic puppet Emperor like the ill-advised Attalus or the useless Honorius, as long as they get enough food and wine and entertainment, they hate traitors as much as I do.

It was among the populace in the quarter around the Salarian Gate that I deployed a group of well-paid spies who would receive a bonus for any information leading me to the betrayers of our Eternal City.

It was only a matter of weeks before I had a shortlist of the most likely candidates. Three in particular seemed to have gone from being butchers and barmen to rich slave-owning businessmen virtually overnight. A real ‘tunica to toga’ story almost unheard of among the lower orders.

And then, one excessively hot early evening I was brought confirmation that it was indeed a Felix Quislincus, Caecilius Gallus, and Rufinius Lucanus who were responsible for admitting the Goths. After careful preparation, and making myself look as plebeian as it is possible for me, with my fiercely blue blood, to look, I headed for the address of Quislincus, in the Alta Semita district.
 

I was admitted into the brand new and ostentatiously tasteless inner courtyard of Quislincus’ house and told he wasn’t at home. But he was nearby, in the Gardens of Sallust. An antoninianus in the slave’s palm bought me agreement to be guided to him immediately.
 

The ornamental gardens were packed with people vainly trying to escape the evening’s unabated heat. While the plebs swatted away the flies with cheap straw hats, the rich lay with their fat arses ensconced behind screens and silk tents, being fanned by slaves. It was behind one of these all-encompassing screens that the traitor and his two confederates, along with a fourth who looked suspiciously like a senator, were enjoying their picnic.
 

The comestibles had all been finished and the men lay sprawled with golden goblets slopping with what smelled like a delicious Apianum, their couches arranged around what was, despite my unwillingness to be distracted from the job in hand, a most arousing entertainment.

A beautiful young slave girl, the tips of her golden hair brushing the roundels of a tight plump little arse, was groaning atop a huge African slave in the seated scissors position. Have you tried this one yet, Flavia? If not, I can’t recommend it strongly enough.