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“No gods… no masters…”
A stinging backhand struck across your cheek and jerked your head to the side, a headache coming as your head was already bobbing listlessly up and down from the incessant pounding assault from below. The thrusts of his hips were brutal, erratic. You knew the taste of coppery sanguine from his rings splitting your lip wide open.
This was of course by design, purely by your own allowance. Should you want to, you could just as easily regain control of him, but you allowed Geta to take his pleasure as if overtaken by rut.
And you loved every minute of the pain he inflicted in a bid for domination.
“You will not speak of gods or masters. You will only speak of me! You are mine, and mine alone. Now say it. To whom do you belong?”
Parched lips split into a wide grin. You knew then that among all the things he tolerated about you, he would never tolerate your flagrant disregard for authority, nor your atheistic views.
Cockhead stabbing at your cervix, he drilled into you as though he was a farmer armed with an aratrum, determined to sow the seeds of his bastards inside you. In a frenzied moment of madness, you hoped one would take. Even if it left you gravid and vulnerable.
To be used and manhandled as per your consent was the first stroke of indulgence you had experienced in this place. Such was an indulgence not to be overlooked. It was a blessing. A kindness
Such kindness was foreign to you in this land. To Rome you were an aberration — the northern barbarian— your foreign blood was meant to be proffered as libation to the gods, your body merely altar bread to be thrown into the colosseum for the rats to consume.
Yet Geta saw in you something more.
By some twisted miracle of fate, you snatched freedom out of the hands of desperate half-starved men; they who were unused to the sting of hunger deep in their bellies stood no chance against your determination to survive. What was suffering to you? Nothing more than an itch of an insect bite. Meaningless. Worth less than, because, at the very least, the itch of the bite was acknowledged with a scratch. When nursed by clansmen in the piercing gales blowing across the glacier’s barren face, the only thing that mattered was the struggle.
Struggle to overcome the cold.
To survive to see each morning sun, shining against the blue ice and snow.
You did survive. Using a blade made strong from the bones of your ancestors, you cleaved that freedom from the enemies of the Romans to choose this life.
The co-emperor had asked what you wanted with this new found freedom. Despite the fact that you were a woman missing your lower lip, and plagued with blindness of one eye, Geta had offered you a choice. No law existed for free women, only free men were expected to live to tell the tale of their colosseum victory, living lower than the slaves in Rome’s underbelly.
Geta’s cruelty would have sealed your fate had you been taken under different circumstances. Aberrant conquests were plucked out specifically as offerings to Caracalla, lesser goods bestowed to his lesser brother to be ejaculated in and on. Had you not shown your ability as the strongest fighter the colosseum had known, Geta would have given you to his brother on a silver platter.
Yet he worried about you beating his poor, weak minded sibling into bloody pap with nothing but fists. Poor, simpering little Caracalla would never stand a chance before you castrated him in a blind rage.
Admittedly, Geta was intimidated himself. It took six men to hold back your berserker strength, and you did not calm down until a blade was held to your throat. He did not expect anything less than for you to ask for a seat as a general, to demand a place in his army barracks. He would have given it freely too. Anything to keep you out of the streets where the senate feared you would begin a massacre of the people in bitter vengeance for your capture.
In your northern tongue, you made one request, translated by a warrior — frightened army fodder— who just so happened to know your language.
You wanted Him.
You wanted Geta.
“Sire, the barbarian… She says she is the sword forged in the ashes of her kin. She is the war bringer, the northern wind that can cripple the Roman empire. She is the free will that defies the hand of the gods… Her only request is that she wishes to take whoever she so chooses to bed — for this night and all the nights after, and she has chosen you.”
Any lesser man would have laughed. Made light of the wish. Geta’s generals had laughed. Hard. Teasing and baiting the mutilated free woman who had the audacity to lust for the glimmering, golden perfection of the co-emperor.
But the emperor’s genitals had other motives, and instantly sprung to life at the mere mention of the request.
You saw it. Trying to maintain your composure, you turned your head to face his arousal with your eagle eye.
A desireable lemgth. Uncut, favoring to the left.
Clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth, you called to the emperor, like a man catcalling a prostitute.
Geta’s erect penis tented under the deep indigo of his toga picta when he heard this click. A primal response to a primitive call.
A call to he who looked into your one good eye, and saw passionate fire burning in your iris.
You knew he was yours from that moment on.
“Tame me…” you had told him, words translated by the frightened warrior, “Make me docile… Take me on the ground in the way that the animals do.”
His amber eyes darkened.
He would make you tame, and take you on the ground on all fours, like the animals took their mates.
You would become concubina to the co-emperor. Just as you asked.
“You will not defy me with your silence, heathen!”
The emperor hissed into your ear through clenched teeth, his shaking body bringing you out of an orgasmic trance as he ceased jerking you back and forth, spearing you on his length.
“I am your master, your commander, your ruler. Say it.” He demanded.
“You are… my Geta-…” you began.
The emperor’s hand lashed at your cheek once again. Harder. With purpose. His fingers tangled into your knotted hair as he yanked your head back. His other hand gripped your hip, holding you in place as he looked into your one good eye. You would not be permitted to use such affectionate familiarity while in the throes of being taken like a beast.
“No… you will address me as your emperor.” he hissed.
He leaned forward. Warm, boozy breath against your skin. Hot, dripping wet tongue lathing in your ear canal.
“I am your emperor, not ‘your Geta’. I am your ruler, your master… your commander... I alone will decide whether or not you are to live, or to die. Now say it. Say it, heathen of the north.”
“Mu… my G…”
It almost slipped out on accident. Pure reflex and poor command of the Roman tongue made you seem incompetent in his eyes. You could see his ring adorned hand ball into a fist in warning, could already taste the golden bands even though they were nowhere near you yet.
You decided enough was enough. You needed more. You needed to take your pleasure, aching and throbbing with need around his cock shaft.
“My Emperor…” you whispered, the word foreign on your tongue as you mispronounced it.
Geta’s body stilled.
My Emperor…
It had come out of your mouth all wrong, mispronounced and uncertain. But to him, it was a start. Something to be worked with. His fingers loosened in your hair, hand moving to cup your neck, a gentle touch as he throbbed inside you.
“Again…” he murmured, voice soft and commanding.
“My Emperor…”
In a single fluid movement you contracted around him, his eyes nearly fluttering shut as his brow wrinkled. Geta was holding back, the moan catching in his throat as he remained stoic.
“Say it again…” he said, voice strained, “Sweet siren, sing your song once more…!”
“My Emperor… Princeps… Augustus… Imperator…”
When he heard these titles, you felt his heart thrash against your back. In a frenzied stutter his hips began moving involuntarily, utterly captivated in his rhythmic dance of taking pleasure. You responded in kind. Mouth open, tongue lolling out to catch the warm, wine tinged saliva he spit into your mouth.
“Again…!” He croaked.
This time, he held back no shameful sound of lovemaking. His voice was cracked, thrusts becoming erratic as he pumped in and out, pace quickening with anticipation. Low, tantalizing bleats of erotic mania escaped from his ruddy lips. One ringed hand wrapped around your thick neck, squeezing the breath from you with one hand as the other was coated in slick spit, fully intent on either slapping your firm buttocks or your face. Whatever was more convenient depending on your answer.
He would not abate his abuse until you said it again. Would not allow you the sweet release of climax until you screamed his name to the heavens, to the gods you didn’t believe in, to all of Rome should he have commanded it.
“Princeps…!” You keened.
And you were rewarded. Two moistened fingers, vigorously creating friction against your clitoral hood.
His title left your mouth in a wail as you sprayed his sheets with the aftermaths of ecstasy.
“Imperator… Imperator…!”