The Conqueror, page 3
One time only, he would show Gwen pleasure—the best he could give. Then…he would wait. For as long as it took. And if Gwen never wanted him after that, Marcus would…well, he would accept it, though he did not know how, or what he would do.
Tonight, however, he gently separated himself from the temptation of Gwen’s body. He showed the druid around the house—the man seemed impressed with it, luxury that it was compared to the hovel he had lived in before. Marcus gave Gwen the bed, and laid out his own bed roll before the hearth in the front room. Gwen seemed confused, but he did not protest.
The next day, Marcus went out, and when he returned, he had gifts.
Clothes—a tunic, like Romans wore, made of finer stuff than Gwen had probably ever worn, although it was perfectly common and ordinary. A much nicer cloak, and larger—better suited to concealing him, if needed. Shoes. A new loincloth—Gwen’s had been burned in his hut. He also brought a long shirt and trousers, like the Britons wore, in case Gwen felt uncomfortable in Roman clothing.
There were other things, but he did not offer them right away. They were for later use.
The clothing alone, however, seemed to utterly astound Gwen. The man ran his hands over the tunic like he had never felt anything so fine as common linen—his people, Marcus had observed, wore mostly wool. Gwen’s eyes were filled with questions, but he didn’t have the language to ask them.
“Tunic,” Marcus supplied, touching the garment. “Gwen tunic.”
“Tunikh?” Gwen reached out and touched Marcus’ shoulder. “Mahrkhus tunikh?”
Nodding, he touched his own clothing, then the one Gwen held. “Marcus tunic. Gwen tunic.”
The druid spread his hands out, eyes and mouth open in a voiceless question. Marcus just smiled. “Gwen tunic.” He held it up against Gwen. “Go on, put it on.” Then he turned his back to give the man privacy.
A pause—then Marcus heard the shuffling of fabric as the robe dropped. After a moment, he heard, “Mahrkhus.” Turning, he saw Gwen standing there in the tunic, tugging the hem down uneasily.
He smiled broadly. He couldn’t help it. “Good,” he murmured. His eyes took in the sight with appreciation. Gwen’s slim form was suited to a tunic. His arms and legs were strong, but with a wiry leanness unlike Marcus’ bulkier muscles. The tunic showed innocent amounts of white skin scattered with dark blond hair, but Marcus’ lust climbed higher for the modest display. He had seen enough naked whores to last him a lifetime in Rome. He found he much preferred a view like this—simple, with the most secret parts hidden. For now.
Marcus had food and drink, too—the best he could procure, which was far better than camp fare. He prepared meat and ale and fed his guest on venison and pheasant and bread and cheese and even a few early wild berries. Gwen ate, his surprise slowly fading into a cautious smile. Marcus named each food as he offered it, and Gwen softly repeated the words, in his thick accent.
As night fell, Marcus rose. He faced the bedroom, but turned back to Gwen and held out his hand. “Gwen?”
The barbarian met his eyes…and understood.
He rose and placed his hand in Marcus’. He seemed…accepting. At peace, but not exactly eager. It seemed like he had been waiting for this, and was not surprised that the time had come. As Marcus drew him into the bedroom, Gwen let himself be led, but the sadness was back in his eyes, and the flickers of smiles he had been showing earlier now faded.
Still hopeful, Marcus brought Gwen into the bedroom and guided him to sit on the bed. Then, he bent and placed a sweet kiss on Gwen’s lips. Just a simple kiss, a sign of affection. With that, he drew back, and the next thing he did was disrobe. Completely.
Gwen watched, surprised as Marcus stripped off everything he wore. Gwen’s expression seemed conflicted—a little curious at what Marcus was doing, a little sad; perhaps because he took the nudity as confirmation of what Marcus wanted from him.
Naked now, Marcus went to Gwen, spoke his name softly, and slowly undressed him, too. He carefully laid aside his clothing, but left Gwen in his loincloth. Then he produced his most expensive purchase—a bottle of olive oil from the distant Aegean Sea. He slid down to sit behind Gwen and, with oiled hands, began to caress his shoulders and back.
Though Gwen’s body was not especially stiff, he was very still. He did not respond to the touches, not to resist or to embrace them, but it didn’t matter. Marcus rubbed up and down his arms until they were glistening with oil and the muscles had to be soft and loose. He paid even more attention to Gwen’s back, then moved his hands around to his chest and stomach. He did not pull Gwen back against him—he moved forward instead, pressing his chest to Gwen’s oiled back and nuzzling the crook of his neck as his hands worked slowly over the hard, flat chest and lean stomach.
The oil was lightly scented, yet it could not diminish the faint musk of Gwen’s body. Marcus felt lightheaded with the scent of him; he couldn’t stop drawing in deep breaths, brushing his nose into Gwen’s hair. He had been erect since he began to touch the man, and it was a mystery to him. He barely recognized himself, so lost in passion over a sorcerer—a half-wild man from the edge of the world.
Perhaps he had been alone too long. They said it was common for soldiers, and Marcus had made far less use of the women who traveled with the army than most of his fellows. Perhaps it was the eyes. Or the calm serenity in priceless blue, the fearlessness in the face of death that immediately captured his admiration.
“Gwen…” It was a whisper, breathed into the man’s ear. Marcus kneaded thin sides, moving low, down to narrow hips. “Lovely Gwen.” He ran his hands back up the man’s stomach and caressed his chest again. “I want you to enjoy it this time, my treasure. I swear you will. I will give you such perfect pleasure.” Did it matter if the words would not be understood? The tone would surely make his feelings clear.
At the very least, it was having an effect. As Marcus softly murmured in his ear, Gwen’s manhood began to swell. His loincloth could not conceal his growing excitement. Marcus kissed the side of Gwen’s throat and slipped his hands down, but he did not touch his groin. Still spreading oil, he kneaded Gwen’s thighs—and watched as they fell open, without his prompting. Hands moving over the smooth inner thighs, Marcus kissed higher, trailing his way over Gwen’s jaw, seeking his mouth. But he could not reach from behind, not unless…
Gwen offered it. He turned his head and suddenly Marcus had his lips.
As rough as the kisses had been the first time, Marcus made them that much softer now—but no less passionate. Gwen did not respond much, other than to keep his head turned and allow Marcus as much access as he liked. And Marcus took that permission and kissed his captive as he had never kissed anyone in his life.
The touches had become a light caressing, exploring the man’s body. Occasionally, Marcus felt Gwen shiver at his touch—a brush over his nipple, or just above the arch of his hips, or when his fingers crept too high between Gwen’s legs, nearly meeting the tight cloth over his groin. Marcus memorized every spot as he filled Gwen’s mouth with kisses.
Slowly, slowly, Gwen was melting—his muscles went slack, his head fell back to rest upon Marcus’ shoulder, and the rest of his weight soon followed, until Marcus was holding Gwen in his arms, laying back against him, skin against oiled skin. Gwen’s legs had fallen open, spread wide, and he was plainly erect. Though he managed enough control to remain still, his posture begged for pleasure, for Marcus to touch and handle his manhood.
Marcus didn’t—until he felt Gwen respond to his kiss. Just a little—a hesitating brush of his tongue, a press of lips. It made Marcus’ skin prickle with heat, and he thanked Gwen by sliding one hand down his stomach and cupping his clothed erection.
Gwen’s chest expanded under his hands as he gasped. Marcus fondled the proof of his desire, whispering against his lips, his cheek, his eyelashes, “Beautiful Gwen. Beautiful, beautiful Gwen.” His answer was only the sound of panting—hot breath upon his face from Gwen’s parted lips. “You are letting me touch you…letting me have you…I thought you would hate and fear me for raping you.” Gently, he slipped his hand inside the loincloth to caress his prick directly. “I don’t understand, but I am in awe of your kindness.”
Leaning back, he drew Gwen along with him until they were lying on their sides. Marcus kept his arms around the compliant man, his hand gently stroking his erection. “I know…your obedience does not mean you want this. Even this,” he slowly squeezed the length from tip to base, “does not guarantee your heart’s consent. A man’s body is made to respond to touch.” He kept his voice low and purring, even as he voiced his fears. “You might be cooperating to avoid cruelty. You might simply be hoping to escape another painful attack. You might…you might be planning my death. The things you brought from your hut might be magic tools to curse me with, or poison to feed me when I grow too confident of your willingness to remain my prisoner.”
Perhaps he did not keep his fears out of his voice as well as he thought, for Gwen twisted in his arms, rolling onto his back to look up at him with clouded, concerned eyes. “Mahrkhus?”
Marcus kissed his druid on the mouth. His hands slowly began to unbind the loincloth. He sighed, a self-mocking smile on his lips as the kiss ended. “Worried for me again, treasure? Or wishing you had the words to tell me not to touch you?” The loincloth removed, he let his hand return to Gwen’s manhood. His fingertips rubbed the base, then caressed his testicles. Marcus’ voice grew thick. “Bear it for one night, beautiful. I will make your body sing with joy tonight. Then, no more—though lust for you destroy me, I swear I will not touch you again until you come to me and ask for it.”
Gwen stared at him as he spoke, watching and listening with a mix of obvious confusion…and equally obvious arousal. Marcus smiled down into those lovely eyes and murmured, “Beautiful Gwen,” as he bent to kiss the man again, again, and again.
All the way down Gwen’s glistening body, Marcus kissed him. He adored the man as though he were made to godlike perfection, though the reality was far from it. He did not have the perfect proportions of the ideal male, nor the formed muscles of a well-fed young athlete. He was skinny, his strength packed into hard, lean muscles that left knobby joints a little too noticeable for any sculptor to call him admirable. His body hair was light brown and scraggly—now wet and plastered down with oil over his shining, pale white skin.
He would never have caught Marcus’ eye in a Roman bath house, but he had his full attention now.
It had been a long, long time since Marcus had serviced a man, but he didn’t falter in the slightest when he came to the male organ. His lips embraced Gwen’s hard flesh with the relief of one who finally had what he’d been dreaming of. Gwen’s prick was warm in his hands and against his lips; Gwen gasped and tensed at his touch, his breaths coming fast and shaky. Marcus toyed gently with the soft foreskin, but did not pull it down…yet. He slowly took Gwen into his mouth, leaving the sensitive head almost totally covered, and even that seemed to strain the young man’s control. Gwen barely managed to contain his voice; his breathing was loud and strained. Marcus felt hands grasping desperately at him, blunt nails scratching his shoulders, fingers twisting in his short black hair. They tried to push him away, then pulled him closer instead. Marcus sighed with pleasure, glancing up at his captive to see that Gwen’s eyes were closed, his face an erotic mask of confusion, reluctance, and desire. It occurred to Marcus, then, that this act might be entirely new to the barbarian. It seemed, after all, that young Briton men did not have older mentors in their shabby little villages. Perhaps he had never been taught things like this?
Drawing off slowly, Marcus tasted the first hints of Gwen’s flavor before he released the man from his mouth. His prick was already leaking fluid, and Marcus had barely begun. Parting his lips, he kissed down to the base of the shaft, cradling the length in his hand as he moved his mouth to Gwen’s testicles. Here, his sucking kisses lingered longer, and his tongue played over each tender sac. Gwen was so different from the few men Marcus had pleasured before. They had been so much older, nearly elderly. Their members had responded slowly to his ministrations, and their low-hanging balls had been large and dark and loose.
By the gods, Gwen was so much more desirable. His testicles were soft but not saggy, flushed an attractive pink under the dusting of dark hair. His erection dribbled eager juices, and it stood as straight and hard as a marble column. His proportions here were perfect—nether intimidating nor pathetic. A youthful, perfectly formed male—now in Marcus’ hands, shaking with each slide of his tongue over the gentle swell of his sac.
Oh, Marcus could have pleasured him for hours. The gasps, the sharp intakes of air that shuddered with his every touch—Gwen’s responses were tantalizing. Watching his chest heave and his stomach tense and flex as Marcus touched him was more gratifying than the most ecstatic moans he had ever heard. Marcus wanted to revel in every sound, seducing his barbarian until dawn.
To his slight disappointment, however, it was quickly becoming obvious that Gwen would never last until dawn—or, indeed, very long at all, if Marcus continued to fellate him. Sweat shone on his brow, and Marcus relented. His lips tugged slightly on Gwen’s foreskin as he pulled off, and then his hands were guiding the young man, rolling him onto his side, then his stomach. With the palm of his hand, Marcus stroked the flat expanse of Gwen’s pale buttocks. Fingertips caressing over and over, he traced the slight curve at the bottom, where the thigh began. Gwen’s buttocks were like the rest of him—flat and firm, without any soft curves. Marcus’ wife was nothing like Gwen. She had a remarkably ample backside; large, beautiful breasts; soft swells about her middle, her shapely legs, everywhere. She was widely regarded as a great beauty; his fellow soldiers always complimented her—not always politely.
No one would ever praise the beauty of this man—apart from perhaps his eyes, if they noticed—but tonight, as his hands framed Gwen’s backside and his lips pressed fervent kisses to the very base of his spine, Marcus wanted Gwen exactly as he was. Perhaps in the coming weeks, he would see if he could feed Gwen better, but it would not be out of any wish to change him—only to make sure he was healthy and strong.
If Gwen ever came to desire him in return, he would need a great deal of strength and energy for the things they would immediately do together.
Moving downward, Marcus continued to kiss Gwen with an open mouth, tasting the oil on his skin, mixed with salty sweat. Very soon, his mouth reached the crevice between Gwen’s buttocks. His hands gently separated the two sides, allowing him to lick between them, tasting the muskier flavor here as he moved toward the entrance to Gwen’s body.
Silently, Gwen let him proceed. He was braced on his elbows, head bowed, legs spread enough to leave Marcus room between them. When Marcus slid his tongue over wrinkled flesh, lightly probing the opening, Gwen shivered slightly but did not flinch. Marcus bore his silence patiently, but he was a little saddened that Gwen did not even make a sound when Marcus’ tongue slipped inside him. He needed those soft little gasps, needed to know that Gwen felt him.
Supplying himself with more oil, Marcus eased a single finger into the opening. Gwen’s backside clenched for only a moment before he relaxed—Marcus hoped that was a sort of welcome, but he doubted it. A simple lack of resistance, more likely, and Marcus wished he understood what Gwen was thinking and feeling. Perhaps he should try to learn some of the Briton tongue…although Marcus had never been anything but a dullard in such studies. Contemplatively, he eased his finger in and out, stroking Gwen’s warm inner walls. These druids were supposed to be intelligent, educated—for barbarians. Perhaps that didn’t carry them far, compared to the advancements of the Empire, but if Gwen at least had a little more intelligence than the poor brutes the Romans were conquering every day, it might be possible for Marcus to teach him to speak Latin…
“Hahh!”
Marcus looked up, startled. He’d been slowly exploring inside Gwen, searching for his most sensitive spot, and he was hardly surprised to have found it—but this gasp was the first he’d heard of Gwen’s voice since Marcus had begun touching him tonight. It took his breath away.
Suddenly, he could remember their last encounter so vividly—Gwen’s cries and moans and sobs of pleasure, all in that beautiful voice…all nearly forgotten in the silent days since then. And as much as Marcus did not want to repeat the forcefulness of that rape, he ached to hear Gwen’s pleasure-soaked voice again.
Nuzzling Gwen’s backside, he added more oil to his hand and carefully inserted a second finger—first teasing around the rim, then gently pushing inward a little at a time, making certain Gwen would feel no pain at all, just a little more stretch. If he was as inexperienced as he seemed, the stretch might feel odd more than pleasant, so Marcus coaxed his hips to lift a little and allow him to reach under Gwen and lightly pet his still-engorged prick. He cradled it in his palm, squeezing gently, feeling the soft sac rest against his wrist. With a little nudge, Marcus brought Gwen’s testicles back within reach of his mouth, and he licked and kissed and sucked them oh so slowly as his two fingers eased Gwen’s opening wider. Occasionally, he would brush that sensitive spot inside; Gwen did not make another sound, but from the way he shuddered, Marcus knew he felt the deep pleasure of his touch, and he smiled.
How long he spent preparing Gwen’s body, Marcus had no idea. It felt like hours; perhaps it was. But Marcus took every step slowly, patiently—each added finger more careful than the last. He would not take Gwen until he was stretched enough to accommodate a man even larger than Marcus was. It might lessen his own pleasure to insist that Gwen not be left as tight, but he cared more that it would ensure a painless entry for Gwen, when the time came.
