The Conqueror’s Seed

by Riley Magnus

 

It is not the moment before battle that measures a soldier’s resolve. It is instead the vast collections of days, observing the passing of yet another full bellied moon and awaiting the eminent watchword that engagement will in fact surmount, that most effectively confirms the true fiber of a man. Watching vital men grow old, their flesh dissolve from bone and their commitment sorely tested as they struggle to hold themselves steady in wait. This is my gainsay. My challenge. To sustain this army to its dedication until the first cry heralds the conflict. And this, I do as I walk my days among them. Holding myself to the standards I require of them, the consignment I demand. It is the only way I know. They call me General, but I know myself as husband, father, comrade. I answer to Caesar, to Rome. And I pray.

 

Germania. She is a countryside, brutal at best, with the coming winter threatening early arrival, and our major conflict still undetermined. Quintus brings me daily bruit, reporting word of our camp’s disposition, acting as confidant and suggesting comportment necessary to expedite my task. This day, the task at hand? The pronounced suspicion of a spy among us.

 

Our evening meal brought little comfort against the damp bitterness of that night. If not for the congenial company and the nearly inconsequential warmth of the brazier, our discussion would have been more insufferable than the spitting ice floating outside my tent. But I am not a man held comfortable by simple pleasures. I am a man of direct concenter.

 

Sliding my goblet aside, I focused on Quintus, my friend and consociate. He too was holding his concern at bay and I could no longer countenance to the evening’s good-natured indulgence. “And the word, Quintus?”

 

He sighed, pushing his own wine away. “Spy, is the word, Maximus. I have watched and listened for weeks, alert to every innuendo, every slip of gossip. And I believe it to be so.”

 

I leaned back, and pondered, watching Cicero, my trusted servant; remove the remnants of our meal. “Within what sector?”

 

“Unconfirmed.”

 

“And have we an idea of the offender=s station?”

 

“Unknown. Maximus, Caesar is aware.”

 

I nodded. I too had been aware, wary to bring this fact to light without further validation of such a grievous suspicion.

 

Deep in our own concerns, none but the howling wind and the crackle of fire filling the silence of my tent, Quintus shook his head slowly. “Maximus, I am weary of these delays. Marcus will not bring this battle to the line until his suspicions are satisfied and the offender executed.”

 

“It is not my intention to execute my own soldiers, my friend. This has gone far enough to warrant attention, and very possibly punishment, but without proof –”

 

Quintus gulped from his goblet, ran a hand over his mouth, leaned toward me, his eyes intense. “A scapegoat may be the only solution available to us, Maximus.”

 

“I do not condone such action and neither do you, Quintus. I will address this.”

 

“You know as well as I, that this sedentary existence will cleave the mettle from them. It is a poison for the men, for me, and for you as well. An expedient action is the only solution.”

 

Five months in camp, dirty, cold, stretched beyond the limits even for men trained for such things. Standing ready for anything, at any moment prepared to leap into action. He was correct to voice such concerns. Even I felt the strain, the emptiness of the truths of life outside of eminent war. “I will address this.”

 

“Maximus, you must consider . . .”

 

“I will address this, Quintus.”

 

He bowed acquiescence then stood as I did. “Strength and honor,” and he left, pushing against a billow of frost and mist.

 

Cicero moved about the tent, unobtrusive, silent. I slid my chair nearer the brazier, seeking warmth and accepted more wine from his hands. “And what do you know of this, Cicero?” I asked easily, without accusation but with clear intent.

 

He blinked. “Sire, I know nothing of it.”

 

I found myself raising my face, glaring down at him as he tucked a blanket at my feet. I pulled it away, disliking the bound sensation, choosing the chill over captive comfort. Cicero had been with me for many years, long before the recent campaigns, before my first harvest. Before my marriage. My son’s birth. He was without guile, trustworthy, faithful.

 

And he had been among the servants of the camp daily. “You have heard nothing?”

 

He stood, silent. Not a muscle twitched. His eye did not waver.

 

“Heard nothing of a traitor among the men?”

 

“I have not, Maximus.”

 

I ran a hand down my face, rubbed my eyes. “At dawn, I will ride the camp.”

 

“What shall I bring, sire?”

 

“Nothing. I do this alone, my friend.”

 

His brow knotted. “How many days’ rations will you require?”

 

“No weapon, no rations. It will spread quick enough that I am seeking the traitor. I needn’t pronounce it upon leaving my tent. They will know soon enough.”

 

He hesitated.

 

I smiled. “I am going to spend a few days among my men, Cicero. I am not going in to battle.”

 

“Perhaps you are, Maximus.”

 

I turned a gaze to my altar. Candles flickered in the wind that penetrated my tent. “Perhaps I am.”

 

***

 

Astride my horse, the sun not yet present and the day promising little comfort, I traversed the perimeters of the camp; twenty long miles, thousands of men, animals and slaves, skirting the bottom of a now too familiar wooded hillside, climbing its ribs, ending with a watch guard at the summit.

 

Quintus had spoken truth. The word is spy. But the sensation is weary. My bones ached, and I longed for the Spanish sun on my back, the soft touch of my wife’s hand. The laughter of my growing son. But such thoughts were wasteful. Disappointing. Debilitating.

 

For three days I visited, worked and slept among my men, anonymously reporting my whereabouts to Quintus through Cicero who followed at a distance . . . against my clear instructions. I proceeded methodically, gathering information as one learns; a process of listening, watching and sensing. My efforts were for naught. I was more than half the journey back to my own camp, and I pondered the possibility of misinformation. But sure suspicion pulled at my soul, speaking of dangers ahead, chilling my body from the core.

 

On the fourth evening I sat with several men, warmed by their fire and camaraderie. They drank heavily but I did not, fisting the same full cup of Germanian grog throughout the night and listening to their tales. I laughed with them, shared a few of my own stories and found a measure of ease. These are the men who charge at my command; die for the honor of their Caesar at the word of their General and this was not lost on me. I was humbled by their generosity, their welcome.

 

Deep into the night, as I considered taking my leave to find a place to sleep, a loud crash sounded from the far corner of the large communal tent followed by rowdy laughter and barbaric cries. Three women were dragged into the center then unceremoniously stripped to the skin. A fourth woman battled with the spirit of a true warrior as she was pushed to her knees at my feet. She struggled against the men’s hands, kicking and biting. But not a sound escaped her mouth, and this surprised me.

 

I do not approve of such treatment of slaves, but I have been blessed to live among the officers of the Roman Army. The female slaves servicing those of us privileged enough to be in Caesar’s favor are clean, willing, and well cared for. The men surrounding me were but men with the same needs as I. What they lacked in class distinction was what I needed on the battlefield. And what they needed in their leisure was taken in the same fashion.

 

The woman was in shackles, her wrists bloody, her skin crusted with filth. As they tore the rough sheath from her body, she squirmed and fought. I leaned back and marveled. This could not have been the first time she had encountered such brutality. What spirit, to continue the battle in light of such defeat.

 

I gazed upon her bruised face. My breath caught, suppressing my heart for the briefest moment. Beneath the grime was the face of an unquestionable northern beauty. My mind restructured her true features, hidden painfully behind swollen eyes and bloody, broken lips. I glanced up at the other women, standing huddled together, naked, glowing in the firelight. They were not as savagely abused. The men were still, only the heavy breathing of the beaten woman at my feet cutting the dense silence.

 

Several thoughts collided in my heart; to reprimand these soldiers; to protect the woman; to take her as my own, immediately. I swallowed hard, knowing the correct path, and sighed. “Why is this slave shackled?” I spoke calmly.

 

The man holding her, pressing his knee hard on her back, took a handful of soiled, golden hair and raised her face to him. “This one General, is a problem.”

 

“A problem? In what way?” I teased. The crowd laughed, slapping the man on his back. Anger and embarrassment rippled across his face, but the expression settled when he addressed me.

 

“General,” he said respectfully. “This slave has escaped . . . several times . . .”

 

“And so you shackle her?”

 

“My lord, we have always shackled her. This one is very nimble with her hands.”

 

The crowd roared laughter. I smiled but my thoughts were not on the frivolities. I held myself steady, awaiting the next development, sure of my new found discovery. When all eyes were on me, I leaned down and lifted the woman’s face by her hair. Her eyes were distant, focused on a world far beyond her environment. I tossed her away. “Am I to assume that you are offering me this rather slippery slave?”

 

The men looked at each other, then at me. “General. She is very beautiful, and I assure you, very good with her hands.”

 

I stood with a swagger. “It is not her hands that interest me.” I reached beneath my tunic and took my hardened cock in hand. More laughter followed.

 

The woman struggled, momentarily freeing herself, swinging her foot at me. I leapt back and chuckled. Took a breath, then cleared my throat and spoke with authority.

 

“Comrades,” I announced. “Cleanse this one, and bring her to my tent. Tonight. And I warn you,” I eyed them sternly. “If you  her, someone will pay dearly.” I turned and left.

 

I gathered my cloak and horse, then picked my way through the tents and small fires. Less than fifty feet from where I had sat the evening in comfort, Cicero slept, curled and shivering beneath a blanket on the freezing, wet ground. I shook my head then nudged his hip with my foot. “Cicero.”

 

He blinked, leapt to his feet, scrambling to gather his things. “Maximus.” He rolled the blanket, tucking it firmly under his arm and finally faced me. I straightened. “Forgive me sire. I have disobeyed your orders.”  He dropped to his knees.

 

I rolled my eyes and reached down for him. “Cicero,” I began a prepared speech I intended to firmly bestow upon him when my mission was completed but I could not. “My friend,” I said calmly. “I thank you for your kind concern and for your able protection. But I need you.”

 

His eyes snapped up. “How may I serve?”

 

“Find Quintus. Send him to my tent immediately. Then return here. Follow the men bringing a fair-haired slave woman to me. Take clear note of who brings her. And Cicero, I charge you to make sure that she arrives.”

 

His eyebrow rose in a curious expression which my scowl sufficiently removed. I took his collar in my fist and pulled him close. “Tell Quintus that I have found our spy,” I whispered. Cicero skittered off.

 

***

 

My strategy outlined for Quintus and a full guard surrounding my tent, I bathed then knelt at my altar.  There I cleared my mind and opened my heart. Grateful for the day’s bounty and my success, acutely aware of the generosity bestowed upon me by the gods; I prayed for my family, my son, my wife. I beseeched the gods for protection for my Caesar, and my men. Then I asked for strength and guidance with the task at hand. My beautiful spy. I petitioned for wisdom and patience, for compassion and strength, for surely this woman walked with a measure of the gods’ favor as well.

 

The sound of shouts heralded her arrival. I charged from my tent the moment before my praetorian could bury his sward into the woman’s breast. “Stand away!” I shouted.

 

All was still. I took her from the men, stifling a chuckle at their battered condition. Faces scrawled with broody tracks, bruises, large patches of beard and mane torn away. Cicero caught my eye and shook his head solemnly, fear in his wide eyes. He followed me inside, skirting his way around the captive. I bound her to the center post of my tent then spoke to Cicero quietly, chains rattling behind me.

 

“You will be posted behind the partition. Remain alert Cicero, as this may take some time. The moment a confession is extracted, hasten a report to Quintus.” I awaited confirmation, nodded and turned to my own undertaking.

 

I walked a safe distance around the woman, clear of the swinging reach of her long lithe legs, feet muddy and bare. She had been bathed, her face reddened by the brutal cold, glowing and excruciatingly beautiful. Her brilliant blue eyes glowered at me, her teeth clenched, her lovely golden mane swinging wild with her struggle. She was shivering, panting. I dragged the brazier closer then sat on my chair and watched her.

 

Her strength prevailed far beyond my expectation. And I waited. Her head slammed against the sturdy post. And I waited. She jumped and pulled against her shackles. And still I waited. Until finally, she fell quiet, only her hands remained true the struggle, scratching desperately at the cuffs.

 

“You are battling nothing but metal and wood, my lady. And me. You can not win this war.”

 

She did not respond or even gaze in my direction.

 

“Tell me what you know and to whom you have passed your information.”

 

Not even the flicker of an eyelash. I waited. And I wondered. “You do understand me, do you not?” Nothing. I stood and moved closer. She did not regard me or even acknowledge my presence. I lowered on one knee, looking deep into her face. So lovely, so strong. So determined. And I wondered; could it be that she could not hear? I leaned close, smelling her passionate perspiration. “You do understand me, do you not?” I shouted. Her hair fluttered with the force of my breath. Her eyes squinted tight. She was not deaf.

 

Again I wondered. Not one sound had come from her. I took her face in hand, compressed firmly, forcing her jaw open then pressed a finger inside her mouth, feeling the wet presences of her tongue. Satisfied that she could also speak, I began to retrieve my finger, but not quickly enough. Her teeth sliced deep into the flesh, crunching against bone and sinew as I wrestled to free myself.

 

My blood trickled down her chin and still she held me captive. I was left with no other choice. I swung the back of my hand, slamming hard across her face. I was freed. I wrapped and tied fabric around the wound, then bowed. “Forgive me, my lady. But I am fond of this particular finger.”

 

No response. I returned to the chair. Did I require a translator? No. My men do not speak Germanian, thus she must have understood them to effectively spy and report her findings. Again I marveled. The captive shackled to my tent post was more resilient than ten of my men, and this presented an extraordinary challenge as well as a formidable danger to the campaign. I sat and pondered the many minor disastrous occurrences that had plagued our advance. I determined the first capture of the woman, calculated her disappearances and was left with naught but complete conviction. Now, how to break her to a confession. I rubbed my chin.

 

“You realize that you will be executed in a manner even I would not wish to witness, my lady.”

 

Her eyes randomly scanned my tent. Calm. So calm.

 

“They will tear you apart, woman. Send each part to your master with no concern over the remaining, living segments of your lovely body.”

 

She smoothly perused the metal at her wrists, the chain above her head, how it was pinned to the post.

 

I leaned back and slid the brazier closer to her with my foot. Threats and fear would not motivate this enemy. A memory slid through my tired mind; my son, playing with a slave boy in the herb garden, discussing the best method to deal with an anthill and render his mother’s basil safe from eminent attack. Negotiation ensued, nearly to the point where I felt a need to intervene. But my son prevailed, demanding that his companion not destroy the aggressor but instead, re-route its attention. “Be kind!” my son insisted, “and they will follow suit.” He turned to me, “is that not truth, papa?”

 

“Yes, it is truth.” I sighed aloud, watching my anthill contrive her own attack, mindless of any focus but her own.  And I imagined the reality beneath her skin, the power behind her conviction; the depth of it, and reasoning behind her master’s choice of emissary.

 

A consummate choice. This woman, beautiful beyond reason would be sought and held, then retrieved selfishly after escape. She would bewitch her prey, not with her mannerisms, but with the pure sensuality of her presence. As I feared she had bewitched me. But I realized; she was but a woman. One emblazoned with passion I was determined to refocus.

 

I indulged a full gaze upon her, my beautiful spy. Drank of her perfection. Her feet, small and delicate, fine skinned, sullied with winter mud. Her calves, molded beautifully, fair lovely flesh, brushed with soft down the color of spun gold. Her thigh, tight beneath the rough fabric of her tunic, inviting and full. Her hips, rounded, strong.

 

A delicate waist, so small as my hands could encompass from spine to belly without effort. Her soft flawless breasts, full and heaving. Defiant nipples standing hard, rising and falling with her breath. Her neck was a sculptured pillar supporting a strong chin. And the face of a goddess, demanding to be adored, regal, distant and inviting at once

 

Her eyes, brilliant blue, reflecting the flicker of the lamps, ablaze with a flame from within were focused in my own. My breath caught and I swallowed back her spell, permitted my heart a moment to regain its rhythm. Feeling the dampness of passion on my skin. Sensing the power of her singular appraisal. And so, my lady, we begin our conflict.

 

I sighed then relaxed and offered my words smoothly, without emotion or impassioned inflection. I spoke a conversation. Simple. Potent.

 

“A man witnesses the beauty of a woman and reacts in a number of ways. He may respond to his carnal needs and ravish her; taking his pleasure with force, fulfilling the essential requirement of his immediate physical demand.

 

“He may sense a need to force compliance, and this my lady, is to hide his fear. Dread that the amazing, sensual creature may flee his embrace and abandon his heart to a perilous hell of deprivation.

 

“A man my find brutality a pleasurable release, and prefer to damage such beauty, for sport and sport alone.

 

“A man may find no joy in a woman’s radiance, choosing only to press his member within her for none but release then simply toss her aside.

 

“Or a man may honor such beauty, holding it in awe and never touch her; preserving her only for his eyes, denying her the fulfillment of her own needs.”

 

I shifted and leaned toward her, my elbows settled on my knees, my senses alert to her energy, vacillating, ebbing, weakening.

 

“But I, my lady, am none of those men.” I paused, sighed, watched the muscles of her neck ripple a swallow. Her eyes moved, flitting about the tent, the dance of a nervous sparrow.

 

“When I am struck by the vision of beauty such as yours, I seek not conquest. I seek instead a resolution of spirit; a common ground for passion.

 

“And I would reach for her, not as aggressor, nor in worship, but with invitation, guiding her to the glorious garden of pleasure within my arms. Should she shy away or refuse, I will pursue, gently but with conviction, until she too reaches for me, relinquishes to our common desire.

“The tips of my fingers would brush the sleekness of her brow, her face, her neck; feeling the warmth there, the pulse of her growing passion. Tenderly receive her acceptance, evident by the sweet breath escaping her lovely, open lips.

 

“My mouth would starve for hers. My tongue would slide out, tasting my own lips, imaging the flavor of hers.” And I did as I described. She blinked, her growing heartbeat evident at the points of solid nipples.

 

“My hand would encircle her small waist, experiencing the wholeness of her life force, ebbing and warm. And my hands would slide then press, my palms full against her fertile belly.”

 

I held my voice steady to weapon my words against her resolve.

 

“I would embrace this woman; enfold her into my chest until our hearts beat as one, until passion transformed our flesh to fire.

 

“My hands would travel the landscape of her beauty; discover her depths, her peaks. And I would remove from her the fabric that forbids me entrance to this land; lifting it tenderly over her head, watching her eyes. My desire reflected there. Her desire glowing in the flush of her fair skin.”

 

My beautiful spy sighed, a shudder of breath, a twitch of a finger. Her muscles melted into gentle relaxation, seated soft upon the floor of my tent. Her arms fell silent within the metal shackles.

 

And I waited. Silent. Watching a soft blush bloom upon her cheek, her tongue glistened a quivering lip. My control prevailed, my voice relaxed and sure, my cock, easy and soft beneath my tunic.

 

“My mouth would seek her breasts, search the nourishment, suck it into my own body. My tongue and teeth would love the solid points of her desire. And I would be grateful for the sustenance, the renewal of my spirit upon her womanhood.

 

“And my own body would beg, reach out to her with my manhood. Begging to seed the woman in my arms, to plow and plant. To harvest the fruits placed there. My hand would search her welcoming field, wet and abundant with desire.

 

“I would taste her upon me, sucking each finger, savoring.” I sucked the tip of my wounded finger, watching her eyes sparkle. “Savoring the essence. Savoring the woman.

 

“I would lay her at my knees, touching every inch of her, called by the fire within her private flesh, private no longer. But mine for the taking. Mine to harvest.

 

“My hands would relinquish as my mouth would strive to possess the folds of her secret. My tongue would move to her center, and move with precision, with intent.

 

“I would pull from this woman all of her concern, all of her fears and swallow them in sacrifice; taking in the scent and moisture of her growing strength.

 

“My lady, I would be relentless. I would not retreat. And I would witness the blossoming of this woman, the release of her long held restraint as she reached her peak crying my name. Maximus, Maximus. Again, and again, and yet again. Then she would drop from the heavens into my arms, the touch of the gods upon her flushed face, her hands reaching for me.

 

“And I would permit this woman to take me into herself, relish the sensation of her heat, her tightness around me. The quiver of her inner flesh would entice me. Only then, would I give myself to the passion that drives me. Only then, with the full invitation of that woman, would I succumb to my needs, moving with force and power deep within the depths of her belly, pounding my way into her womb.”

 

Her head leaned back against the pole. She panted, her beautiful gaze hooded by half lowered eyelids, fluttering gilded lashes.

 

“Pounding, pressing, climbing to my own fruition within that woman, that vessel. That lover. And when I had found my pinnacle, my advance had reached its target, I would . . .”

 

I knelt close to her weakened form, her soft flesh relinquished in physical surrender. My mouth brushed close to her ear. “I would give of myself unto this woman, yield with power, and spill my abundant seed within her fertile chamber. And I would be overcome with helplessness, trembling in her embrace. Loving her.”

 

Her breath was labored, her scent pulling at my groin. “Maximus,” her voice was a gentle sigh. “Will you love me as you would that woman?”

 

I withdrew from her ear, leaning only slightly away, gazing into her glorious eyes. “I will not.”

 

She gasped a painful sob, her head dropping to her chest, my name upon her lovely lips. And my eyes caressed her face, the length of her perfect neck.

 

“You are my enemy.” I whispered. “And I am yours. Will you not confess? Surrender yourself unto my protection, my lady.”

 

“I cannot.”

 

I blinked, hearing her words clearly, understanding my beautiful spy at last. “Why? What have they to hold you to this evil undertaking?”

 

She sobbed and it wrenched at my heart to see this inviolable woman so. I longed to comfort her, but did not. Could not. “Please, my lady, I beg of you. Confess to your crime.”

 

And she repeated. “I cannot, Maximus.”

 

I leaned close, my lips near hers, not in trickery but with pure desire, true compassion. “Why, my lady?”

 

“My children.”

 

I sat heavily before her. Fearing for her, for her children, and for myself, for surely I had fallen from my duty. And I wondered; who has captured whom?

 

“They have already murdered my eldest son. And should I not return with information by nightfall on the morrow, they will slaughter my infant daughter.” Her voice was as cold as the growing agony within my heart. Her face dropped, a fallen bird of prey nestled on my shoulder as she cried softly.

 

“Cicero,” I called.

 

He stepped from behind the partition. I did not turn to face him. “Report to Quintus that we are safe to advance before nightfall on the morrow.” I felt her warmth pull away from me, even before her body withdrew. “And tell him that I alone claim the right to execute this spy.”

 

“Yes, Maximus.” He trotted from the tent. And I stood and prepared for battle.

 

***

 

“Roma Victa!”

 

The true resolve of a man. The moral stamina of a soldier. The full comprehension of duty. These were the thoughts that flowed through my tired mind, scattered with the images of fire and blood, the blur of sword, the cries of agony and victory. Roma Victa.

 

My heart was heavy, burdened with concern for the wounded, sadness for the lost and dead, the health of my Caesar and his monumental request of me only moments earlier. The decision I must make by sunrise. I had not rested my eyes or slept for nearly two full days. As I walked, weary and aching to my tent I realized that it was nightfall on the morrow. Night fall on the morrow. And I prayed that the woman’s infant had been spared. That she was gone.

 

Cicero had been dispatched to assist with the wounded; the praetorian had been dispensed at the first call of battle. I stood at the entrance of my tent and closed my eyes, hopeful for the woman; my beautiful spy, petitioning the gods for her safe passage, far from danger and war. I slowly entered, my eyes falling upon the lose, empty shackles, hanging from the center post. I sighed deeply and rolled my neck, touching a small wound there with my bandaged finger.

 

“Maximus.”

 

I feared to turn, knowing the voice. “You risk your life, my lady.”

 

“Not in your hands, my compassionate conqueror.”

 

I turned slowly to find her in my bed, her lovely flesh glowing in the soft lamp light. A groan escaped my chest and I went to her side, lowering my mouth to the mouth for which I starved. My hands took her captive, bringing her softness heavy against my armored chest. A raging heartbeat in my ears dispelled all sound and I tore my protection and clothing away, reaching for her, hungering for what she offered. It was not as I’d described, not as I’d promised, not as I wished. But it was as it was meant to be.

 

I was lost within the sensations of her, the singular scent and warmth of her flesh against mine, the demand within my own body. And I took her with desperation and fury. She softened and embraced me inside her own passion. And as I dropped over her, exhaustion pounding my heart, she murmured soothing words of love and kindness. I was replenished, whole.

 

“Sleep,” she whispered but I could not. There were responsibilities to fulfill on her behalf. My mind formulated an escape, calculated the safest hour to attempt such an undertaking, and the elements required to minimize risk. Satisfied with my plan, I turned to a far more urgent and important responsibility.

 

I kissed my lady, fully and with utmost tenderness, moving my mouth to her neck, sucking a mark, a sign that I had been her lover for one blessed moment in eternity. My lips found her breast and I  reveled in the softness of it, the sweetness. My palms pressed against her hips, her small waist, fingering the hardness of bone beneath moist skin. And she moved beneath me, sighed my name.

 

I gasped and moved my tongue closer to my desire. My need. To please this woman, my beautiful spy. Burying my face within the wild golden curls beneath her belly, I slid my fingers into the well of moisture, mine and hers, mingled as one. I pressed deep inside, drawing a gasp as she arched from the mat, her breasts high and calling to me. Taking her nipple into my mouth, suckling, I probed my hand deeper, seeking the edge, the mound within that calls to a man’s desire.

 

“Maximus!” She cried softly.

 

Releasing her bruising breast I partook of the warm inviting flesh below, sucking in her flavor, her bounty, devouring her pain and dissipating mine. My tongue found her rhythm, moving us together to a place above the harsh things of life. Far beyond hardship and battle fields. To a human place. She writhed under my touch; her soft moans pressing me on against exhaustion and the discipline integral to my nature. My fingers and mouth feasted, searching for response and finding it, I was driven to discovering more.

 

And I was again aroused, hard and painfully demanding. She was wanting, moving with the pressure of her climax. And as she neared, my hand clamped over her mouth, stifling the screams of pleasure, asking her forgiveness even as I spurred her to scream again and again.

 

And finally she quieted, melting into my arms. I rolled her onto her belly, lifting her hips to my need, kissing her back, softly covering her trembling flesh with the wetness my lips left there. With firm hands, one within her treasured warmth, the other lifting and pressing her round hips to me, I entered. As a prayer upon the altar of her body, I embarked on the final journey into this most remarkable of women. My beautiful spy.