Faustina and the Barbarians
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Authors: John McKeown
JOHN MCKEOWN
FAUSTINA AND THE BARBARIANS
Copyright © John Mckeown 2013
Cover picture © Depositphotos / Andrejs Pidjass
Published by A Hotter State
ISBN 978-988-12280-4-8
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorised duplication is prohibited.
Warning: This title contains graphic language and is suitable for
adults only
.
Chapter One
To: Flavia Maxima, Rome
From: Faustina Maxima, Amorgos, August 410
My darling daughter-in-law, what thrilling news! The Barbarians at the gates of Rome, at last. You and your friends are in for the time of your lives. I’m green with envy, exiled as ever on this barren Grecian rock with nothing but goats and wizened goat herders for company; not to mention that boring, obnoxious bag-of-bones, your father-in-law Flaccus. As soon as you hear Alaric’s Gothic cavalry pounding down the street, get outside and scream for attention.
I know you won’t do that, of course, but I hope this letter of mine will persuade you to stop being such a shrinking violet and have some fun with the gorgeous Goths before they’re completely Romanised. You really must make the most of them, my dear. All disrespect to my darling son, but you must be bored stiff in the bedroom. He’s just like his wimpish father; prefers a blowjob from a eunuch to fulfilling his conjugal duties.
Darling, in all earnestness, the Goths are just the influx of virility the women of Rome are crying out for. I speak, as always, from experience.
Twenty years ago, when the Goths first began seriously troubling our northern borders, Flaccus, appointed Legate by the Emperor Valentinian, was sent to keep an eye on them. I, of course, having the ear—and more vital organs—of His Imperial Majesty, was allowed to accompany him. I was a very excited twenty-year-old, who couldn’t wait to feast her eyes upon those blond giants from the far north.
When we arrived it was high summer, and the forests of Germania were steaming, and not just with fires from Barbarian encampments. Disguised as an officer, I rode with my valiant husband into the centre of the Chief’s camp to parlay. Darling, I simply couldn’t see what threat the Goths posed, for all their energy seemed to be spent in fucking their buxom-arsed women, and often each other, senseless. As we rode in, my saddle was damp with the sights we saw. They were fucking against trees, on the ground, and, one couple I remember, were shafting each other precariously balanced in the boughs of an oak. And what beauties they were! As Flaccus did his ‘fearsome Roman’ bit with Chief Athalaric, I let my eyes take in the tall blonds who surrounded our mounted embassy. Long blond hair turned to gold in the slanting rays of the sun, gemstone eyes set above rich, red mouths sculpted for kissing. And do you know, as I sat, looking as martial as I could, one of them met my eye and made a very provocative gesture with his closed fist. That night I lay in our tent stroking myself and feeling those strong fingers probing inside me.
I was well on the way to coming when I heard Delicia, my hand-maiden, scream. The curtains around my bed were torn back and there stood a gang of young Goths laughing, swords unsheathed.
“Oh Aphrodite, don’t let me wake up now,” I prayed as they gathered close, their eyes bulging with lust in the lamplight.
But, damn. Before they could lay a finger on me, in came the Chief and those delicious youngsters fell back like little boys caught with their hands in the pickled mouse jar.
You probably know how I was kidnapped by Athalaric and held for ransom for a month. What no one knows is that Flaccus and Athalaric hatched the scheme together. The Emperor would pay a fortune to have such an aristo as myself—a descendent of the Emperor Maximian no less—restored to freedom. Flaccus and Athalaric would split the money and the Goth Chief would retreat from the border so Flaccus could claim a military triumph.
I, of course, was beside myself with glee. A holiday from the tedious Flaccus, and numberless horny blonds to play with. And then the bad news came. The usual conditions of these high-class kidnappings would be strictly observed. Not a hair on my head would be touched, on pain of death. Damnant!
Delicia, as a slave, was of course a different story. She was fair game. And the little bitch couldn’t wait.
So there I lay on the first night of our captivity in the Gothic camp, alone. Delicia had set up her campbed by the loosely covered flap of our tent, so that she wouldn’t be overlooked by any of the carousing drunken boys who kept staggering past. It wasn’t long before I heard the flap thrust aside and the smell of beery breath wafting into the shadowy recesses of the tent.
I heard Delicia give a nominal gasp of shock and then... silence. I crept out through the curtains and there in the flickering light of the oillamp a huge Goth, of about eighteen, was swaying, already buck naked, above Delicia, working the foreskin back from one of the biggest cocks I had ever seen. Delicia sat transfixed as it reared, stiff as one of the tent-poles, before her gaping mouth. Hard and stiffly heaven-pointed though it already was, our young man kept playing with it, groaning and swaying with half-closed eyes, as though happy enough to simply pleasure himself in front of the astonished slave. I was just about to leap upon him when Delicia beat me to it.
She took hold of his punctum with trembling fingers, lowered it to her lips and commenced sucking on it hungrily. Oh, how that firm, lean, muscular golden abdomen rippled in the lamplight. He took Delicia’s head in his silver-braceleted hand and, gripping a tress of her black hair, darted in and out of her mouth with lightning speed. He drew it out to admire it—and what a thing to admire. The foreskin melted back, tautly flush with the thick shaft, the pulsing inverted-heart shaped head gleaming with Delicia’s spittle and the first premonitory dew of cum. My fingers had already parted my cunnus’ lips while my other hand squeezed and rolled my primped-out nipples. The Goth then signalled for Delicia to turn over. She did so, lifting her thin shift to reveal that lovely tanned arse of hers. He gave it a few slaps with the flat of his knife before straddling her and inserting his huge verpa with maddening slowness into her cunnus. She was trembling and moaning loudly enough to cover my own groans as I stood shifting from foot to foot pushing my thick-ringed fingers deep inside myself. He gripped her by the shoulders and started thrusting, setting her big breasts with outburst nipples swinging like the clappers. How much longer could I contain myself? My juice was dripping down over my hand as he rammed into her, his tight arse and the muscles of his lovely back glazed with sweat. Oh, just thinking of it now makes me wet. I wanted that huge tormentum inside me. But, before I could tear him off my slave and thrust it inside me, he lifted Delicia up off the bed with one arm and drove into her with all the fury of a charioteer whipping his horses in the last yards of the race. The camp bed shattered under the force of those savage pelvic blows which reduced Delicia to orgasmic pleadings of mercy while the Goth hammered her with wild releasings of spunk into the ripped canvas and broken frame of wood.
I tottered back to bed and quickly retrieved my favourite dildo from my travel kit—a Priapus Maximus—and while it soaked in a bowl of olive oil I vowed that I wouldn’t be a frustrated pawn in Flaccus’ machinations. He might get his gold and his triumph but Faustina Maxima would have that Gothic cock.
As it turned out he was Athalaric’s youngest son, and I decided to embark on a campaign to inflame his senses until I had him begging for satisfaction. It couldn’t fail. The whole camp was already enamoured of the beautiful young ‘Roman Princess’. Soon every male over the age of three—and quite a few of the females—were salivating like starved dogs at the merest whiff of my perfume. It was extremely naughty of me, I admit—Athalaric would execute anyone who interfered with the Legate’s wife—but it was also incredibly erotic, and Priapus certainly earned his keep before I got what I wanted.
Two or three nights after Delicia’s escapade I was awoken by the sound of heavy breathing close to my ear.
“What do you want?” I said into the faintly flickering darkness in a commanding tone.
“You,” came the whispered reply. I had my man. I could smell his tumescence.
I lit my bedside lamp, and there were two of them, two blond, bronzed giants, kneeling beside the bed, eyes like obsidian marbles devouring me, red mouths hanging open like the chops of famished wolves.
“Does Daddy know you’re out?” I couldn’t resist teasing them.
“No. It’s death if we touch you.”
“You mean touch... these for example?” I let the sheet slip to reveal my bare musk-scented breasts.
“Or perhaps some of this?” I thrust the sheet down to my thighs and lightly caressed the silken rondure of my belly, an index finger tapping the tiny ruby nestled in its venter ipsum.
They both stood without taking those black eyes off my lackadaisical nakedness.
“You are worth death.” They were so romantic. But time was wasting. I got up, threw some cushions on the floor of the tent and pulled them over.
“You. Keep watch near the entrance. Go. You. Show me what you’ve got.”
While Ricimer, Athalaric’s son Roderic’s bosom companion, went reluctantly to the tent flap, I lay back on the cushions and gestured for Roderic to strip. In a second he was naked, and there was that bulging beast of a phallus beating a desperate tattoo against the rippled drum of the boy’s stomach. I knelt and commenced licking it assiduously from the tight wad of scrotum to the deep ridge below the beautifully swollen portion of the cherry-red head. It seemed to redouble in size beneath my ardent and practised licks, and what a mouthful when I eventually drew it into my mouth. I sucked at it rhythmically, half pressing him back, half keeping him from swooning on top of me, until I could feel his cum surging out of his fused balls like a snake piped out of a basket. Then I let it go, lay back on the damask cushions and swung my thighs wide. He almost came with the jolt to that pulsing punctum as he fell to his knees between them. I took hold of it and, with one arm gripping his sweat-matted hair, drove it straight into my moist cunnus. Could he hold off long enough to satisfy me? He was at it like a bull already, scrabbling for purchase among the cushions, rearing above me, driving it in high, falling on top of me, chest heaving, flattening my breasts. I rode each engorging thrust as he paddled me across the floor to the back of the tent, where our voyage was halted by my biggest clothes-chest. A torrent of Gothic invective flooded over my face as he rammed and squirmed and rutted, his huge body dancing like a cork in the gathering maelstrom of imminent release. Then, a pause. I opened my eyes. Ricimer was kneeling with one hand on his friend’s back, holding a cock every stiffened centimetre the twin of the one about to burst inside me. Holding, and, as I watched spellbound, levering it into his friend’s anus. Their mutual affection obviously knew no bounds.
Roderic managed to angle his anus to meet his bosom friend’s cock without losing the rhythm his cock had established within me. Ricimer worked his punctum into the anus an inch or two, then, smart boy, paused to let his friend’s hole relax before driving the whole length straight in. The result, as you, though perhaps not you Flavia, might expect, was a galvanising shock to the cock that stood like Trajan’s Pillar inside me. It was as if the shaft’s engirdling spiral frieze of lunian marble suddenly sprang into collective life, winding the hot sheath of my cunnus tight around itself with a million swords and spear-points and leaping forward like a gigantic battering ram. Ricimer drove in and out of Roderic, Roderic drove in and in and in within me, the three of us in perfect unison of matted movement. And then the triple release. Ricimer gripped his companion tight around the waist. Roderic, impelled by the force of Ricimer’s ejaculation within him, gripped my buttocks and squeezed them around his cock as though he was squeezing a lemon for the last drop of juice. And then—the burst of the last secreted cell, releasing a flood of blinding, choking bliss.
We were inseparable after this. Though my tent was a far too dangerous arena for our activities. I told Athalaric that I required his sons to escort me while hunting for boar in the woods. Luckily he suspected nothing, and soon we had discovered, only an hour’s ride from the camp, a delightful quiet open space filled by the hot noon sun in which we could indulge our every whim. Dearest Flavia, there’s no aphrodisiac like the knowledge that a man is risking death for you. I was in a continual state of arousal that only copious amounts of coitus could quell, for a little while at least. Roderic and Ricimer enjoyed the same aphrodisiac effects, though they hardly needed any added spur to their ungovernable and insatiable lust. We fucked each other silly in a variety of positions, most of which were new to my lovers. They particularly liked the Headgame, with one of them on his knees and holding me upside down to penetrate me. As the blood rushed to my bobbing head the other would crouch down and I would suck him off, with the first one's huge punctum driving down into me, and a couple of fingers burrowed like a ferret in my anus. We would often go straight into the Pinwheel after this, with whoever I was facing teasing and tickling my nipples while I manipulated Roderic or Ricimer’s cock to watch its load shoot up high in the sunshine and bespatter mine and Ricimer or Roderic’s conjoined torsoes. Old habits are difficult to shake though, and the boys would tear at each other to be the first to hoist me onto a low-hanging branch, lift my legs to their shoulders and fuck me in the anus or cunnus.
