flesh of her inner thigh.
Her lover’s lips moved slowly, maddeningly inwards, only to brush over the wetness of her sex and then continue onwards. She bit her lower lip and her hips began to move slowly, not of her volition. Eirianwen continued her game, tormenting her with the promise of the ecstasy to come.
‘Eirianwen, please…’
She was silent then, as Eirianwen relented, kissing the wet warmth of her nether lips. Lysandra gritted her teeth, the tendons in her neck standing out in thin cords, her hands clawing at the blanket. Eirianwen moved her tongue languidly up and down her now soaking furrow, making love to it with her mouth.
Lysandra was lost in joy; sweat pearled all over her body, warming her, then cooling her. She cried out as Eirianwen found the sensitive apex of her sex, her tongue circling it, tasting it, each pass more wonderful than the last. She reached down, her hands finding the spun gold of Eirianwen’s hair, twisting it in her fingers. Lysandra felt a pressure, soft at first, on the flesh between her sex and her anus. Eirianwen’s tongue moved faster now, her finger pressing rhythmically, more urgent and firmer than before.
Fire began to burn in Lysandra’s stomach, spreading out to consume her entire body, a breathtaking pressure building inside her. She became rigid, every muscle in her body tense as she teetered on the brink of an unknown abyss. Eirianwen’s finger moved lower, resting on the bud of Lysandra’s anus for a moment, before sliding it into her. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, her body threshing and twisting in a paroxysm of lust as this last act sent her tumbling helplessly over the precipice of ecstasy. A sound was loud in her ears, and she dimly realised it was her own cries of pleasure. Wave upon wave of agonising bliss burst through her, years of restraint exploding free in a cleansing fire.
As it subsided so it began anew, each time taking her higher, before finally leaving her quivering and spent.
Her chest heaved with exertion, hair damp and plastered to her forehead. Eirianwen moved up and smiled, her lips glistening.
As they kissed, Lysandra tasted herself there and felt no shame.
Eirianwen kissed her cheek, her neck, before she herself lay back, her legs parting. Her small hand began to stroke herself and, for a moment, Lysandra was mesmerised.
‘Well,’ Eirianwen’s voice was gently teasing, breaking her gaze,
‘I think I deserve something in return.’ She pulled Lysandra to her and soon it was the sound of the Silurian’s cries that filled the room.
XVIII
Eirianwen left after some hours, though Lysandra entreated her to stay. She had the strangest sensation in her heart, unfelt before. It was as if there was now a physical need within her to have the Silurian close by her. But Eirianwen would not be moved and, with soft words and kisses, she left her alone.
Lysandra lay back on her bunk, forearm across her forehead, her body still tingling with remembered passion. Never before had she felt such abandonment, such lust. It was unseemly to act with such wantonness, but she was suddenly aware of why people so craved the sexual act. She smiled wryly as she realised that it was certainly preferable to self-pleasuring.
The door to the cell swung open with abruptness, and Lysandra looked around sharply, hoping against hope that Eirianwen had returned but was keenly disappointed when her Hellene companions struggled in. They were, despite her admonishments, a little the worse for drink, but at least none were wildly in the clutches of Dionysus.
‘I’m telling you,’ Penelope enthused as she entered. ‘It was like a baby’s arm holding an apple.’
‘Spare me the details.’ Thebe waved her away, but Penelope would not be stayed.
‘Massive.’ She sighed happily. ‘Big balls on him like a bullock, big muscles. A real man.’
‘What was his name?’ Danae wanted to know.
‘What’s in a name?’ Penelope shrugged and made her way to her cot. ‘I was only interested in one thing and I got it. Had me moaning like the lowest whore in an instant.’ She glanced over at Lysandra who had sat up. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Did we wake you?’
‘No.’ Lysandra found that even this ribald commentary could not disturb her languid mood. ‘I was awake. You found what you were looking for, I take it.’
‘Too right.’ Penelope peeled off her tunic and scrambled under her blanket. ‘I’m telling you, Lysandra, the man was a stallion.
There was nothing he didn’t do! I feel like I’ve given birth to a pony, you know what I mean?’
Lysandra shrugged and smiled. ‘No, but I’ll take your word for it.’
‘You look as if you’re in remarkably good spirits yourself,’
Thebe observed as she too got into her bed. ‘Have you been drinking?’ She indicated the carafe left by Eirianwen.
Lysandra flushed, knowing all to well her happy disposition had nothing whatsoever to do with wine. ‘No, not really. Just a cup to help me sleep.’
There was no more conversation, as the women lay back to slumber. As each waited for Morpheus to claim her, they spared a thought for the coming of the morning.
None were afraid.
They were awoken at dawn by Catuvolcos. He was in his customary good spirits, bantering with all the women, but his gaze fell often to Lysandra and softened as it did so. Seeing his eyes upon her, she grinned slightly. He bade the women leave the cell to prepare for the games and made to speak to her as she passed him.
‘You look fit,’ he said. ‘And ready.’
‘That I am, friend,’ she said, and moved on. She hoped her emphasis on this last would dissuade him from caring too much.
She must let him know where he stood in her affections. He was merely a friend; her heart had only room for Eirianwen.
With quiet efficiency, the women were moved to the under-ground corridors that lead to the arena. The bustle of slaves was all about them, and they were anonymous amidst the hubbub.
Lysandra made her way to the Gate of Life to observe the arena. As the women were accorded inferior status, they had no part in the inaugural ceremony; it was considered enough that they had been paraded once. The male fighters however, were marching around the circumference of the arena to the cheers of the adoring masses. Behind each man, slaves bore his weapons and armour and a placard bearing his name, his fighting style and arena tally. As each gladiator passed by the dignitaries’ box, a burly slave with a large horn to amplify his voice bellowed out the words on the placard — the great majority of the audience could neither read nor write. Much was made by the betting fraternity of this segment of the spectacle, those with a canny eye seeking any weakness in a fighter’s gait.
There was a great buzz as it was announced that Sextus Julius Frontinus, the governor of all Asia Minor, was present. The man himself rose from the dignitaries’ box close by the sands to acknowledge his applause. Lysandra thought that his acclamation was enthusiastic enough to be real. Evidently, the governor was a popular man.
‘A butcher,’ Eirianwen’s voice sounded in her ear.
Lysandra turned, her face lighting in a smile. ‘Eirianwen.’ She tasted the name on her lips. ‘You have no love for Frontinus, I take it?’
Surreptitiously, Eirianwen’s hand reached out and touched Lysandra’s waist. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He is the conqueror and enslaver of the Silures. I hate him.’
Lysandra nodded, not sure what to say. She could understand her resentment, of course, but how else were barbarians supposed to be civilised unless by the sword? Certainly, they would not willingly embrace the enlightened path. In war, there were always victims of circumstance but this was for the greater good. Even as the thought came to mind, Lysandra’s faith in it was shaken. Somehow, it seemed wrong to her that Eirianwen had been enslaved. She was a barbarian yet there was much beauty in her. ‘Forget about him,’ she offered, for the want of anything constructive to say. ‘Concentrate on your match. You must be safe.’
