It didn’t end so simply. Simple. Nothing ever ends simply. Humans say things – do things – they may or may not regret. Then the repercussions hit, quick, cold, and fate leaves you marching home or lying dead on the battlefield.
The exchange of blows before the battle should have ended in a silent withdrawal of all parties for it to be really forgotten, without consequence. Except words were exchanged; words, those burning bursts of vitriol.
Scabius to Antonine, both facing each other, held back from punching one another by the flexed arms of their men: “Bastard child! You worthless junk. Son of a whore. I fucked your mother once, in some brothel. The cheapest slut in the place. No wonder you’re such a coward. I fucked your mother, you son of a whore!”
Antonine comes flying out of his comrade’s arms and tackles Scabius square in the chest. Recoil: Scabius falls against the moving wall of limbs of the men behind him, and charges back. He punches Antonine on the side of the head, knocks him out cold. There is a sore throbbing on his hand, now, but his chest, oddly, is unscathed.
“Pussy.”
Scabius spits: a long, dark tendril of phlegm lands on the mass of Antonine, sprawled out and moaning in the ground.
“You moan like your mother.”
***
Truth be told, Scabius had in fact fucked Antonine’s mother in a Roman brothel, many years before. Her name was Viola.
Scabius remembered the encounter quite vividly, although perhaps not positively. If Antonine didn’t enjoy the idea of Scabius penetrating his mother, Scabius didn’t recall doing so with much relish either.
Viola had the large, drooping breasts of a woman having been pregnant several times already. Underneath their yellowish skin, a web of varicosed veins spread outward from the big, bumpy nipples, dark as wine. She left her breasts uncovered; let them dangle like full gourds, wrapping only her middle with half-transparent shawl.
Scabius undressed and signaled her to do the same. He then took her from behind, planting his thumbs in the fat dimples on the back of her waist, gazing at the spot on the wall just above her head. Scabius concentrated hard to get his erection going. The memory of a particular young slave-girl – the one to whom he had lost his virginity – never failed to pump some hot blood into his prick.
His penetration produced a wet, squishy sound, but a not too disagreeable feeling. A vagina is a vagina, he thought, no matter how many dicks and infants has passed in an out. His erection hardened to a decent level and he started thrusting harder. There came the rhythmic, fleshy tapping of her jiggling thighs and breasts, and Viola started emitting short, low moans, no doubt faked to signify pleasure.
Scabius panted loudly to drown her sounds, but his heart wasn’t into it. His gaze wandered to the greasy soot on the walls, to the droplets of sweat appearing on the whore’s back and soon streaming down her sides in glistening rivulets. He shifted his knees, missed a beat in his thrusting, and heard her moan so loud and deep it was almost a yawn. His erection dwindled to a half-hearted dilatation, which slipped out of her too easily.
Viola turned around, somewhat surprised, clearly amused. He immediately hated her for it.
“What's wrong, honey?”
Scabius slapped the grin off her face and pressed down on her, fingers planted deeply in her soft, greasy flesh. He wanted to mark her, to make her scream in pain. He thrust his prick back into her, penetrating repetitively. He was looked at her, now. He observed how clenched her teeth were, how his hands were bruising her neck, how her breasts heaved as he pushed down and into her.
He reached his climax fast on this second attempt. Soon he felt the telling tightening in his anus, the hair-raising shiver run up his body. He removed his prick from inside her and released his semen over her face: sticky cum gluing her eyes shut, dribbling on her mouth, glazing her chin.
Scabius didn’t give Viola another glance. He threw a bucketful of water on himself, dressed, and walked out of the room to go pay.
2 comments:
Nice :P very Charles-esque. I love the fact that he actually HAS fucked his mother, it's hilarious. It's good in general. Well done! Only thing that bothers me, and you're probably doing this on purpose, is that the setting is obviously a long time ago but all their dialogue sounds really modern. Anyway that's it. Looking forward to the next segment!
Thanks! About dialogues. Well, they are, of course anachronistic on purpose. The truth is, I've also done them like that partly out of laziness. I really didn't feel like racking my brain to get the feel of what an infantryman's latin would sound like in English... I wanted to concentrate a great deal on descriptions in this piece. It started with this vision I had of the corpse and I worked my way back from there into why that corpse is lying in the mud. I realize the dialogues are kind of corny, in the first segment, especially. They sound like some historical romance... But now I'm just going to try to get away with it by saying I did it all on purpose!
Post a Comment