Of Powerful Men
folder
M through R › Rome
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,892
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
M through R › Rome
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,892
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Rome, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Of Powerful Men
He has this habit of smiling at you.
You're not sure what to make of it. Of course you know just how many things a smile can mean, and you've seen a good number of different varieties, but none quite the same as the smile Marcus Antonius smiles at you.
Maybe it's not a smile. Maybe it's a smirk. No... No, more like a leer.
His eyes are always both bright and dead at the same time -- they don't tell you a thing. All you have to judge from is the exact curve of his lips, the slouch of his posture, the way his hands stretch across his toga were it drapes from his knee.
Perhaps you could judge by your own reaction, which you wouldn't share with anyone. You don't even share it with yourself until you're alone, usually at night if you can wait that long, with your hand on yourself and your eyes closed thinking about that smile.
When it's finished, you decide that you were thinking of something else. Because touching yourself over that man is like being aroused by a mangy dog.
If only you could kick him away from the table instead of constantly throwing him scraps.
A party, the first time.
It seems longer ago than it was. You like to pretend you were young and foolish, but you were only the latter. Of course you'd had too much to drink, and you wish you could make that excuse. But you remember too much of it to fool yourself.
No, it was no mistake. You'd allowed yourself to fall prey to him.
You'd sneaked away from your mother because the air was stifling in the main rooms, and you were quite honestly tired of opening your mouth just to have her shoot a look at you that said you should be quiet when you've had so much wine.
"Terrible bore, isn't it?"
You spun around -- too fast for your wine-soaked brain, and you stumbled slightly into a wall. He laughed at you and put his hands on your shoulders to steady you. You thought better than to jerk away from him, as was your first inclination, because you'd fall flat if you tried.
"You've followed me," you said, sounding more offended than you felt.
He smiled, and you had to tighten your lips to keep your expression as dignified as possible in your state.
"I did," he stated.
"Why?"
"Caesar favors you as he would a son, Brutus. I've always wondered why."
"You mean he favors me above you," you spat, not able to govern your tongue as well as you should.
He bowed his head, as if he were laughing. Then, he struck. Your only warning was a tightening of his hands around your shoulders before he slammed you against the wall. He held you there for a moment, looking directly into your eyes -- maybe through them -- before he leaned forward. Leaned forward until his cheek touched yours, and you could feel the humid pant of his breath against your ear.
"I mean: do you let him fuck you or do you suck his cock?"
Your body was hot. You decided it was from anger. "He is like a father to me. I wouldn't--"
"You're certain?" You felt his cheek crease from another smile. "I wouldn't think less of you. Better men than you have sucked the cocks of less powerful men than him. It's understandable."
"I'm certain. Let go of me."
He moved back slightly, enough that you weren't touching anymore, and he was looking at you again. Studying your expression. "And what of me? If we are both sons to Caesar, am a brother to you?"
"If we are," you said slowly. "No. I don't think so."
His smile widened. "Good. Then, perhaps you won't mind if I ask you to suck my cock."
Your eyes narrowed, and you tried (and surely failed) to keep your expression blank as your thoughts raced. Most of your mind wanted to believe that you'd misheard him. Most of the rest was sure that, if you accepted, he would only mock you. Would he really think of something so elaborate just to mock you?
You didn't realize at the time that you were ignoring the obvious choice.
"Well?" His head was tilted, and his voice casual as though he'd asked an innocent question. The kind of thing you ask every day. Perhaps it is something someone like him would ask every day.
"Why are you... Why are you asking that of me?"
"Ah. Good."
You felt a weight at your shoulders -- he was pushing you downward. You straighter your back against it.
"I didn't say yes."
He leaned close again, this time so that your lips were almost touching. "If you meant to say no, you would have by now."
Your couldn't argue. Not in that state. That was his plan, wasn't it? To find you when you were weakened. When you couldn't fight your impulses. A rush of anger your head swim. How could he manipulate you like this?
How had he accomplished it so easily?
When he pushed at your shoulders a second time, you didn't resist. Once you were on your knees, he unfastened his belt and as he pulled out his cock he said: "Mind the teeth. I don't want half of it scraped off."
You shot a glare up at him, but he just laughed eased his hips forward a bit. The anger wasn't gone, but it was overpowered by drink and lust, and with the insult still stinging your mind, you closed your eyes and wrapped your lips around his cock.
He gasped -- barely audible but enough to jerk open your senses. Your hands reached up for him, one around the base of his cock and one cupping his balls, and you sucked on him. Hard enough to elicit a groan this time. He was already hard, but he was swelling further in your mouth. Both of your hands squeezed and stroked his flesh as you took him as deep into your mouth as you could.
He muttered orders: "Not so rou-- No... Yes. I mean. Keep doing whatever that was." But you didn't follow them. His words didn't matter. Only the taste of him and the smell of him and the fact that, even though he'd maneuvered you here, he was more vulnerable to you at that moment than he'd ever been before.
Not long before he came, you saw that he'd rested the crown of his head against the wall so he could watch you. He saw you looking up at him, and he smiled.
He has this habit of smiling at you.
In public places, especially when you're before a crowd, he smiles at you as if you are the best of friends. As if he doesn't hate you. As if he doesn't know that you hate him.
And you do hate him. Even when you let him defile you every way you could imagine and a few more, you hate him. Because after it's over, you're determined that it's the last time, and you'd like to forget it ever began or that it ever continued. You'd like to forget him completely, actually. And forget every part of him that you've ever touched with your hands or your lips or the parts you'd rather not mention. You'd like to forget that you ever let someone so disgustingly vulgar dirty your skin and your soul.
Then, he smiles at you. That meaningless, unreadable smile. And it's easy to forget everything about him... except that, even though you hate him, you can't quite stop loving him.
You're not sure what to make of it. Of course you know just how many things a smile can mean, and you've seen a good number of different varieties, but none quite the same as the smile Marcus Antonius smiles at you.
Maybe it's not a smile. Maybe it's a smirk. No... No, more like a leer.
His eyes are always both bright and dead at the same time -- they don't tell you a thing. All you have to judge from is the exact curve of his lips, the slouch of his posture, the way his hands stretch across his toga were it drapes from his knee.
Perhaps you could judge by your own reaction, which you wouldn't share with anyone. You don't even share it with yourself until you're alone, usually at night if you can wait that long, with your hand on yourself and your eyes closed thinking about that smile.
When it's finished, you decide that you were thinking of something else. Because touching yourself over that man is like being aroused by a mangy dog.
If only you could kick him away from the table instead of constantly throwing him scraps.
A party, the first time.
It seems longer ago than it was. You like to pretend you were young and foolish, but you were only the latter. Of course you'd had too much to drink, and you wish you could make that excuse. But you remember too much of it to fool yourself.
No, it was no mistake. You'd allowed yourself to fall prey to him.
You'd sneaked away from your mother because the air was stifling in the main rooms, and you were quite honestly tired of opening your mouth just to have her shoot a look at you that said you should be quiet when you've had so much wine.
"Terrible bore, isn't it?"
You spun around -- too fast for your wine-soaked brain, and you stumbled slightly into a wall. He laughed at you and put his hands on your shoulders to steady you. You thought better than to jerk away from him, as was your first inclination, because you'd fall flat if you tried.
"You've followed me," you said, sounding more offended than you felt.
He smiled, and you had to tighten your lips to keep your expression as dignified as possible in your state.
"I did," he stated.
"Why?"
"Caesar favors you as he would a son, Brutus. I've always wondered why."
"You mean he favors me above you," you spat, not able to govern your tongue as well as you should.
He bowed his head, as if he were laughing. Then, he struck. Your only warning was a tightening of his hands around your shoulders before he slammed you against the wall. He held you there for a moment, looking directly into your eyes -- maybe through them -- before he leaned forward. Leaned forward until his cheek touched yours, and you could feel the humid pant of his breath against your ear.
"I mean: do you let him fuck you or do you suck his cock?"
Your body was hot. You decided it was from anger. "He is like a father to me. I wouldn't--"
"You're certain?" You felt his cheek crease from another smile. "I wouldn't think less of you. Better men than you have sucked the cocks of less powerful men than him. It's understandable."
"I'm certain. Let go of me."
He moved back slightly, enough that you weren't touching anymore, and he was looking at you again. Studying your expression. "And what of me? If we are both sons to Caesar, am a brother to you?"
"If we are," you said slowly. "No. I don't think so."
His smile widened. "Good. Then, perhaps you won't mind if I ask you to suck my cock."
Your eyes narrowed, and you tried (and surely failed) to keep your expression blank as your thoughts raced. Most of your mind wanted to believe that you'd misheard him. Most of the rest was sure that, if you accepted, he would only mock you. Would he really think of something so elaborate just to mock you?
You didn't realize at the time that you were ignoring the obvious choice.
"Well?" His head was tilted, and his voice casual as though he'd asked an innocent question. The kind of thing you ask every day. Perhaps it is something someone like him would ask every day.
"Why are you... Why are you asking that of me?"
"Ah. Good."
You felt a weight at your shoulders -- he was pushing you downward. You straighter your back against it.
"I didn't say yes."
He leaned close again, this time so that your lips were almost touching. "If you meant to say no, you would have by now."
Your couldn't argue. Not in that state. That was his plan, wasn't it? To find you when you were weakened. When you couldn't fight your impulses. A rush of anger your head swim. How could he manipulate you like this?
How had he accomplished it so easily?
When he pushed at your shoulders a second time, you didn't resist. Once you were on your knees, he unfastened his belt and as he pulled out his cock he said: "Mind the teeth. I don't want half of it scraped off."
You shot a glare up at him, but he just laughed eased his hips forward a bit. The anger wasn't gone, but it was overpowered by drink and lust, and with the insult still stinging your mind, you closed your eyes and wrapped your lips around his cock.
He gasped -- barely audible but enough to jerk open your senses. Your hands reached up for him, one around the base of his cock and one cupping his balls, and you sucked on him. Hard enough to elicit a groan this time. He was already hard, but he was swelling further in your mouth. Both of your hands squeezed and stroked his flesh as you took him as deep into your mouth as you could.
He muttered orders: "Not so rou-- No... Yes. I mean. Keep doing whatever that was." But you didn't follow them. His words didn't matter. Only the taste of him and the smell of him and the fact that, even though he'd maneuvered you here, he was more vulnerable to you at that moment than he'd ever been before.
Not long before he came, you saw that he'd rested the crown of his head against the wall so he could watch you. He saw you looking up at him, and he smiled.
He has this habit of smiling at you.
In public places, especially when you're before a crowd, he smiles at you as if you are the best of friends. As if he doesn't hate you. As if he doesn't know that you hate him.
And you do hate him. Even when you let him defile you every way you could imagine and a few more, you hate him. Because after it's over, you're determined that it's the last time, and you'd like to forget it ever began or that it ever continued. You'd like to forget him completely, actually. And forget every part of him that you've ever touched with your hands or your lips or the parts you'd rather not mention. You'd like to forget that you ever let someone so disgustingly vulgar dirty your skin and your soul.
Then, he smiles at you. That meaningless, unreadable smile. And it's easy to forget everything about him... except that, even though you hate him, you can't quite stop loving him.