Witch Hunter. Willow Sears
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persuaded him that the Roman gods and richer mortals did indeed employ male slaves, and commonly used them for sexual purposes. However, they never took the passive role, which they saw as a specifically Greek habit. Such slaves, or catamites, were typically young. His searches were restricted to athletic youths in their very early twenties, or fresh out of college. He needed them virile, primarily gay so that they would lust after him as much as any female, but still horny enough to grow stiff and be used by Morgana’s girls when necessary.
His catamites were kept essentially as slaves, enjoying none of the privileges the girls had. They were there to do donkey work, to act as muscle, to bring authenticity to the orgies. Only after a while did he realise they could also be used for his gratification. Since he demanded of himself a daily minimum of three ejaculations, the boys came in handy when Morgana’s girls had been shut away for the night. He treated them roughly. The Romans frowned upon the thought of love between males. He certainly didn’t want them to feel like they were anything other than receptacles for his lust. But sometimes, when he was gripping those lithe thighs and pumping hard against their muscular buttocks, he thought he adored them every bit as much as the soft, marble-white rumps of his girls. The shame of it burned afterwards, a secret he could never allow to be discovered.
It posed a problem: what would he do with the boys when he was finished with them? They were hard to find and thus precious, but they couldn’t last for long. They would become loose and grotesque. Morgana had her treatments but none was a cure. He kept telling himself he would have to devise a way of dismissing them from his service without fear of them revealing the secrets of the Order. After all, they had been lured there and then locked up and used – what would prevent them from betraying his illegal practices, the kidnapping and enslaving, the secret lust for athletic male bodies? He already knew there was only one feasible answer.
The girl had done a marvellous job. The pricks were all still hard but the ones at the start of the line would not stay that way for long. It was time to move on to the ceremony proper. He had her get off her knees and recline upon the raised dais covered in cushions. He refilled his goblet with claret and crossed to her. She was allowed two mouthfuls of the wine in case she was dry from all her sucking, and to make room in the goblet. He topped it up with olive oil poured from a terracotta jug and then used his long index finger to mix the liquids together.
She was smiling and licking her lips although she had no clue what was to happen next. He had her lie back with her hips raised off the platform by a cushion. He spread her knees and saw the delicate lips of her bare puss. What beauty. There was no lewdness here, just a study in sweet, spotless perfection. He took the goat horn from beside the pewter claret jug. It was ringed at the large end with silver, but while other examples were also similarly tipped, his was cut so that the very end was missing, leaving a small opening. He pressed the tapered end onto her soft quim and she reached down to part the lips, allowing him to feed the horn inside her. She gasped and closed her eyes, although this meagre penetration would never be enough for her.
He tipped the contents of his goblet gradually into the horn, allowing the bright-red viscous liquid to drain inside her. She knew not to spill a drop. When his goblet was empty he handed her the small bowl of raspberries and instructed her to fill herself. She let out a gasp of pure lust and proceeded to do his bidding, holding herself open with the fingers of one hand and feeding the berries one by one inside her puss with the other, careful not to let the liquid inside her ooze out.
As she continued her task he stripped to the waist. Strange, he was always desirous that his catamites see his bare torso. Although he was twice their age he knew his stood up well in comparison. It was far larger than theirs and firm with muscle. The skin was still smooth and free of hair, just like theirs. It was a suitable body for a god, one that they would long to have pressed against them.
He released the slaves so that three could get on their knees and use their mouths to keep the other three hard. They all knew better than to coax an ejaculation. Doing so would lead to humiliating and most likely painful punishments. The sight of them going about their expert business was enough to ensure his prick was fully engorged when he released it. He so often fucked like this, with his chest bare, his black riding boots and animal-hide britches still in place, his cock and balls unleashed from the buttoned fly. He liked the way the still-fastened leggings framed his huge manhood, the dark background making it stand out even more. He liked how his tanned torso looked so sleek and firm under its sheen of sweat, particularly in the flickering light of a fire. And he specially liked the way that leaving his lower half covered made it all seem so impersonal, so full of urgency and free of tenderness.
He already had his hair tied back. Sometimes, if he was having a prolonged, wild fuck, he would free it from the band for effect, letting it drop back to his shoulders. His hair was jet-black and glossy, only slightly oily in appearance. It parted at the front to leave his large expanse of forehead bare, and flowed down either side of his face, framing it like curtains. Along with the goatee it created a swashbuckling look that pleased him. It was a good thick thatch for someone in his early forties and quite a change from what he was used to.
Until fairly recently he had been completely bald. He had been that way since his last days at university, when he had shaved it to mimic the Kurgan in his last, most frightening incarnation. It made him look brutish and ugly, especially with his cold eyes – but it made him feel even more powerful. People could barely stand in his presence; they all cowered around him. He realised his bald head, bony and white as a polished skull, was as good a calling card as any. His eyes were what had always marked him out but their effect was almost too shocking. They wouldn’t allow him to survive an identity parade. They needed to be used only when necessary, revealed at critical moments so as to have the same withering effect on his adversaries as if he had pulled out a gun.
He first shaved his head on the day he was ejected from university. He had celebrated his new look by punching a tutor to the ground for awarding a low mark to an essay he had put minimal effort into. He didn’t care about his expulsion. He had only gone to university to teach himself how to use his brain properly. He found that academic qualifications were just that: academic. He realised that there were better ways to make money than through kowtowing to the strictures of society. If university taught him anything it was that that the youngsters of today, and of any day, thirsted for more than knowledge. With the birth of rave culture and all-nighters, everyday youth wanted something more than a few beers down the pub. They wanted drugs, in great quantities. So he decided to make it his life’s work to give them exactly what they wanted. And he did far, far better out of it than they ever would.
Now he was safely within the confines his own realm the Ray-Bans could come off and the eyes could again be revealed to give him his full power. The way the girl regarded him showed her overwhelming desire to be put to his sword. Her eyes were fiery, wild, and her mouth was open in a wicked grin. She was in awe of all she surveyed as she busily stuffed herself with the raspberries. Some of the ooze inside her had already leaked and ran blood-red onto the cushion beneath her. He judged she was now full enough and bade her stop. He grasped his prick and moved slowly forward so that she knew what was coming. She breathed harder, gasping with the anticipation, parting her thighs even wider to welcome him in. Her fingers stayed at her crotch, ready to hold herself open to aid his penetration.
It was not his favourite position but it was the only way she could take him this first time. He guided the fat head of his prick up between her pale lips and saw an immediate trickle of her red juice upon it. As oily-wet as she was she still had to stretch herself apart as he pushed slowly forward. When the whole glans had been engulfed he steadied himself, grasping tightly under her hips to make sure she stayed exactly in position. He could feel that the mixture inside her was warm, so he knew she was ready. He then plunged inside her in one beautifully controlled thrust. It was slow at first, then built steadily into an unstoppable lunge, finishing with a loud wet slap as his balls and crotch met her soft opening.
Her wails increased as he drove into her, culminating in a shriek as he slammed home and forced the first burst of oily juice from inside her. He could feel the squash of fruit within, the tiny explosions as he filled her so suddenly and crushed the berries. He felt the splash on his belly and knew his balls would be dripping with the blood-red concoction. He saw the spatter shoot up her alabaster