Chapter Five

 

A mile away from the glittering villas of Quintus and Glaucus lay the poorer areas of the city; a warren of dark unlit narrow streets and alleys inhabited by thieves, criminals, prostitutes, and runaway slaves. No respectable citizen would be seen dead there, unless he had wandered into it by mistake. It was here that the entire underworld dealing in stolen goods took place, along with murderous plotting and every other crime imaginable. It was also a good place to make money if you knew the right people, or spend a night with a prostitute in the numerous lupanars, or brothels. Despite their lowly existence, the prostitutes who worked in them were still protected by Roman law. They had to wear a red robe denoting their trade, but still had the right to refuse a client if they chose, or could haggle over the price of their services. Most of them lived in their own rooms and came and went in and out of the lupanars as the mood suited them.

In the House of the Olives, a lupanar tucked discreetly at the end of a blind alley, a tall dark man was telling one of the prostitutes he was a successful trader in gold and silver. The prostitute was listening intently and had just told him her name was Claudia.

Both of them were lying.

They were seated in a corner of the room where drinks were served, hardly visible to one another in the gloom. A guttering oil lamp cast its wavering shadows over their faces; the prostitute had a broad face with dark, heavily painted eyes, wide painted lips and high cheek bones. Her hair, wild and unkempt, was partially covered under a red shawl. She had good breasts which were mostly visible in the dim light. The man was unshaven with a running scar etched down one side of his face. He was handsome in the rugged threatening way that some women found sexy. He told her his name was Plutarc and ordered her another drink.

The prostitute noticed his eyes kept wandering all over her body. When he spoke he addressed his words to her breasts rather than her face. He was also looking at her legs splendidly bare now that the robe had parted. He liked the look of her thighs and made no attempt to disguise his hardening cock. The prostitute crossed her legs and he nearly dropped his cup. A man would kill to get between those thighs, let alone bury his head at their apex. He reached out and cupped her breast, giving it a soft squeeze. She grabbed his cock and stroked it, and then lifted her cup and stared at him over the rim with seductive, smouldering eyes. He looked back then at her cleavage which had become more exposed. He could see right into her cleft and saw her breasts quiver when she moved. He couldn’t quite see her nipples, they were still covered but the teats were hard. He couldn’t miss that. He always thought a woman looked very sexy with hard nipples poking at a flimsy dress or robe or whatever it was she was wearing. His cock was throbbing so much he had to reach under his tunic and let it stand up against his belly.

“You’ve gone hard,” she observed, whispering in a low husky voice.

She didn’t smile or lick her lips like the other whores in this dump, neither did she open her legs and invite him to feel her cunt. He was beginning to think she wasn’t the ordinary sort of whore one found in this part of the city. She certainly wasn’t in a hurry to get on her back or in any other position her client demanded. He liked that, showed she wasn’t a common tart but more discerning with whom she slept. In a place like this that was very unusual, most of the tarts fucked at least ten or fifteen men a night. He knew of one who had got through thirty and so far had not been beaten on that tally.

“So, you trade in gold and silver,” she said, resting her hand on his knee. “I wonder why you bother with a place like this. A man in your position could have the pick of the lupanars in Rome.”

“I prefer to conduct my business in Marcellum,” he replied, putting his hand on her thigh.

“You like the women of Marcellum?” she asked, moving her hand in slow circles.

“I like you,” he whispered, opening the top of her robe so all of her breasts were exposed. “You’ve got good tits.” He reached under her thighs and stroked her rump. “And a nice arse.”

“You’re very muscular,” she complimented, closing her hand around his cock, and wondering how a man who was supposed to be a dealer in precious metals had such a finely toned body. Only men used to hard physical labour had muscles of that size. He was also swarthy and sunburned.

“How did you get this?” she wondered, running a fingertip along the running scar.

It was a bit of a gamble asking a question like that. He could easily slap her in the mouth and tell her to mind her own fucking business.

“One of my customers refused to pay up,” he said, and grinned at her.

Normally she would have just nodded and carried on with her banter, but this one made her shudder, not only because she knew he was lying about being a trader, but also she was actually beginning to find him intriguing and sexy.

“I like men who won’t take any nonsense,” she said. “It shows strength.”

“You like strong men,” he grinned again, putting his hand right under her bottom and almost lifting her from the bench.

A shiver went through her loins. In the half light he looked both amazingly handsome and dangerous, the sort of combination that women found attractive in gladiators.

“Have you ever fought in the arena?” she asked suddenly, without thinking.

“A long time ago,” he muttered, ordering more drinks.

The room was filling and more prostitutes and their clients crowded the benches and tables. The air was thickening with ribald conversation and a heavy overtone of sex. Some of the whores were half naked, blatantly displaying their wares to anyone who cared to buy them; others were fully robed and leaned invitingly against the walls. Younger and inexperienced whores rushed up to any man that entered the room and threw their arms around them. But the high class whore and the bogus precious metal dealer sat quietly sipping their drinks, hands resting on knees and thighs.

One of the men coming into the room grabbed one of the young whores around the waist and lifted her high in the air. She shrieked as he threw her over his shoulder and carried her up the rickety staircase leading to the squalid rooms above, slapping her bare rump as he went.

The high class whore’s heart skipped a beat. She liked men who treated their women rough; the feel of course stubble on her cheek or thighs, especially on her thighs, and the tight grip of strong hands on her hips as he penetrated her, and then being ridden long and hard. The man she was with seemed to be the sort that liked a long hard ride. Yet strangely, he wasn’t in a hurry. Most men who came in here wanted to get inside the first willing whore they came across, and perhaps one or two, or maybe three after that. This man was sitting beside her, arm now around her shoulder and warding off any competition with an icy glare.

“I think it’s time we went upstairs,” he said suddenly.

“Oh, do you,” she replied, lifting her finely arched brows and going wide eyed. She was also aware of a sudden wetness between her legs, which didn’t happen all that often with clients. It took the right man to make her go wet. Her shoe slipped to the end of her foot and balanced precariously on her toes. The hand that wasn’t groping his cock began stroking her left thigh.

“You haven’t said how much you’re going to pay me yet,” she half whispered, and leaned closer into his shoulder.

“That’s because you haven’t asked.”

“How about a gold bracelet?”

“I can get ten whores for that,” he said abruptly.

It was probably true. Some of the whores in this part of the city sold themselves for less than the price of a loaf of bread.

“Supposing you tell me what you really do for a living,” she whispered, turning her shoulders so the robe slipped from them.

Her breasts were almost bare and he could see her dark nipples rising proudly from her breasts.

“I’m a contract killer,” he said starkly, without a smile or even a twitch of his lips.

She looked around the room and back again. “I don’t believe you. You’re making it up.”

“Do I look as if I’m making it up?”

His eyes narrowed and he stared straight at her, ignoring her naked breasts and begging nipples. He did not look as if he were making anything up. In his eyes she saw no emotion whatever. His face, handsome though it was might have been set in stone, and she knew he was telling the truth.

“Let’s go upstairs,” she said. “You can have me free.”

He bought a bottle of wine and they headed up the rickety stairs and along a corridor so dark and narrow they could only walk in single file. She led the way into a small dingy room lighted by a solitary lamp. A bed stood against graffiti covered walls and under it was an earthenware bowl half full of stagnant water. He closed the door and shot the bolt.

“Take off your robe,” he said unceremoniously.

“Are you usually this coarse?” she asked, slipping the robe from her shoulders.

It fell to the boards with a soft rustle and she stood entirely naked, except for her shoes. His tunic came off and sailed over her head. For a few moments they said nothing, but just stood admiring each other.

“Is it really true?” she asked. “You do kill people for a living?”

“Only when I’m asked,” he said flatly, and came forward putting his powerful arms around her shoulders, crushing her to his chest.

By Jupiter, my cunt’s soaking, she thought, and opened her mouth wide.

They kissed for what seemed a very long time, then without warning he scooped her up in his arms as if she were a child and tossed her on the bed. She had almost reached an orgasm even before he touched her. She lay naked and open, eyes closed, waiting for him to dive between her legs and penetrate her with his rampant organ.

“I suppose you’ve fucked half of Marcellum in here,” he said dully, lifting the bottle to his lips.

She opened her eyes and saw him standing naked like one of the massive statues that supported the entrance to the arena. His cock was hard and nodding gently.

“I’ve had my fair share,” she replied, startled at the question and fixing her eyes on his massive torso. “Everything from senators to boys,” she added with a wicked grin.

“Do you do everything that’s asked of you?”

“Within reason,” she said softly, wondering what he had in mind.

He went to the window and opened the shutter. A cool fresh breeze sweetened the fetid air. “Come over here,” he ordered.

She got off the bed and joined him at the window, resting her arms on the ledge and looking out over the rooftops. Her body was bent at the waist thrusting out her bottom.

“Keep still,” he said, and upended the bottle neck between her shoulder blades.

The wine trickled down her spine, gathered in a small pool where her hips swelled, and ran through her bottom crease. Slowly the liquid soaked into her pubic curls mingling with her own juice. Her skin tingled all over her body.

“Open your legs,” she heard him say.

Slowly and deliberately, she opened them, spreading her shoes wide over the floor. She heard him move and the bottle was put down. He was kneeling behind her, putting his arms around her thighs. He picked up the bottle and angled the neck into her sex, moving it from left to right. She shivered as the contents trickled down the insides of her thighs.

“No one’s ever done this before,” she whispered, then jolted as the tip of his tongue ran up her thighs in one long sweep.

Her sex was fully open and dripping wine and sex juice, plop plopping to the boards, a sound which made her even wetter. Her nipples, squashed against the window sill, tingled so much she was almost in tears. Then his tongue was in her sex, licking at the lips, going deeper into her, savouring the wine and her own more earthy taste. He licked and sucked her until her orgasm came in a flood, covering his mouth and chin with a fine creamy liquid.

“Will you fuck me, please,” she begged.

There was no reply. The silence in the room was savage. On the other side of the street a door opened onto a balcony and a whore with her client came out to take the air. She was unashamedly naked and leaned over the edge looking into the street below. The high class whore wondered if they could see her, arms folded; bare breasted and desperately wanting the throbbing sex organ rearing up somewhere behind her. But her client, the contract killer, held her legs rigid while he swept his tongue up through her bottom crease, and kept on sweeping it all the way up her back. He stood up and aimed his organ into her sex, grabbed her hips and pulled her backwards.

“Oh!” she grunted, and felt his full length sliding further and further into her dripping tunnel.

She leaned over the sill sweating even in the cool breeze, breathing in short, sharp pants, thrusting her bottom against his pelvis. On the other side of the street the young whore and her client had gone back into their room and closed the door, plunging the night into darkness. Behind her, he pumped his loins with a savage ferocity, taking his cock to the brink of her sex then ramming it in with full force.

“Oh Jupiter, save me,” she gasped, his hands gripping so tight she was held fast against the sill.

“You’re a good fuck,” he complimented. “Not bad for an older whore.”

She would have returned the compliment, but he had moved closer and, gathering his strength, actually used his thighs and loins to lift her bodily upwards. Now she was suspended on his cock, impaled on the hard rod of man flesh spearing her to the hilt. The constant thumping going on at her rear pushed her further over the sill until she clutched at the sides for support. Her sex oozed from the sheer ecstasy of being so well fucked, and the frightening prospect of tumbling head over tits onto the cobbles below. Her arms shot out baring her whole chest and breasts to anyone who cared to look up. She let out a scream as her whole body lurched forward, arms flailing the air. Her middle was resting on the sill, while he continued his relentless thrusting. His cock was rubbing her clitoris so fast her head swam. If he released his grip now she’d fall to her death. She was totally at his mercy and the idea made her come in torrents.

“In you come,” he rasped, hauling her over the sill, standing her upright on the floor.

She looked a mess, hair tumbling over her face now flushed with fear and in the glowing aftermath of orgasm. Her sex and thighs were soaking, stained with wine and sex juice.

“I feel dizzy,” she laughed, relieved that she was back on firm ground.

“Get on your knees,” he ordered, ignoring her smile.

“Now?” she gasped. “But I…Aghhh.”

The slap he delivered nearly knocked her unconscious. “Now,” he said dangerously.

She dropped to her knees bringing her head level with his cock. He was still hard even after what must have been a good hour of ceaseless fucking. There was no need to ask what was expected from her, and she opened her mouth, guiding his cock to the back of her throat.

“You need showing who’s master in here,” she heard him say, and he slapped the side of her head.

No one ever dared treat her like this. The last client, a drunken tailor who had raised his hand had been sent crashing down the rickety stairs. This man was different. He was treating her like a slave, abusing her, fucking her rotten whilst teetering her on the edge of death, ordering her around like a menial, and now slapping her into the middle of next week. And she loved every bit of it. His body exuded strength and male virility, every muscle rippled; his unshaven face bristled in the dim light and she wished he would rub the stubble into her throbbing sex.

She sucked hard on his cock, wanting him to fill her throat with his hot juice. She reached under his legs and cupped his balls in her palm. She’d had men of all shapes and sizes in her hand, but his balls were hard inside the tight sac she now gently fondled.

“Squeeze harder,” he told her. “Let’s see what you’re really made of.”

Her hand closed around his balls and squeezed as hard as it dared, expecting him to cry out with pain. But not a sound came, just a muffled grunt as he erupted into her mouth. He kept her there until she’d swallowed every drop of sperm, then let her go and reached for the wine.

“Get on your back,” he gulped, indicating the bed.

Another slap landed on her shoulder and she went crashing onto the bed, wondering just how much more of this animal sex she could actually take. She opened her legs and pointed her toes to the ceiling, splitting her sex wide. He knelt between her thighs and tipped the last of the wine over her belly and sex. Then, while she gulped for air, he fell on her, licking every pore of her skin, nibbling and sucking her clitoris until she cried out for him to stop, but inwardly hoping it would go on until day break. When her sex was soaking he plunged into her, crushing her ample breasts under his hairy sweating chest. His hands grabbed tufts of her hair and forced her head backwards. In an instant his mouth was on her nipples, biting and rolling the teats, sending fierce darts of pain shooting through her chest. She could feel the coarse stubble rubbing and grating her soft skin, going all around her breasts, then up through the cleft and onto her neck. She was on fire from the stubble ripping against her face. Her whole body was one uncontrollable mass of tingling pins and needles.

“Fuck me hard, you bastard,” she screamed, thumping her fists into his ribs.

“You call me a bastard, you dirty whore,” he rasped, slapping her face.

“Bastard,” she cried again, and turned her head as his hand smacked her cheek.

“You filthy whore,” and his pelvis jerked so hard she went breathless.

“Ride me hard, you shit,” she shrieked, reaching up and grasping her ankles.

“I’ll punish you for that,” he told her, and started slapping her thighs so hard the pale flesh turned red. She could even see the livid imprints left by his fingers.

He rode her till he came, then without ceremony or the slightest thought for her feelings rolled her over on her belly and slapped her bottom until she sobbed.

Leaving her for a moment, he went to the door and yelled along the passage for one of the brothel servants to bring more wine. She looked at him through tear filled eyes. In that state he could have done anything he wanted, no matter how revolting or perverse, but he merely paid the servant and bolted the door.

“Drink,” he said, shoving the bottle into her belly.

She sat up and took what he offered. “You said you killed people for a living,” she belched. “Would you kill someone for me, if I asked you to?”

He took the bottle and swallowed half its contents then eyed her suspiciously. “Maybe. But I don’t always kill for a living. I just make people disappear.”

“Ooh,” she purred. “A magician, then.”

“If you’re trying to be clever, I’ll piss all down your back,” he warned.

Her jaw dropped. She wasn’t sure whether he meant that. But then again, looking at his flashing eyes he could be capable of anything.

“I’d rather you fucked me again,” she invited. “But before you do, tell me honestly, how do you make people disappear?”

“Easily,” he said. “Now sit on my cock.”

He swung his legs off the bed and she stood over him, straddling his middle. Lowering her hips, she reached under her legs and guided his organ into her sex. Her arms went around his broad shoulders and she sat on him throwing back her head, open mouthed as he penetrated her. He leaned back and grabbed the bottle, drinking its sour contents while she rode him with a steady motion of her hips and bottom.

“More?” he offered, holding out the bottle.

When she went to take it, he moved his arm away and, taking another hefty draught, sent a long hissing stream cascading over her face and breasts, then laughed so loudly the flimsy partitions seemed to shake. When he stopped laughing he passed her the bottle and let her drink her fill.

“It’s nice being fucked by a real man,” she gasped, forcing her sex hard onto his cock.

“You’re a good piece of fucking flesh yourself,” he complimented, rolling her tits under his palms. “And in good condition for an old woman.”

“I’m not old,” she protested, and rode him faster.

He took hold of her hands and lowered her backwards until her head almost touched the floor. His cock was touching her clitoris and she cried out, throwing her calves behind his back, locking them tight while he thrust his pelvis on and off the bed. He wondered who she really was. Not a common whore, certainly, but quite a dirty bitch in her own peculiar way. He guessed she was probably a widow or divorcee making a few coins on the side. There were a lot of them in this town. They went on riding until they both came and her legs slipped from his back and she hit the floor, groaning as her arse thumped on the boards.

“Your turn,” he said, collapsing on the bed.

She struggled to her feet, still wearing her shoes. “For what?”

“To fetch another bottle.”

She reached for her robe, but he tore it from her grasp. “Go as you are.”

“Naked?” she gulped.

“Naked,” he confirmed, and pointed to the door.

Her feet padded across the boards and she went out into the corridor, bawling along the passage for the servant.

“Go and fetch it yourself,” he ordered from the bed.

She turned to look at him. “Please, I can’t go down there like this.”

“Why are you so bashful all of a sudden? Half the town must’ve seen you in the raw. Now get downstairs.”

She went along the passage and halted at the top of the stairs. The room below was packed, but luckily at this hour of the morning most of the occupants were either so drunk or sleepy after spending the night with the whores that very few paid her attention. She didn’t summon the servant, but snatched a bottle from the nearest table and hurried upstairs. He was looking out of the window when she came in, watching the first rays of dawn peeping over the roofs. She stopped to admire his strong back tapering to a pair of tight masculine buttocks, and for the hundredth time that night her sex felt wet. She noticed a scar on his shoulders that could only have come from a gladius or lance.

She joined him at the window and they stood side by side, drinking and belching, spitting onto the pavement below.

“Who are these people you want disappearing?” he asked suddenly, heading for the bed.

She had to think about that. It would be unwise to give away too much at this stage without knowing more about him.

“Just people I know,” she shrugged. “I just wondered if it could be done, that’s all.”

“Oh, it can be done all right. All I need are their names, a description and where they live.”

“And then what happens?”

“That depends on just how far you want to go, and how much you’re willing to pay.”

“I can raise the money. I just want to know what actually happens to them.”

“They disappear. I know of men working the oars in slave galleys who only a short while ago were in the senate, and women working as slaves in stone quarries who were once married to rich landowners. So you see, it doesn’t necessarily involve killing.”

Her face screwed in thought. “I’ve let you have tonight free. Would you accept that as payment?”

“I only work for money,” he informed bluntly. “Now supposing you tell me who you really are.”

She told him she was just a penniless widow down on her luck and had been robbed of her inheritance and wanting revenge. He seemed satisfied with the explanation and they fell into each others arms just as the sun’s rays angled into the room.

“Next time we meet I’m going to whip you,” he promised. “After I’ve fucked you so hard you’ll need a stretcher to carry you home.”

And he got up and left.