What’s that whiff Rufius gives off when he sweats? That posh oil he rubs into his saggy skin don’t hide it. A dusty pong, like old rugs. Like it: reminds me of my old home with Dad and Dera.
His back’s fat with flesh, can’t even see the knobbly bones of his spine… but there’s something hot about having a rich Roman bend over, like he’s my body slave.
The masseurs are watching through the gap in the bathroom door. Whatever they call Rufius behind his back, they can’t accuse me of not being a man. Never bent over to nobody, I ain’t.
Eyes closed. Must keep them closed. Going soft on him ain’t an option, not the mood he’s in today. Poor Diana.
The towel I chucked on the floor to stop me slipping’s soaked. Let’s snatch a dry one from the massage couch. That’s better. Feet firmly planted; now let’s get this over with.
Clap: loose skin slaps against skin. Don’t look down at his old rump. Whatever you do, don’t touch his flapping skin.
That’s it. He’s nearly there.
‘Master. O, master.’
You’re right about one thing, Rufius…
‘Ah, don’t stop. Master.’
… one echo chamber’s as good as another.
‘Slowly. Please, master.’
Nice and slow. Ah, yes. Dead right: a hole’s a hole. Hot as on a night with Croc on Venus Street, I am. Need to keep a firm grip on his love handles; our skin’s slipping. Rufius has every last hair plucked. Makes him as smooth as a baby, but his skin’s way too slippery when wet.
‘Yes! Master!’
Master! Wait ‘til Croc hears about this. He’ll die laughing. Don’t laugh, Aeson. Whatever you do, don’t laugh. Think of something sad: Dad dying. No! Sad will make me soft again. Picture something hot: Venus Street. Tunics pulled up, cheeky voices calling down to me from brothel balconies. Saved. That’s better, ain’t it, my old honey-nose?
‘Oh, mas-ter.’ His voice jerks.
My cock jumps at the word. As long as I don’t think about Rufius’ flabby arse, and the excess space inside his well-used arsehole, there’s something hot about being called master. My balls clench and lift, buttocks tighten at the title.
‘Master-r-r!’ His high-pitched lisp sings his climax.
Hold it, Aeson. He’s nearly finished.
His arse muscles spasm, here he goes.
‘Master-r-r!’
And there I went.
Would a goat do it for me just the same if I kept my eyes shut?
‘Thank you, master.’ Pleasure cracks on this voice. Bent over the massage couch his upper arms wobble and strain to hold himself up now passion’s left him. White skin flaps under his arms like dove wings.
It’s over.
Not sure how much longer I could’ve kept it up today if he hadn’t started that master stuff.
‘Scandalous talk from a Roman, Rufius!’ He twists round and slumps onto the massage couch. Looks ready to keel over, he does. ‘Here.’ Can’t help grinning as I pass him a towel and over-emphasise the H.
‘I’ve always been this way, dear.’ He’ll talk with a pant for a bit now. He nods at his glass of wine.
We go back to our roles straight away. I’m only master when he wants some. Better add water to his wine.
‘Thank you, dear.’ Rufius gulps like it’s an effort. Tired him out, I have. ‘Perhaps it’s having control in every other area of my life that makes me want to submit.’
Bad enough taking it – don’t tell me he wants to talk about it too.
‘They laughed at you, the street kids, when they found out.’
‘Dear boy, the whole Empire laughs at passivity in its thoroughbreds.’
‘Don’t it bother you?’
‘Doesn’t…’
‘Doesn’t it bother you?’
‘I couldn’t care less, dear.’
Good for you, Rufius. Spunky honey-nose, Rufius is.
He swivels round on his arse and dips his mustard-coloured toes into the bath. The rattle of his breath slows. He’s got that free look like a kid left school early. Not ’cos he’s dropped his load. It’s the satisfaction of having what you want, how you want it that money gives.
‘It’s about time I had the hard-skin scraped off my hooves. It’ll give Diana something tasty to suck on!’ He laughs to himself.
We both look at his mustard toes.
Smile, Aeson: corners of mouth up. That’s it. I hope he’s joking. Poor Diana. I’ll go and see her later – check she ain’t too sore. Tried my best to be light with the whip… what choice did I have?
I look away from his feet to the marble bust. He’s sharp, he is. Need to hide that his toes make me want to throw.
‘Is that you, Rufius?’
‘Yes… vain little beauty.’
He was. Pay him a compliment, go on: ‘You were.’
He raises an eyebrow – a bald brow. No kohl today. It’s funny when it runs down his face, like black tears.
‘Beautiful, I mean.’
‘And vain. Pass me the pot will you dear?’ He points at the small glass pot of Desert Honey.
Fingers dip in and he sucks off the pale honeyed paste, looking up at me as if to say: how’d you like me to suck your cock like this? How do I tell the old man that look ain’t a turn on? Makes me feel like I do when I look at his toes.
‘Want some, dear?’
I suck the mixture off his fingers, and eyeball him back.
‘I’ve met my match in you, dear boy.’
‘So Rufius, tell me again, why you won’t cut me in on the book deal you got going with Turk?’
‘Not that again. Let it go, dear. Do you realise the fortune you are set to inherit now that I’ve adopted you? Hum? Do you, dear?’
It’s not the money. Don’t trust Turk, do I. He’ll be working up some long-term plan, some clever scheme to get his revenge… I want to keep him close so I know what’s going on in his head.
‘Don’t trust Turk. He’ll do you over, Rufius.’
‘My dear boy, remember last year – did I not demonstrate I can outwit that ruffian?’
Don’t remind me, Rufius. Lost face having my honey-daddy come to rescue me from Venus Street, didn’t I.
‘He’s sly, Turk is.’
‘Forget about Turk, dear. Concentrate on your studies.’
Rufius reaches for the honeypot. I’m starting to feel heavy-headed, drowsy. It’s not usually like this.
‘Maybe Diana had a point, Rufius. Maybe we’ve been spooning too much Desert Honey.’
‘It’s fine for me, but you do look a little peakish, dear. I don’t want Desert Honey getting in the way of your schoolwork.’
I’m hot all of a sudden. Need water. I glug from the jug, water pours down my face. Don’t want to go all loony like he did on me earlier, seeing things that ain’t there and talking crazy.
Rufius steps down into the bath. His arse hangs loose over the tops of his legs. Usually Roman men’s bodies are still hard at his age. Don’t bother me. It’s interesting, like watching frogs and lizards go about their business. Rufius ain’t like other people. He’s who he is, no matter who’s watching.
‘Come and join me, dear. The water’s just the right temperature.’ He smiles as he sinks into the steam. Least he’s got his teeth.
I ain’t telling Croc about Rufius calling me master. There’s something about Rufius being so up front about taking it. He’s dead honest, don’t give a shit what people think of him. I respect that. Wish I was more like that – especially at school when those honey-noses make fun of the way I speak.
Never trust him. Croc’s words echo in my dizzy head.
You’re right you are, Croc, but I got respect for the old honey-nose. Anyways, Rufius and me, we got a deal, don’t we. As long as he keeps up his end of it, I’ll keep mine. He’s been kind to me. Croc don’t know him like I do.