Faustina and the Barbarians Read Online Free PDF Page B

permanently compromised by their being decked out in a mess of dove-feathers, on helmet, shoulders, greaves and spear—had strict orders to admit no one, not even Faustina, when Honorius was inside. There were rumours that Honorius indulged his erotic fantasies alone, amid his cloud of doves. If it was true it would provide me with the perfect opportunity.
    One afternoon, when the guards were being changed, I slipped up into one of the oak trees that overhung the dovecot from the back. Pressing myself against the grill-work I peered down.  
    There he lay on a divan in the centre of the space, a space completely carpeted in doves, and lit by stray shafts of sunlight. He was naked but for a white silk gown slipping off his shoulders. He looked much better naked than I’d imagined, his firm flesh uniformly pale but for a coating of black hair on his chest and stomach, the latter blending into his pubic hair, out of which a long erect cock was cradled in his hand. As the doves fluttered around him he slowly, dreamily pulled it back and forth. As I watched, he reached beneath the divan and pulled out a bag of seeds which he sprinkled over his groin; the birds gathered, and as they pecked, his motions grew in intensity. I watched, amusedly entranced, the breasts of the doves bumping against his engorged shaft, their crowded heads swooping on the seeds buried in his hair, their ruffled necks twitching as they swallowed down. Honorius worked his cock swiftly and came, a gout of jism shooting up toward me and falling back in the feather-dusted sunlight.
    I was back, two afternoons following, in a costume put together with the help of a trusted slave, and a length of rope. When Honorius had begun pleasuring himself with his birdseed I knotted the rope around a branch, cut away a thin panel of the lattice-work, and taking a deep breath, slipped down into the cloud of doves where Honorius lay, lolling in the fumes of wine, but fiercely erect. Here was a bird that would gobble down whole bagfuls of his Imperial seed.  
    My feathered ankles touched down either side of him on the divan. He didn’t remove the arm thrown across his eyes. I gently loosened his fingers from his cock and lowered my dove-feather clustered waist upon him. I crooned, I whispered, I coo-cooed as I slid down upon the Imperial punctum, caressing his hairy chest and neck and stomach. Some men have highly sensitive erogenous zones around their lower stomachs, and luckily Honorius was blessed with a very responsive belt of the stuff, and a press of my fingers elicited a deep upthrust of his punctum into my now generously lubricated, feather-enshrouded cunnus.
    “I can have you executed for this.”
    The whisper from beneath the blindfolding arm didn’t deter me.
    “No need to execute me when I am dying of pleasure,” I crooned. “Feel my breasts, Imperator!”
    He finally lifted his arm, and looked at me with bloodshot eyes in a hot flushed face. My nipples, red and hard as the beaks of his beloved birds pointed through the feathered ruffles of the mamillare that bound my breasts. I drew his hand up to them and gasped histrionically—though I was becoming genuinely aroused—as he squeezed them together. I gasped again, as it gratified his vanity, and began riding him slowly, gradually building up to a good gallop. I caressed his furred chest and belly, and moaned and groaned and pleaded for mercy. Through voice and motion, I soon had him so close to coming that the merest movement or pursed out syllable would bring it on. I brought my legs gingerly up onto his chest, and locked my feet, with their necklaces of dove-feathers around his neck. Supporting myself with the flat of my hands I leaned back and the Emperor of Rome and the West was completely at the mercy of the least flicker of my pelvis. This is a superb position for a woman, Flavia, and if you haven’t tried it, do so this very evening; it really does give you such control and such a feeling of