Love, Eternally by Morgan O'Neill Page A

uncouth and unclean — leaving their hair wild, unplucked, and stinking of foul things like grease and rancid butter — absolutely contrary to the hygiene of civilized men. Why, they even rapped on doors with their filthy knuckles, instead of their feet. Their manners were appalling.
    He seethed. Alaric continued to demand Roman honorifics, all the while sending his squatters to live on the south side of the Danubius and pleading for sanctuary from that other vermin race, the Huns. Well, Alaric could also go to hell. He had troubled the Empire for far too long.
    May God strike him dead for his impudence!
    “Honorius,” a sweet voice called from within. “Come back to bed. I would not see your morning fascinum neglected for all the silks of the Orient.”
    Still fuming, he ignored Adriadne’s sultry pleas.
    “Mighty warrior of the bedchamber,” she cooed again, “I have become tangled in the bedsheets, and you must help set me free.”
    He frowned. “Ask Britomartis.”
    “She has gone off to bathe, my lord,” she said, her voice closer now. Soft, white arms encircled his chest from behind. Honorius felt the press of her bare breasts against his shoulder blades, the caress of her mound of Venus against his naked buttocks.
    He smiled when she gasped, her hand having found his phallus well engorged and ready for the morning’s sport. He let her play with him, tease him to greater size, fondling his balls and shaft with mounting impatience, evidenced by the mewing sounds she made. He turned abruptly and pushed her against the wall. Seizing her thick, brown hair with one hand, Honorius pulled her head back and kissed her neck. She groaned, her fingers raking his back, and he grabbed her thighs, lifting her up against his hips. He entered her there, on the balcony, driving hard, making her cry out in ecstasy, uncaring that early risers might see his play from afar.
    Proud of his imposing fascinum , he closed his eyes in bliss, ramming it home. Adriadne gripped his shoulders, demanding more, and he groaned in return. Then, from the direction of the barracks, he heard the beating of drums and started to pump in rhythm, for it seemed they were playing for him, a tribute to his power, cheering him on. When Germani pipers on their utriculi joined in, signaling the first call to duty, Honorius paused and opened his eyes, suddenly recalling the surly flute player, who had mocked his privy parts in front of everyone. His lust turned to anger, and he renewed his thrusts with vicious force. Adriadne shrieked and slapped his face, rousing him still further. He slapped her back and when she tried to bite him, he pulled out and turned her around, pushing into her rear. He pumped as hard as he could, wicked slams against her, and she started thrashing and grunting, deriving pleasure from her pain.
    Closing his eyes, he heard a drum roll, then the pipers playing their finale, and he was brought back to thoughts of the flute-playing whore. What had become of her?
    Adriadne began to writhe, to scream in climax, and Honorius smiled, knowing why he had ignored Gigiperrin these many weeks. He’d been too distracted by this little minx and her fair-haired sibling, fraternal twins of oh-so-twisted pleasures.
    He pumped harder still, until the floodgates let loose and he bellowed in response. Then, as he stood gasping, collapsing against Adriadne’s beautiful, sweaty body, he decided it was time he summoned the bitch, Gigiperrin.
    He would force her to play her music this very afternoon, and then he would take her, over and over, until she begged for the sweet release of death. Today! Before the senators came back, before their watchful, critical eyes returned to Ravenna, before life resumed its dull, drudgery pace.
    He pulled away from Adriadne without a word and walked into his bedchamber, dropping onto his bed. When she tried to join him, he pushed her aside, for he needed to think. As she skulked out of the room, he closed his eyes and