delight.
I fondled those big breasts admiringly, rolling and squeezing the nipples until they felt, in the hot darkness, like little stuck-out tongues, which I duly sucked and teased into lengthier expression with my own. I was spurred on in this by Caelestis’ long fingers, that had boldly found my cunnie’s lips and with expert application, by sliding penetration interspersed with deep brushing with the side of her hand, flooded them with moisture. I had to pull the blanket tight over us to stifle the groans which rose up tremulously from her work and threatened to spill out into the night air.
I transferred my attention to Caeli’s cunnus, a lovely fresh tight one, that greeted my fingers with all the eager energy of youth. So tight was she, initially, that I could get only two fingers within her, but such was the copiousness of her moisture that these slid inside to a mutually satisfying depth. Eventually, I brought a third to join the first two, and with my thumb pressing and caressing her clitoris and, thrusting into her with all my weight, I brought her to the brink of orgasm.
Good girl that she was, she hadn’t neglected my cunnus, and her fingers drew me closer and closer, until I was right behind her on the very precipice of bliss. I thrust deeply into her once more, my whole hand gripping her wet slippery sex, and clamped my mouth fiercely onto hers to smother the cry that broke from her and kept breaking as our bodies, enwrapped, heaved and juddered in the severity of a joint fulfillment.
If our companions had heard anything, they didn’t betray their suspicions the following morning. We broke camp quickly and continued our journey. There were no signs of Saxons, and, with Aquilina’s eagle-eye in our rear and Alexis walking cautiously ahead, we took to the road to make as much speed as we could. I had a fascinating conversation with Botilda who, it turned out was half Pictish, and though officially a slave since her early teens—her right ear was clipped—her marriage to a centurion had given her a respectable enough status in Calleva. But it was when she spoke of her tribe in the north, which she’d managed to keep in contact with, that she gave me a bold idea—the only kind I tend to have, admittedly.
“My people are afraid of the Saxons, too. Even though they hate the Romans—and all the British are counted as Romans by them—they fear for the future, for they know the Saxons will not stop until all of Britannia is theirs. And ‘the Saxons’ includes whole other, though similarly savage peoples, the Angles, the Jutes, all straining at the bit to get here.”
If the Picts were native Britons, as of course they were, why shouldn’t the rest of the native British, however Romanised, form an alliance with them and drive the Saxons out?
I resolved that as soon as we got to Londinium I would try with my utmost persuasiveness to convince whoever was really in charge to try my idea.
We arrived unscathed, though filthy as tramps, in Londinium two days later and, as you’d expect, headed straight for the baths. We were spoiled for choice. Londinium is a charming, cultivated, eminently civilised place, and, as Caelestis had pointed out, the possessor of a red-light district that would not disgrace the ancient burrows of Rome’s Suburra. Londinium is a thriving port, and men from all parts of the Empire and beyond, arrive continually, some on business, some to sell their fleshy wares as sex-workers. My dear, it’s quite brazen, and lawful—as long as taxes are paid—and the ladies of the town often take themselves to the Riverside district to pick themselves out a choice cock to ease the stresses of a hard afternoon’s shopping. The men, most of them young and very beautiful, though there’re plenty to satisfy anyone with a taste for maturer flesh, sit almost completely naked in the windows and doorways of little taverns and pensions. All it takes is a nod and one is escorted genteelly
I fondled those big breasts admiringly, rolling and squeezing the nipples until they felt, in the hot darkness, like little stuck-out tongues, which I duly sucked and teased into lengthier expression with my own. I was spurred on in this by Caelestis’ long fingers, that had boldly found my cunnie’s lips and with expert application, by sliding penetration interspersed with deep brushing with the side of her hand, flooded them with moisture. I had to pull the blanket tight over us to stifle the groans which rose up tremulously from her work and threatened to spill out into the night air.
I transferred my attention to Caeli’s cunnus, a lovely fresh tight one, that greeted my fingers with all the eager energy of youth. So tight was she, initially, that I could get only two fingers within her, but such was the copiousness of her moisture that these slid inside to a mutually satisfying depth. Eventually, I brought a third to join the first two, and with my thumb pressing and caressing her clitoris and, thrusting into her with all my weight, I brought her to the brink of orgasm.
Good girl that she was, she hadn’t neglected my cunnus, and her fingers drew me closer and closer, until I was right behind her on the very precipice of bliss. I thrust deeply into her once more, my whole hand gripping her wet slippery sex, and clamped my mouth fiercely onto hers to smother the cry that broke from her and kept breaking as our bodies, enwrapped, heaved and juddered in the severity of a joint fulfillment.
If our companions had heard anything, they didn’t betray their suspicions the following morning. We broke camp quickly and continued our journey. There were no signs of Saxons, and, with Aquilina’s eagle-eye in our rear and Alexis walking cautiously ahead, we took to the road to make as much speed as we could. I had a fascinating conversation with Botilda who, it turned out was half Pictish, and though officially a slave since her early teens—her right ear was clipped—her marriage to a centurion had given her a respectable enough status in Calleva. But it was when she spoke of her tribe in the north, which she’d managed to keep in contact with, that she gave me a bold idea—the only kind I tend to have, admittedly.
“My people are afraid of the Saxons, too. Even though they hate the Romans—and all the British are counted as Romans by them—they fear for the future, for they know the Saxons will not stop until all of Britannia is theirs. And ‘the Saxons’ includes whole other, though similarly savage peoples, the Angles, the Jutes, all straining at the bit to get here.”
If the Picts were native Britons, as of course they were, why shouldn’t the rest of the native British, however Romanised, form an alliance with them and drive the Saxons out?
I resolved that as soon as we got to Londinium I would try with my utmost persuasiveness to convince whoever was really in charge to try my idea.
We arrived unscathed, though filthy as tramps, in Londinium two days later and, as you’d expect, headed straight for the baths. We were spoiled for choice. Londinium is a charming, cultivated, eminently civilised place, and, as Caelestis had pointed out, the possessor of a red-light district that would not disgrace the ancient burrows of Rome’s Suburra. Londinium is a thriving port, and men from all parts of the Empire and beyond, arrive continually, some on business, some to sell their fleshy wares as sex-workers. My dear, it’s quite brazen, and lawful—as long as taxes are paid—and the ladies of the town often take themselves to the Riverside district to pick themselves out a choice cock to ease the stresses of a hard afternoon’s shopping. The men, most of them young and very beautiful, though there’re plenty to satisfy anyone with a taste for maturer flesh, sit almost completely naked in the windows and doorways of little taverns and pensions. All it takes is a nod and one is escorted genteelly
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