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"Stop preening yourself in the mirror and help me with my pallium, boy," Ven’s master said, his voice as sharp as Ven had ever heard it.
Ven hadn’t been admiring himself in the mirror (much!) The tunic he was wearing this evening was a lot tighter than his usual attire, showing him off, an effect achieved by the use of some sort of synthetic fibre that made the tunic softer than the linen of Ven’s normal livery. The tunic itself was a pretty sea-green, bringing out the colour of his eyes, a far cry from the maroon he normally wore.
His master didn’t really need much help with the pallium, though it was Ven who did all the work of arranging it before pinning it into place with a silver fibula shaped like a sea-horse. The outfit brought out the colour of his master’s eyes, though Ven didn’t dare do much more than flick a glance up to gauge his master’s expression. He seemed pleased enough, which was enough for Ven to breathe a silent sigh of relief before they got into the car that was to take them to Prefect Tothius’ country villa.
The party, when they arrived, was not quite in full swing. Drusus Varius Metellus saw no reason to be absurdly early to social gatherings like this, yet neither did he see any reason to arrive ‘fashionably late’ and expect everyone’s attention as he entered the room.
Being a slave, Ven could not taste any of the delicacies on offer and could only look on, serving his master from whichever dish caught his eye. The meal was a feast for all the senses - fish, octopus, every kind of seafood imaginable, cooked to order in front of the guests by a team of highly skilled slaves. Ven imagined that Grumio, left at home, would have words to say about the under-cooks, if only to cover his own envy. Grumio did have his own staff, of course, although on a much smaller scale.
To have such numbers of slaves was a sign of the prefect’s wealth, as was the magnificence of the party. Ven was dismissed to wait on the periphery of the mingling citizens, and found his attention momentarily caught by a fire-eater, although he could not completely take his attention off his master, who seemed perfectly content to ignore him, focussing on his own conversation.
It was a warm evening, even balmy, as the sun slipped below the horizon, lighting the sea on fire until the sunset glow was replaced by the flickering orange of torches set here and there around the gardens.
Ven grew conscious of being looked at and glanced in his master’s direction in case he was wanted before glancing around, scanning his surroundings with the practised quick light look of a slave who wanted to see without making the citizens think he was being impertinent and staring at them. There was a girl, a citizen of about his own age, reclining on a couch, with another (obviously her own slave) in attendance nearby. She was dressed in blue, in keeping with the theme of the evening’s celebrations, her tunic a light turquoise and with a darker blue wrap over it. Her jewellery was tasteful and refined, with a tiara holding her blonde hair up in an elegant hairstyle that must have taken her maid half the afternoon to perfect.
He glanced back towards his owner again, and swallowed as he noticed, from the corner of his eye, that the lady in blue had risen to her feet and was heading artlessly in his direction, although she could quite plausibly be aiming anywhere. She walked with an easy grace, exuding confidence. She was slender, tall for a woman - about Ven’s own height, possibly even a little taller - and her blue eyes had a piercing quality not unlike Ven’s own master’s usual expression.
It was obvious that she was heading for him from the look she gave him - slow, lingering, from his head to his feet and back. He kept his eyes down, squirming a little at the knowledge that his too-tight tunic was hiding very little of his figure from her inspection.
She looked away as though something more interesting had caught her eye - a dismissive move, perfectly calculated to reinforce her superiority over slaves such as Ven, and the shorter maid trailing her. The maid was walking with a slight limp and carrying her left arm in an awkward fashion that made Ven wonder if it was injured, although he could see no sign of a bandage or a sling - and surely the aristocratic Roman woman she belonged to must have enough sense to care for her slave’s health, if only from consideration of the girl’s monetary value if not from common human decency.
Ladies of her status didn’t care to consider that their slaves were human beings, of course.
He glanced towards his master again and stiffened as his master moved to intercept the blond lady, glancing casually in Ven’s direction before addressing the lady in a voice too low for Ven to catch. And naturally he was facing in the wrong direction for Ven to attempt to read his lips.
The lady extended her hand for Ven’s master to kiss, which he did, the torchlight glinting off the rings they each wore. Ven settled into a wary watchfulness; this conversation could not bode well for him.
He was proved right as his master turned towards him, just barely long enough to issue a summons, his voice clipped. "Ven. Attend me."
Ven swallowed and approached, his eyes lowered. The two turned towards him, not to allow him to join in with the conversation but merely to look him up and down. The conversation was about him but he was not expected to participate in any way. The silent emphasis of his lack of status was unthinkingly casual as the lady looked him up and down appraisingly, as though examining a piece of furniture or artwork rather than a human being.
"Truly a fine specimen. A worthy reflection of his owner."
"You flatter me," his master replied, the slave owner naturally taking all the credit for the slave’s appearance and efforts.
Ven stared into the middle distance, where the musicians were seated. You never really got used to being discussed like a piece of meat, and he didn’t like to think what would happen if he showed any sort of reaction to what was being spoken.
The lady reached out a finely-manicured hand, running her fingers lightly over Ven’s cheek even before asking, "May I?"
Ven shivered a little, looking to his master who said nothing, merely nodded and sipped from his wineglass.
She stepped forward, right into Ven's personal space and he wanted to step back but couldn’t because to do so would invite a sharp reprimand at the very least. Slaves could not lay any claim to privacy or personal space, after all.
That manicured hand went to Ven’s bare arm - he imagined that her nails could inflict some painful scratches if she chose to - and stroked the skin, squeezing his bicep enough to feel the muscles.
She turned just enough to glance at her own slave. "Alas, my mirror is of rather lower quality. Cracked, as you will notice."
The slave woman gave absolutely no hint that she had heard anything. Ven thought that the clothing - a drab slave tunic in a nondescript grey colour - didn’t help. Surely the patrician lady didn’t feel so insecure that she had to clothe her slave in a cheap basic slave tunic just to make herself look more impressive? Ven had heard of such women, people who bought the plainest of slaves to attend them, merely to make themselves look prettier by comparison. The lady citizen would shine in any setting, with her golden hair and blue eyes, not to mention the delicate features of her face - though she would look prettier without the bored condescending expression she was currently wearing.
Ven’s master turned enough to see the other’s slave, bringing her into the conversation although she was not ordered to join the group. She was conventionally pretty, though nobody would look twice at her when she was in her mistress’ presence even if she was dressed in something far better than the standard drab grey slave tunic she was currently wearing.
"She's attractive enough," Ven’s master said, and sipped his drink. "A slight limp, I noticed, and she either won't or can't hold her left arm straight." The cool note that came into his voice on the next word made Ven shiver, grateful that it wasn’t directed towards him, though he couldn't help but be impressed that his master had noticed such things about someone else's slave. "Injuries?"
"Broken arm, broken leg when she was younger. Wasn't set properly." She spoke carelessly, totally ignorant of the effect she might have on either slave. She continued to caress Ven as she spoke, her hand moving to his chest and stroking his pecs through the too-tight tunic, before trailing further south. Ven tried to stay impassive but could not control the reaction his body was showing. Her eyes flicked down and a smirk appeared on her pretty face - it didn’t suit her, but seemed somehow to look like it was a habitual expression to her.
"Idiot tried to thieve, or something." She paused. "Or run away. I forget which."
Of course - the actions of a slave mattered not at all to the free, outside of the punishment required to correct them. Even such major actions wouldn’t matter after a few years beyond the fact that they had done something. It would be in the slave’s record, why should an owner exert themselves to remember something that had had life shattering consequences to the slave in question?
It seemed that Ven’s master was thinking along similar lines, which Ven took comfort in, although the clipped tone would have sent Ven to his knees in abject apology had it been aimed at him. "Rather excessive discipline, don't you think?"
Ven was glad that he was not the only one affected by his master’s tone of voice, for the lady turned back towards him with a look of confusion. "I’m sorry, sir?"
"I'm all for strict discipline and keeping one's property in line. But that does seem exceptionally harsh," he said. "Even, I might venture to say, cruel. And, frankly, wasteful on your part. I've never been aware of any situation where permanently injuring one's household servants is the best course of action."
The lady stiffened, opened her mouth to reply and then smiled, the expression transforming her aristocratic face into something much more pleasant and lighting her eyes up. Ven didn’t dare look at her; something about her whole demeanour (not to mention the maid’s) seemed to discourage that, but even from the corner of his eye he could see enough to see that she was truly beautiful when she smiled. Not that she wasn’t anyway but it was more the cold haughtiness of a marble statue than the beauty of a living being.
"Romulus above, sir. No." She caught her lip between pearly white teeth and shrugged. "I am surprised, sir, that a man in your… line of work would be so sentimental. No, it was her previous owners - who were certainly not careful with their property. She rarely gets worse than a slap or jab from me. What kind of woman do you take me for, sir?"
The sideways glance that was all Ven dare give his master showed that his master had relaxed a little at hearing that. "I’m glad to hear it. A decent owner should never need to resort to such harsh methods to correct a slave, after all."
He glossed over the mentions of administering a slap or a jab; most slaves could expect that treatment on a near-daily basis, after all, and it would not excite comment were anyone to witness such minor corrections being meted out.
The lady's hand returned to caressing Ven's chest through the tight, clingy fabric of his tunic.
"I don't suppose you would care to let me borrow him, considering what you were saying earlier?" she said to his master. "I wouldn't need him for more than, oh, half an hour or so."
"And I daresay it would lighten up what you must be finding an exceedingly dull evening," Ven's master replied.
Ven didn't like where this seemed to be going, but it was not as if he could exactly say no to it.
"Absolutely, sir," the lady said brightly. "I promise I will be the soul of discretion. Nobody will know a thing." She sent a glare in her maid’s direction, silently promising dire things if she breathed a word in the wrong ear.
"Ven. You will find me at the fountain in… shall we say an hour?"
Ven swallowed. "Yes, Domine."
"Thank you, sir," the lady said and looked around, trying to figure out where they could go. There were alcoves and private corners of the gardens but she didn't seem the sort of person to want to lower herself to screwing on a marble bench where just about anyone could stumble upon her. The portico of the house had several rooms opening out to the gardens and eventually Ven found himself in one of them. It was a sitting room, with a comfortable sofa and some chairs, with a TV in the corner although the furniture was arranged to take in the view of the gardens through the large sliding doors.
"Marlia, keep watch and make sure we're not disturbed," the lady said sharply. "And I know you brought a condom or two."
The grey-clad slave dipped a hand into her pocket and brought out a foil wrapper, offering it to her mistress.
"I don't want it, give to him, you stupid bitch!"
Ven took the wrapper from her, noting the look on her face - she was obviously used to being called names - before she retreated, leaving Ven alone with the lady whose name he didn't even know. Not that that mattered, of course; he wouldn't be permitted to address her by name if he did know it.
"All right, get that tunic off and let me see what I'm working with," the lady said. The only concession she made to disrobing herself was to set her palla aside.
"Yes, Domina." Ven swallowed and tugged off his tunic, hurriedly folding it and laying it aside on a low coffee table, leaving himself naked to her eyes.
He straightened to find that she had taken a seat on the sofa. She extended a foot towards him, the implied order clear, and he knelt to remove her shoes, setting them neatly together to one side, revealing her painted toenails.
"While you're down there, let's see how good your mouth is," she said, looking down. Her knees spread, making the order very clear, although she didn't lift a finger to help, merely rearranged a cushion and lay back.
Her long tunic was harder to navigate than his master's knee-length garments, but Ven carefully lifted the fabric and made his way underneath, pulling aside her delicate lacy underwear to get his mouth to work on her. A part of him recalled the last time he'd been with a woman, at the orders of his master's ex-wife. He'd been told to use his mouth then, too - what was it with free people's obsession with making their slaves perform orally?
A foot pressed against his own intimate area, rubbing against his prick. It was a calculated distraction, but he didn't think she was the type to keep that kind of thing up. She had struck him as the sort who was always looking for the next entertainment or distraction, and as he licked and nibbled at her clit, eventually her foot fell away from his now erect prick as she sank backwards, moaning at the sensations and pushing her hips up towards his face for more.
Eventually, though, she reached down and pushed him away. "Fuck me - and make it good," she said, breathing heavily. Her eyes were unfocused as he emerged from her skirts and fumbled to get the condom on his prick.
She lay back along the length of the sofa and he had to navigate it, eventually ending up with one knee in the crease where seat and back met, and his other foot awkwardly on the floor. She sighed as he pushed in, pulling him until he was leaning over her, his hands on either side of her shoulders.
"Fuck me, then," she ordered, absolutely sure of her status above him even as she lay sprawled under him, her dress pulled up and her hands roaming across his naked body. She had all the arrogance and superiority of a true patrician, but her body was as warm and yielding as any other woman’s - not that Ven would dare to breathe a hint of that thought as he took over, hips thrusting. He tried to adjust the angle a little to hit that spot deep inside her, though that wasn’t the easiest of things to do when doing this on a sofa. Obviously the designer had never tried fucking anyone anywhere other than a bed or it would have a deeper seat.
He wasn’t sure at what point her hands went to his back but he was sure that she had marked him, maybe even drawn blood. She eventually threw her head back, shuddering under him as she groaned, her whole body going momentarily rigid. He slowed his motions, though he didn’t stop entirely, and she gripped his sides, her nails sinking in enough to leave crescent-shaped indentations.
He had not come himself, holding on by sheer determination because he hadn’t known how long it would take to bring her to completion. She was not at all the sort of person to allow a slave to come before she did - if it even occurred to her that a slave might come at all.
She gripped his shoulders, shuddering again before slumping back, breathing heavily. She set a hand on his chest, pushing him off her.
"Not bad - quite good, in fact," she managed, opening her eyes to look at him even as she reached to readjust her dress. "You can tell that bitch to come back in, and return to your master with my gratitude for lending me his slave."
Ven pulled the condom off, dropping it into the waste bin near the door before opening it a crack to let Marlia know her mistress required her presence.
He pulled his tunic back on, wincing a little as it dragged against the scratches left behind, and with a familiar ache between his legs where he had been left unsatisfied.
He found his master precisely where he had been told he would, by the fountain, and endured the searching look. The whisper of his tunic over his cock had not helped his arousal, even in the cool evening air.
"I see you didn’t come," his master said. "I hope you left the lady satisfied?"
"Yes, Domine," Ven said, his head lowered, trying not to squirm. "She expressed her gratitude for the loan of your slave, Domine."
It might not have been the best fuck of the lady’s life, but Ven was out of practice and it had been somewhat cramped and awkward.
His master nodded. "You may fetch me another glass of wine, I think."
It was deliberately done, of course; he could see the state that Ven was in, and the drink table was half the garden away.
By the time Ven made it back, he could see that the lady he had just serviced had rejoined the party and was in conversation with his master, again. He handed the glass to his master and stepped back, wishing for the evening to be over.
"Thank you again for the loan of your slave, it was quite enjoyable," the lady was saying. "I am sorry to cut this short, but I believe my father is looking for me. ad conventum!"
"ad conventum," Ven’s master replied, with a slight bow in response to the lady’s inclined head.
She snapped her fingers for her maid’s attention (which she had already!) and swept away, probably in search of her father, as though she had not recently spent time in someone else’s house fucking a slave.
"It's about time we were going," Ven’s master told him. "I believe you need reminding of the correct use for your arse and dick."
"Yes, Domine," Ven said, disconsolately, as his master put his untouched glass of wine down and led Ven to take their leave of the party.