was now not only slurping at the prick before her but going back and forth to those in her grasp to slap them hard around her face, a sure sign of her surging lust. Morgana had clearly made her desperate for these beautiful youthful erections. Even though the Priestess never allowed them inside her own body she knew the fevered longing they could inspire. She would have inspected the girl’s crotch closely, making sure the lips were pale and the surrounding skin porcelain-smooth and geisha-white. She knew nothing less than perfection would do. She would have spat upon the crotch, blown gently upon it, maybe even teased it with a flickering tongue-tip.
Then she would have got the girl on all fours and inspected her, telling her that her newly bleached holes were finally deserving of her Lord’s huge, unmatchable erect mentula. She would have sluiced the girl’s backside with a slick clear oil, perhaps holding a small vibrator to the girl’s pubis as she expelled, being careful not to let her come. Towards the evening, when the girl was squirming, she would have been plied with wine and given access to the Priestess’s potions. By this time she would be almost rabid with lust and would have to be handcuffed to ensure she didn’t ravage herself. As a final torture, the Priestess might well have had one of the many sex machines brought in so that she could straddle it and pummel her own cunnus at the highest speed, whilst the chained-up girl watched and drooled and shrieked in desperation for her turn.
Her insatiable appetite was currently showing no signs of abating. He ordered her to move along the line and he sensed her disappointment that this was the last of them. He could see why she had such carnal hunger. The pricks were fine specimens, no more than average size but all sleek and rock-hard, all with fine upward curves. He felt the saliva gather in his own mouth at his sudden urge to join her on his knees. The temptation was strong but momentary, and he quickly dismissed it from his mind as far too demeaning an act for someone whom these people worshipped as a deity.
Odd; he had once thought such cravings alien to him. Although he had always been in awe of his own body he had never thought it was from a general love of the male form. He initially only envisaged an order of lust-crazed females to worship him. However, the practices of his coven were based upon those of the Roman Bacchanalian cults, and the records declared that around 188 BC their most feted leader, the High Priestess Paculla Annia, had indeed ordained that men be admitted for the first time. Her orgies were considered incomplete without males present, all committing the lewdest sexual acts, mostly upon one another. Since Paculla Annia was now reborn and living amongst them, in the form of Morgana Innamorato, it seemed essential that he follow her original instructions.
Deeper research persuaded him that the Roman gods and richer mortals did indeed employ male slaves, and commonly used them for sexual purposes. However, they never took the passive role, which they saw as a specifically Greek habit. Such slaves, or catamites, were typically young. His searches were restricted to athletic youths in their very early twenties, or fresh out of college. He needed them virile, primarily gay so that they would lust after him as much as any female, but still horny enough to grow stiff and be used by Morgana’s girls when necessary.
His catamites were kept essentially as slaves, enjoying none of the privileges the girls had. They were there to do donkey work, to act as muscle, to bring authenticity to the orgies. Only after a while did he realise they could also be used for his gratification. Since he demanded of himself a daily minimum of three ejaculations, the boys came in handy when Morgana’s girls had been shut away for the night. He treated them roughly. The Romans frowned upon the thought of love between males. He certainly didn’t want them to feel like they were anything other than receptacles for his lust. But sometimes, when he was gripping those lithe thighs and pumping hard against their muscular buttocks, he thought he adored them every bit as much as the soft, marble-white rumps of his girls. The shame of it burned afterwards, a secret he could never allow to be discovered.
It posed a problem: what would he do with the boys when he was finished with them? They were hard to find and thus precious, but they couldn’t last for long. They would become loose and grotesque. Morgana had her treatments but none was a cure. He kept telling himself he would have to devise a way of dismissing them from his service without fear of them revealing the secrets of the Order. After all, they had been lured there and then locked up and used – what would prevent them from betraying his illegal practices, the kidnapping and enslaving, the secret lust for athletic male bodies? He already knew there was only one feasible answer.
The girl had done a marvellous job. The pricks were all still hard but the ones at the start of the line would not stay that way for long. It was time to move on to the ceremony proper. He had her get off her knees and recline upon the raised dais covered in cushions. He refilled his goblet with claret and crossed to her. She was allowed two mouthfuls of the wine in case she was dry from all her sucking, and to make room in the goblet. He topped it up with olive oil poured from a terracotta jug and then used his long index finger to mix the liquids together.
She was smiling and licking her lips although she had no clue what was to happen next. He had her lie back with her hips raised off the platform by a cushion. He spread her knees and saw the delicate lips of her bare puss. What beauty. There was no lewdness here, just a study in sweet, spotless perfection. He took the goat horn from beside the pewter claret jug. It was ringed at the large end with silver, but while other examples were also similarly tipped, his was cut so that the very end was missing, leaving a small opening. He pressed the tapered end onto her soft quim and she reached down to part the lips, allowing him to feed the horn inside her. She gasped and closed her eyes, although this meagre penetration would never be enough for her.
He tipped the contents of his goblet gradually into the horn, allowing the bright-red viscous liquid to drain inside her. She knew not to spill a drop. When his goblet was empty he handed her the small bowl of raspberries and instructed her to fill herself. She let out a gasp of pure lust and proceeded to do his bidding, holding herself open with the fingers of one hand and feeding the berries one by one inside her puss with the other, careful not to let the liquid inside her ooze out.
As she continued her task he stripped to the waist. Strange, he was always desirous that his catamites see his bare torso. Although he was twice their age he knew his stood up well in comparison. It was far larger than theirs and firm with muscle. The skin was still smooth and free of hair, just like theirs. It was a suitable body for a god, one that they would long to have pressed against them.
He released the slaves so that three could get on their knees and use their mouths to keep the other three hard. They all knew better than to coax an ejaculation. Doing so would lead to humiliating and most likely painful punishments. The sight of them going about their expert business was enough to ensure his prick was fully engorged when he released it. He so often fucked like this, with his chest bare, his black riding boots and animal-hide britches still in place, his cock and balls unleashed from the buttoned fly. He liked the way the still-fastened leggings framed his huge manhood, the dark background making it stand out even more. He liked how his tanned torso looked so sleek and firm under its sheen of sweat, particularly in the flickering light of a fire. And he specially liked the way that leaving his lower half covered made it all seem so impersonal, so full of urgency and free of tenderness.
He already had his hair tied back. Sometimes, if he was having a prolonged, wild fuck, he would free it from the band for effect, letting it drop back to his shoulders. His hair was jet-black and glossy, only slightly oily in appearance. It parted at the front to leave his large expanse of forehead bare, and flowed down either side of his face, framing it like curtains. Along with the goatee it created a swashbuckling look that pleased him. It was a good thick thatch for someone in his early forties and quite a change from what he was used to.
Until fairly recently he had been completely bald. He had been that way since his last days at university, when he had shaved it to mimic the Kurgan in his last, most frightening incarnation. It made him look brutish and ugly, especially with his cold eyes – but it made him feel even more powerful. People could barely stand
