Read Online In His Arena 1: Slave Eternal by Nasia Maksima - Free Book Online
Authors: Nasia Maksima
Tags: LGBT; Epic Fantasy
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lips.
The watered wine was silky on his throat, but he wished for something hotter, more forceful—a heady claiming in the dark of night, skin against sweaty skin, a sleek cock shoved into his throat, deliciously choking him as icy blue eyes…
A moan escaped Stratos a breath before bitterness made him clamp his teeth over it. Even now, Alession was with her again. He was her consul, but still, how many matters of state needed to be discussed each day? Stratos balled his fists and resisted punching the nearest straw practice dummy.
Once, he and Stratos had been close in confidence. Fellow lictors, they spent most of their waking hours discussing politics, philosophy, art. They drank at the same alehouses, whored at the same whorehouses, ate together, bathed together.
They had even… Once.
But that was three years ago. Before Stratos allowed House Actaeon to steal an assured victory from House Vulpinius. Stratos sighed. The offense had not occurred at an ordinary Spectacle, but at the Grand Melee. The Vulpinius fighter stood ready to claim his victory, but in the last moments, he was foully slain by an Actaeon man—a man whom Stratos should have controlled better.
The Empress had been furious. She declared the entire Melee a travesty with no victor. No one discovered Stratos’s involvement, but Alession knew. He knew, and he had bet accordingly. In the end, Stratos lost his man and Alession lost thirty denarii. Furious, he’d railed at Stratos, called him careless, selfish, and cursed the day the Oracles drew the lot of House Vulpinius and placed it on Stratos as an infant.
It was true, Stratos considered. Perhaps he would have been better off in House Lucia with the artists or House Aeschylus with the philosophers. But here he was. The Oracles had seen fit to place him in House Vulpinius at birth.
And no one, not even the Empress herself, questioned an Oracle.
Stratos pushed himself away from the column he’d been leaning on. Another deep pull from his wineskin and he left the comfort of the shady portico for the burning sands of the training grounds.
The sun blared down, ensuring he kept his head bowed. Good. Then I won’t be tempted to look up, won’t be tempted to see…
Too often these days, the bitch-queen took Alession to her private balcony.
A muscle in Stratos’s jaw jumped, and he unclenched his teeth. Alession had been her slave ever since she’d named him consul. He attended her day and night.
But not for long.
The Grand Melee was coming up, and when the victorious gladiator crested the dais, when he stood before her to receive his laurels, his dagger would find her throat.
Stratos approached the ring of novices, where Lucan practiced passes with his gladius. The gladiator victorious. And he does not even know yet.
A thrill raced low through Stratos’s belly. The heady thought of placing his assassin so close to the blind Empress, of murdering her in cold blood…
Alession would rule, then, and he would finally know Stratos’s true feelings. They wouldn’t have to hide any longer. That one kiss, that one fuck in the baths, Alession peeling back Stratos’s tunic to lave his nipples with kisses—Stratos grew hard with the remembrance of it—Alession’s cock, thick and sleek, pounding into him without mercy.
There were nights Stratos still awoke with the sore feeling in his thighs and his ass, with the sensual trickle of Alession’s hot cum running down his thighs.
We are meant to be.
But, for now, he would be patient, bide his time.
He strode toward the novices. On days like today, when there was no Spectacle, no games or Diversions, the Empress’s Theatre was almost peaceful. The huge coliseum stood empty, rising to the hot, cloudless sky, an impressive edifice of ivory columns and the statues of the seven gods. Stratos always reveled to see the Doomsayer, Master of Souls, King of UnderRealm, rising taller than the EverStar, Elysia, in her golden chariot.
Even the blades of
The watered wine was silky on his throat, but he wished for something hotter, more forceful—a heady claiming in the dark of night, skin against sweaty skin, a sleek cock shoved into his throat, deliciously choking him as icy blue eyes…
A moan escaped Stratos a breath before bitterness made him clamp his teeth over it. Even now, Alession was with her again. He was her consul, but still, how many matters of state needed to be discussed each day? Stratos balled his fists and resisted punching the nearest straw practice dummy.
Once, he and Stratos had been close in confidence. Fellow lictors, they spent most of their waking hours discussing politics, philosophy, art. They drank at the same alehouses, whored at the same whorehouses, ate together, bathed together.
They had even… Once.
But that was three years ago. Before Stratos allowed House Actaeon to steal an assured victory from House Vulpinius. Stratos sighed. The offense had not occurred at an ordinary Spectacle, but at the Grand Melee. The Vulpinius fighter stood ready to claim his victory, but in the last moments, he was foully slain by an Actaeon man—a man whom Stratos should have controlled better.
The Empress had been furious. She declared the entire Melee a travesty with no victor. No one discovered Stratos’s involvement, but Alession knew. He knew, and he had bet accordingly. In the end, Stratos lost his man and Alession lost thirty denarii. Furious, he’d railed at Stratos, called him careless, selfish, and cursed the day the Oracles drew the lot of House Vulpinius and placed it on Stratos as an infant.
It was true, Stratos considered. Perhaps he would have been better off in House Lucia with the artists or House Aeschylus with the philosophers. But here he was. The Oracles had seen fit to place him in House Vulpinius at birth.
And no one, not even the Empress herself, questioned an Oracle.
Stratos pushed himself away from the column he’d been leaning on. Another deep pull from his wineskin and he left the comfort of the shady portico for the burning sands of the training grounds.
The sun blared down, ensuring he kept his head bowed. Good. Then I won’t be tempted to look up, won’t be tempted to see…
Too often these days, the bitch-queen took Alession to her private balcony.
A muscle in Stratos’s jaw jumped, and he unclenched his teeth. Alession had been her slave ever since she’d named him consul. He attended her day and night.
But not for long.
The Grand Melee was coming up, and when the victorious gladiator crested the dais, when he stood before her to receive his laurels, his dagger would find her throat.
Stratos approached the ring of novices, where Lucan practiced passes with his gladius. The gladiator victorious. And he does not even know yet.
A thrill raced low through Stratos’s belly. The heady thought of placing his assassin so close to the blind Empress, of murdering her in cold blood…
Alession would rule, then, and he would finally know Stratos’s true feelings. They wouldn’t have to hide any longer. That one kiss, that one fuck in the baths, Alession peeling back Stratos’s tunic to lave his nipples with kisses—Stratos grew hard with the remembrance of it—Alession’s cock, thick and sleek, pounding into him without mercy.
There were nights Stratos still awoke with the sore feeling in his thighs and his ass, with the sensual trickle of Alession’s hot cum running down his thighs.
We are meant to be.
But, for now, he would be patient, bide his time.
He strode toward the novices. On days like today, when there was no Spectacle, no games or Diversions, the Empress’s Theatre was almost peaceful. The huge coliseum stood empty, rising to the hot, cloudless sky, an impressive edifice of ivory columns and the statues of the seven gods. Stratos always reveled to see the Doomsayer, Master of Souls, King of UnderRealm, rising taller than the EverStar, Elysia, in her golden chariot.
Even the blades of
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