While she picked at the lock, he played at her lips, teasing her, barely touching her. She felt wet and hot. Plump. With Martina the first time he had found it vaguely disgusting how slimy her body became, disgusting yet so arousing. Some time later he described his findings to another frumentarius, who explained it was a perfectly natural response of a female body in a state of arousal. Perfectly natural, and desirable.
In fact this helpful frumentarius had decided to give him some instruction on the matter, but Picus had reacted with distrust-- this happened to be the same instructor who had once drowned him in handcuffs, beat him, allowed him to eat toxic roots, allowed him to wallow about in hallucinogenic misery, chased him through the desert for a week, tortured him when captured, reduced him to tears on two different occasions, and then on one had placed a live cazador on his arm and told him not to sweat so much.. it would wash away the pheremone ointment. 'The ointment gives you a pleasing smell to her, and without it, she will sting you. They are all ladies, you know. You must learn how to treat a lady.. or fake it without giving offense.'
Fake it without giving offense.
Easy, with Martina. She was attractive and young. Her voice was not especially irritating like some of their voices were. She tended to chatter but she was not stupid. She was very giving sexually and enjoyed the act. After her, Picus realized he could not be with a woman who did not.
He used to hesitate to touch her down there. She had shown him how. She had to show him a lot of things.. but even if he didn't always learn quickly, he learned after practice. He learned that she liked to be touched at the beginning of her sex, near the top, either a dull rubbing with a grouping of fingers or the precise application of a fingertip to the little hooded nub. Sometimes it was too much. Sometimes she needed more. It was all contextual. Complicated. His instructor had some enthusiastic comments on the process but Picus had blushed fiercely and told him he was done talking about it-- and what are you, twelve! You're too young for this conversation.
He was rubbing her slowly now, bluntly, for the angle was difficult to get it how she liked it most. It was easier, more immediate, to tease her opening, and he did so, curving a finger down her seam and pushing inside. Her voice came strongly on a groan. She felt so wet, so needy. He half-wondered if his fingers would touch his own seed, but he no longer cared if they did.
He worked her slowly while she worked the lock. She was losing patience. He had closed his eyes while he toyed with her, but now he heard the frustrated rattle of the cuff. She couldn't get free just yet.
"Concentrate," he told her.
"I can't concentrate," she hissed back.
Encircling her with his free arm round the middle, he pressed his body against her and began to move his hips in time to the slow push of his fingers. "Learn," he murmured against the edge of her open mouth. "If you need to get free for real…you'll be distracted then as well."
Martina made a desperate sound. Not knowing how to read it entirely, he dragged the two fingers out of her and teased her inner thigh again. He didn't want it too much just yet. Of course he could, but he had learned that a woman's climax was a complicated and tricky thing. Even if she achieved one, you could ruin it, or it could still be bad or unsatisfying. What in the hell.. it was beyond his understanding.
He had attempted only one time to even broach the barest limits of the subject with his sister, and that was, in its widest metaphor, to ask if she was happy with her latest man. She had slowly turned her head like an owl to regard him and then responded she was content with her thread in the Great Tapestry. She told him she relied on no man, only the gods, and the living god their king and master, Caesar their dominus.
His sister was considered one of the most gifted of the priestesses. A gift of prophecy and portents.
Her six children were regarded as results of her duties to the People, offshoots of choiceless matings directed by the sibyl.
Picus never asked about her men again. He didn't want to think about it.
Girl from Ipanema 5/?
In fact this helpful frumentarius had decided to give him some instruction on the matter, but Picus had reacted with distrust-- this happened to be the same instructor who had once drowned him in handcuffs, beat him, allowed him to eat toxic roots, allowed him to wallow about in hallucinogenic misery, chased him through the desert for a week, tortured him when captured, reduced him to tears on two different occasions, and then on one had placed a live cazador on his arm and told him not to sweat so much.. it would wash away the pheremone ointment. 'The ointment gives you a pleasing smell to her, and without it, she will sting you. They are all ladies, you know. You must learn how to treat a lady.. or fake it without giving offense.'
Fake it without giving offense.
Easy, with Martina. She was attractive and young. Her voice was not especially irritating like some of their voices were. She tended to chatter but she was not stupid. She was very giving sexually and enjoyed the act. After her, Picus realized he could not be with a woman who did not.
He used to hesitate to touch her down there. She had shown him how. She had to show him a lot of things.. but even if he didn't always learn quickly, he learned after practice. He learned that she liked to be touched at the beginning of her sex, near the top, either a dull rubbing with a grouping of fingers or the precise application of a fingertip to the little hooded nub. Sometimes it was too much. Sometimes she needed more. It was all contextual. Complicated. His instructor had some enthusiastic comments on the process but Picus had blushed fiercely and told him he was done talking about it-- and what are you, twelve! You're too young for this conversation.
He was rubbing her slowly now, bluntly, for the angle was difficult to get it how she liked it most. It was easier, more immediate, to tease her opening, and he did so, curving a finger down her seam and pushing inside. Her voice came strongly on a groan. She felt so wet, so needy. He half-wondered if his fingers would touch his own seed, but he no longer cared if they did.
He worked her slowly while she worked the lock. She was losing patience. He had closed his eyes while he toyed with her, but now he heard the frustrated rattle of the cuff. She couldn't get free just yet.
"Concentrate," he told her.
"I can't concentrate," she hissed back.
Encircling her with his free arm round the middle, he pressed his body against her and began to move his hips in time to the slow push of his fingers. "Learn," he murmured against the edge of her open mouth. "If you need to get free for real…you'll be distracted then as well."
Martina made a desperate sound. Not knowing how to read it entirely, he dragged the two fingers out of her and teased her inner thigh again. He didn't want it too much just yet. Of course he could, but he had learned that a woman's climax was a complicated and tricky thing. Even if she achieved one, you could ruin it, or it could still be bad or unsatisfying. What in the hell.. it was beyond his understanding.
He had attempted only one time to even broach the barest limits of the subject with his sister, and that was, in its widest metaphor, to ask if she was happy with her latest man. She had slowly turned her head like an owl to regard him and then responded she was content with her thread in the Great Tapestry. She told him she relied on no man, only the gods, and the living god their king and master, Caesar their dominus.
His sister was considered one of the most gifted of the priestesses. A gift of prophecy and portents.
Her six children were regarded as results of her duties to the People, offshoots of choiceless matings directed by the sibyl.
Picus never asked about her men again. He didn't want to think about it.