The 'Verse of Phaesummers

For all anyone knew, Octavia was in her room.  Weaving, praying and lost in her own world.  But Atia knew her daughter was pining.  Pining for the lost love of a soldier.

Wishing for the future that could never and would never be hers.

Ridiculous emotional girl! Atia thought.  Still to this day, plagued by her feelings! The heart will never get you anywhere.  It’s the cunning that makes you first lady of Rome. 

Atia sighed and shifted irritably from her bed.  Merula made a move as if to get up but stopped when Atia waved her away with an impatient hand.  Antony too is at war and yet you don’t see me crying, and moping like a lovesick girl.  I know better.  Dreams will get you nowhere.  Will dreaming allow my marriage to Antony? No!    

Still, Atia lay, her hand resting on her stomach, listening to the noises of day.  The scurrying of the servants, the haggling of pedlars, the grunts of a quick fuck in the alley.  Sounds Antony too would hear if he were in her bed tonight.  Ridiculous emotional girl, thought Atia.      

Octavia lay, her hand upon her stomach, eyes and ears closed, dead to the world.  If one came upon her it would seem as if she was deeply in sleep, lolling in the realm of dream.  She thought of Agrippa, his beautiful angular face.  She thought of his adorable cheeks, scattered with freckles which she knew he hated.  She thought of the supple body, the sculpted muscles.  The sweat hanging heavy on him, the odour that could so easily send her into a sexual spell.  His arms around her, his face in her hair.  His hands everywhere…places I would not go in, yet give to him.  She loved it when he pressed close against her, allowing her to feel the entire length of his body, his heat, his erection…ahh, love.  Such ecstasy. 

Octavia moved off the bed.  If not a virgin in body, then a virgin in mind I must remain.             

She stood near the open veranda looking out onto the street. It was here, in this spot that Agrippa had caressed her, so gently, so lovingly as if he could not bear to be parted from her.  And she too, had felt as if she was fused to him, his being and that it would shatter her if he let go.  But he had to.  For the good of the republic.  She snorted in disbelief and continued to let the memories wash over her.  Like warm rain. 

Agrippa had told her, she must not expect his return.  They may not win, there was every chance.  It was foolish to have a false hope, he said.  Only now did she understand that he had said this to save her sadness. 

He never could bear the sight of me unhappy, Octavia smiled, even on our first meeting.  His constant assurances that everything was right.  Hah, my beautiful liar. 

She really had laughed when he said this, and was amused to see the puzzling look on his face.  She had touched his face, gently smoothing out any lines of worry. 

He kissed her then, suddenly and strongly with full warm lips from the heat of passion.  His tongue licked hers, entered her mouth gently caressing all the while.  His arms went round her as his hands travelled down, down, down.  Down over her back, rubbing her shoulder blades, to her midriff, where he gently began unhooking her gown. 

A good thing she had worn the blue that day. 

His fingers quickened, almost ripping the gown in his frenzy to feel her, to touch her.  Finally, the gown gave way.  As did his breastplate and tunic.

Agrippa’s hands travelled over her breasts, the pad of his thumb gently circling the nipples, making her moan, making her scream and pull him closer to her, closer to her body.  His lips gently nipped at her breast sending sensations of pleasure through Octavia’s body, like a seismic wave.  She gasped, kissing his mouth, face, hair, fingers, neck, anything she could touch.  By now Agrippa had wrestled her to the ground, where she lay, exhilarated.  Agrippa ran slow fingers across her body, as she grasped him desperately, her nails digging into his flesh.  She grappled underneath him, to find the hardness and grasped tight.  She moved her hand slowly, stroking the shaft, and softly kissing him.  Wet kisses with moist lips that she blew on gently, so he could once more feel her kisses, her passionate bites.  He moaned in her ear, and bucked himself against her, begging her to release him, to let him enter her so that they could truly be one.

Octavia let go, and positioned her hips above his, and parted her legs.  Agrippa stroked her vulva, long, laborious strokes with the tip of one finger, rubbing her clitoris until he felt the swell and vibration of her body to his touch.  Octavia let out an agonising moan, as if racked with pain, rather than consumed by pleasure and screamed for Agrippa to enter her, to fill her womb to the hilt. 

He gripped her hips and with a kiss to her stomach, he plunged into her, deeply, again, again, again, his pleasure mounting and rising, deeper, deeper, deeper. 

She came with a moan of longing and satisfaction.  He collapsed against her, his breath on her neck, the flushed breathing of lovers well spent.  She rolled against him, her hand on his chest, and knew, in her heart that no other would ever satisfy her again, and that she would never truly be happy unless it was with him, next to him, beside him as his lover for eternity. 

Octavia came out of the daydream to find herself flushed.  She was wet, so wet and Agrippa was nowhere to be seen.