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His hands are gentle on my body. They always are. When he is rough with me, it is still done out of gentleness, for mutual pleasure.
He does not have to be gentle.
He can take. He can hurt. He can be callous and cold and uncaring.
A piece of vellum gives him permission to treat me any way he chooses.
He always chooses to be gentle.
I am his slave. He is my master. But, he always treats me as a friend, a companion, a compatriot. We have been together for many years, since we were both young boys. We grew up together, at first playmates, then more.
His hands run lightly down my naked back and I shiver at the pleasure his touch induces. I hear his breath hiss between clenched teeth and know his control is shaky.
He could take.
But, he doesn't.
Between us, it is always a thing of mutual pleasure, of mutual want. He doesn't take me. He doesn't have to. I give myself willingly. I have all these many years.
I followed him from his father's villa to the emperor's summer court. I watched him impress the emperor with his intelligence and wit. I watched him fall in love with the emperor's daughter, a love that would bear no fruit, as both were promised to others. I followed him into the army, watched him become a leader of men, a great general.
I watched him wed.
I watched him fall in love.
I don't begrudge him that. I never could. His wife is all I could ever want for him. She loves him dearly and has given him a healthy and happy son.
All he wants is to return to them, to settle into a simple life.
And, when he does, I will be at his side, ever his faithful servant.
He turns me, his mouth brushing over my shoulders and down my chest. His beard tickles. It's a physical sensation I adore.
My hands begin their own exploration, gliding over taut muscles, feeling every scar and imperfection. I know them all so well. I tended each and every one.
They are beautiful to me.
As mine are to him.
He raises up, his mouth covering mine in a deep kiss. Our bodies press together, not fitting like man and woman, but still...right. Our legs entwine and our hands grasp, as we rock together, passion growing.
Our passion is a mutual thing, not borne of desperation or even loneliness, but more...long familiarity. We have found pleasure in each others embrace for so long, neither of us sees any reason to stop.
I comfort him. He comforts me.
There is no domination or submission. We switch roles as lovers with ease. As his slave, I am his to take whenever he desires, in any way he desires, but, as his slave, I should not have the right to do the same to him.
He gives me this right. He always has.
I have never really been his slave.
I could ask for my freedom and in the next heartbeat he would grant it, but...
I don't want to be free of him.
In this world, at his station in life, I could never be his equal. What could I be to him if I was not his slave? No one looks askance at our relationship as it is, and I would have no scandal attach itself to his glorious name.
So, his slave I remain.
He's gasping into my mouth, our lips clinging nearly violently together, as our bodies shudder and buck against each other, control slipping. Passion swells and we cry our pleasure into each others mouth, hot, sticky emissions mingling on our stomachs and thighs.
Slowly we collapse together, turning onto our sides to face each other, our lips still moving in a gentle kiss. He whispers my name, his hand shakily running through my hair, and I whisper his back, pressing a kiss to his rough cheek.
In the end we're never slave and master.
Only Cicero and Maximus.
End