Publicly virtuous and privately scandalous, Lucilla is an elegant, Roman noblewoman with exquisite taste, particularly in men. Although an unashamed snob, she is also strong-willed, intelligent, resourceful and brave. She is loyal to her friends and unforgettable to her lovers.
In this, the first of her adventures, she acquires a taste for a certain slave. But she will need all her wits about her if she is to survive when her tranquil, holiday villa is ransacked by Spartacus' slave rebellion.
Lucilla gave a lazy smile as she led the slave into her private chamber. She had become bored with life in Rome and decided to reinvigorate herself at her villa on the coast of Campania. She had holidayed there frequently since her late husband, Marcus, had been killed whilst serving Rome as a general in the army.
She had been about to call on her favorite female slave, Harmonia, to provide her with her usual massage but, perhaps because of the hot, late afternoon sun and the wine readily available from her vineyard, she had chosen to break with convention.
As she entered her chamber, she wondered if this was the only reason for her decision. Of course, her strong attraction to the handsome, young, Greek slave had nothing to do with it. Lucilla suppressed a giggle. There was nothing wrong with a little titillation, was there?
Whilst the slave prepared the oil that he would soon rub onto her skin, Lucilla let her thin, white dress fall to the floor, revealing a small breast band and delicate loincloth, which covered her most intimate parts.
She was proud of both her looks and her body, which belied her forty years. She had noticed how her friends and acquaintances—even guards—looked at her, and it gave her a huge amount of satisfaction.
Yes, she was undoubtedly beautiful. Her wavy, brown hair usually stretched half way down her back, but recently she had taken to wearing it tied up, with ornate, curled ringlets dropping down onto her neck and framing her face.
Huge, brown eyes, high cheekbones, a Roman nose and a petite, prim mouth made her look exactly what she was…an exquisite example of the Roman, female nobility.
“I want you to concentrate on the top of my back and shoulders,” she purred as she lay down, “and careful not to use too much oil.”
As soon as the slave’s strong hands took hold of her shoulders, she knew she had made the right decision. His firm, decisive grip began to rid her of the tension she experienced, overseeing the management and affairs of her vast estate.
The minutes passed and her anxieties vanished…well, all but one of them. That vexatious longing for her sexual appetite to be fed just wouldn’t go away. The sun and the wine didn’t help, but were they the cause of it? She chuckled as she contemplated it. No, she decided. She had always been highly sexed.
The slave, blissfully unaware of her secret needs, continued with his task, whilst Lucilla, her mind working overtime, became more and more aroused.
There was nothing wrong with replacing Harmonia with a man, she told herself. She was perfectly entitled to a massage, wasn’t she? And the things that she had thought, but never spoken of, about this young man…? They were nobody’s business but her own.
But what if she decided to develop those thoughts…to make them a reality? No, that would be out of the question. In fact, completely insane.
The slave toiled on, and Lucilla, still slightly inebriated, began to convince herself that she might be wrong. She worked hard, didn’t she? Entertaining, organizing the villa, maintaining her appearance—there were bound to be other things she did too, things which took time and effort. As a Roman noblewoman, wasn’t she entitled to do as she pleased with her slaves?
And who would find out?
She chuckled mischievously. She knew what needed to be done. The excitement of forbidden fruit added to her already escalating desire, and she decided to act. Her legs trembled slightly in anticipation.
“Remove my breast band,” she commanded, attempting to sound as authoritative and matter of fact as she could.
The slave hesitated.
“Did you not hear me?” she said, slightly louder but with an element of shrillness in her tone, caused by nervousness, which she was unable to hide.
There was a slight delay before he complied. She took a deep breath.
“And the other…” Despite the wine and her natural air of authority, she was too tense to complete the sentence. Her pent-up desire and daring decision had left her lost for words, so she gestured toward the loincloth, the front of which, unseen to the slave, was already moist.
After what seemed like minutes, but was little more than a few seconds, the slave removed it. He steadily got back to his work, but now there was uncertainty in his hands.
She allowed things to settle slightly so she could regain her composure and steel herself to sound in control. Was she really doing this?
“My lower back and bottom,” she said in a wooden tone. Again, the slave complied, this time without delay. As he worked his hands and gradually recovered his former confidence, she experienced a warming in her sex. She had to go through with this. She didn’t want to give herself time to think and take the sensible course of action.
Once the slave’s hands were on her bottom, she quickly and effortlessly slid herself upwards. The hand jerked and slipped down onto her wet pussy before quickly withdrawing.
She gave a gasp and looked over her shoulder, meeting the slave’s dark brown eyes. She was at the point of no return. The scandal, if caught, would be unimaginable.
“Move your hand back down there, and carry on.”
The slave stood as still as a statue.
“Carry on,” she said with a firmness that belied her nerves. There was nothing more to say.
His hands tentatively returned to her back and slid downward. His fingers reached her wetness. The butterflies in her stomach did somersaults. How long his fingers remained there, expertly massaging her, she could not say, for she was now crazy with lust.
She eased herself up, brushed the slave’s hand aside, and eyed him. He was tall, dark, slim, and probably half her age. The bulge pressing against his thin tunic was unmistakable.