Decadence (As Day Fades x PixxieGrrl)

P

PixxieGrrl

Moon
Joined
Jun 13, 2014
Even before the scene faded from black, the sound essentially betrayed what was happening: the moaning of a woman, the panting of a man, the slapping of their flesh coming together. And as the picture did hone into view, any remaining doubt was removed: this wasn't some fuzzy-filtered rolling around in the sheets, but raw, unrestrained, genuine. The sudden little gasp perhaps matched similar gasps from those watching – but this was one of pleasure and excitement, not shock and consternation. The slow steady zoom confirmed this was no mere sex scene as it captured a flash of thick, tumescent flesh disappearing between two pert cheeks, stretching out the tightest of holes.

Juliana was on her hands and knees at the end of a large bed, sheets swept to the side. The stance highlighted her exquisite figure: shapely rear hiked up and breasts bouncing aloft, while her narrow back dipped in a shapely curve. Her purple gown had been pulled free of her shoulders and lifted over her waist, leaving in bunched in the middle between a sandwich of her nakedness, though her smooth skin was also adorned with many bangles and bracelets, necklaces and pendants, a mixture of gold and silver and sparkling gems which contrasted to her soft features. Her face was delicately made up, and currently caught in an expression of enraptured bliss as she let out another gasp; her mid length blonde hair was a little astray, not helped by the loose fistful gathered up in a grasping hand.

It was a slow, but vigorous scene: every thrust was enough to lift her hips in the air, and she sported a cherry-red handprint on a pale buttock. But at the same time, as she slid from her hands to her elbows, breasts squeezing together between her tone arms, Juliana's brown eyes looked up over her shoulder at the man behind her, and seemed touched with a look of almost tender eagerness, of adoration, of obedience. She bit a sliver of lip between her top teeth as she stifled another gasp, eyes never breaking their sultry gaze even as another steady thrust filled her so completely, looking up longingly at the man dressed only in one thing: the Crown of the Emperor.
 
The man's crowned head tilted this way and that, missing sight of the loving, sultry gaze boring unto him by the beauty in his bed. The camera would switch between his face and his gaze, showing his head tilted one way, then her pale, curved back, blonde tresses spilling part upon her shoulders and part bobbing freely. It showed his face again, then switched back to a place lower now, lingering on the heart-shaped soft bottom that splayed in the center, leaving no question as to which place in her body the young woman was accepting him in. The moment then was one captured and held at length, the image of a shaft driving deep into her buttocks holding for a good forty seconds straight. She wasn't rapidly being taken, but rather at a solid pace, with each strong thrust firm, meaningful, causing a bounce of the woman's body in response. After those forty seconds the man leaned back a bit, still in the same position, giving the overhead camera a better view as he lifted his hips and the young woman pushed back onto him. Thirty seconds of this now.

It was vulgar, it was so, so different, and it was real. Did it make viewers uncomfortable? Good. Did it make them uncomfortable in a bad way? The camera went back to the Emperor's face which was looking randomly about the room, tilting this way and that, grinning, labored breaths coursing through his lungs. Then he looked down, and upon catching sight of his young, beautiful niece staring up at him, his face brightened even more and his body leaned forward, still maintaining its rhythmic thrusts, curling over top her back. One arm came to rest its hand on her shoulder. The other came to cup the outside of Juliana's cheek, which he held lightly while giving her a soft, sweet closed-mouth kiss. The other hand left her shoulder then, dipping around her side to beneath her, to cup her right breast, holding its wonderful mound of flesh in his palm whilst its twin swayed freely.

In the distance, very, very faintly, birds were chirping. Light shone in brightly through windows, cascading down on one part of the bed and various parts of the floor. The new day was well into its morning but before it was time to embrace the world it was time for sweet, deep anal between uncle and niece. It did not matter that guards stood watch outside the door and likely heard some of the louder mewls from her more delicate frame. It did not matter that the sounds of sex, that the constant slapping of his firmed up sac against her firm rear cheeks challenged their respective gasps and grunts to be the greater part of the room's din. It did not matter that they were related by blood, and held the titles of Emperor and Princess of Rome, respectively. The two loved as strongly as they lusted, and with several more kisses between them, it was easily made clear that the tasks of the day would wait until they had finished.
 
Juliana said nothing as his hand closed around her breast. Her own hand reached up to lightly tweak at her own nipple before sliding over his wrist, intertwining fingers with his, sharing in the delight of her nubile frame, and her shapely curves wiggled just enough to change the cast of the splash of light shining down from a high, arched window – but she didn't say a word. Nor would she. Social media was exploding with discussion of the scene, from outrage to disbelief to applause that the bright-eyed starlet was so obviously having unsimulated anal sex on camera, but not a word of all this volume of discussion came from her ruby lips. The script offered her no speech, no exposition, not even a one-liner: it simply instructed her to allow a man older than her father to take every last inch of pleasure from her.

Instead, she had to let her beauty speak for her. The morning light in her blonde tresses gave her the golden aura of wearing a halo, crowned like her uncle, and made her soft, pale skin glow with the vibrant warmth of youth. Her breathing rose as he pushed inside her, causing her breasts to swell once more and her loving eyes widen in that flush of sensation, then fell away in a smooth throaty purr of satisfaction. The camera momentarily cut to Praetorians on the door, standing there listening to those sounds of intimate congress, their stony faces suggesting the very routine of the duty – and then cut back to a close up, zooming in tight enough to show the flash of flesh between her toned legs. She was baring herself so completely for the camera that it captured every flicker in her face, every tiny flinch of her blissful smile, every hazy flutter of her long, dark lashes.
 
Caelius' moans took turn with hers, hers just as loud, but feminine, in their lighter wanton tone, his rising and falling in opposite rhythm between each of hers, more masculine, groaning from the way her tight, underappreciated hole gripped and squeezed around him. Then there was the sounds of sex itself, the slapping of his balls on her cheeks, the sound of his thick, velvety shaft pushing in and out of Her Highness' royal backdoor; it was all so lewd, but as they did it, as they had sex, fucked right there on the screen, this child, this beautiful little girl, it was clearly done with deep emotion toward one another, evidenced by how they held hands over her right breast, her left let to bob free.

This was not a rush. This was two people actually having sex, camera angles meant to clearly show it was the actors and not doubles, meant to show it was really them and not prosthetics, or a use of shadows, and each moment existed at length rather than be quickly rushed through. Social media was indeed alight, an estimated seventeen million tuning in to see what all the hype has been about with this, the debut episode. Is it porn? Is it art? Let them call it what they will. Come tomorrow at the water cooler, every person in the world would know the name Jennette McCurdy; every man would want to buttfuck her, and kiss her on the mouth, and every woman would wish they were they one squirming in the grasp of the incomparable Jeremy Irons, decked out in the finest silk and jewels an empire had to offer.

Caelius Marcellus' back straightened, bringing him back to the position he'd been in before. The one hand stayed on his niece's supple, beautiful bosom, holding its soft skin in his palm while her own touch entwined betwixt his. She was on her elbows and knees along the width of the foot of the bed. He shifted so that one leg was standing on the floor now, with one still knelt right behind her. The muscles of his middle and lower back were on display with every roll of his body, pumping deep into the beautiful young princess, she bouncing erotically on his dick.

His other hand gripped at her left hip, pulling her back onto him faster, with a bit more oomph. His own body began to hasten its act, groans turning into grunts now, pulling his glistening length out till just the bulbous tip is held within her splayed cheeks, then pounding straight in, causing her backside to ripple as he buried himself time and again so lewdly to her hole, neatly trimmed sac sounding its rhythm each time it slapped.
 
Underscoring the intensity of the scene was the absence of any music, no sappy strings or cheesy electronics: pure silence. It meant that the only soundtrack to the act was the act itself: the sheets crumpling as Juliana's fingers twisted them up, bracing herself as the Emperor drew back almost free of her tight grip, then slid back in to hilt himself so deep inside; her mewling little gasp as the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs was met with the forward thrust of his powerful frame; the faint jingle of the exquisite jewellery about her neck, chains dangling between her hanging breasts as they bounced back and forth with the rhythm of their coupling; the squishing of their mouths together in another kiss, this one open mouthed and wet, the flicker of tongue visible.

There was an eagerness to Jennette's performance that perfectly suited the scene: playing the niece wanting to satisfy the Emperor came quite naturally. Since meeting on set she had found Jeremy cold and distant to her, barely speaking to her and clearly wanting nothing to do with her; she'd caught him sneering derisively when she mentioned her acting credentials. She was convinced he hadn't even bothered to learn her name or Ariana's, as he simply called either of them by condescending petnames on the rare occasions he acknowledged their presence. The desire to impress him, to convince him of her worth, helped her beauty illuminate the scene as she slowly arched her back to push lightly back against another languid fuck.
 
No, there was no music at all. There was just the sight and sound of a young woman only months removed from being a Disney starlet getting her asshole pounded, the scene clearly taking its proper, realistic amount of time, lewd and yet intimate in the act. The camera moved around to Jennette's front, panning rather than cutting, so as to further emphasize this all was real. It focused on her bright, smiling face, on the bounce of her young, ample breast, on her bare shoulders and arms, on the earrings and necklace that jangled about and how her hair fell haphazardly to encompass it all in a beautiful frame of gold. It held there for over half a minute, showing everything. Her beautiful eyes. Her hardened nipples. The bottom of a ballsac just barely visible between her breasts, past her belly, just barely fitting into the angle of the shot.

The angle switched back to a wide view, set back a little bit, showing both lovers going at it from the side. Emperor Marcellus was pumping into the young Princess' backend rapidly, head lilting back languidly this way or that so far each time it seemed a tempt of fate to whether his crown would fall off. Hefty, deep groans reverberated from his throat each time, his voice projecting itself strongly, with the tail end of each his face turning to something of a smile or a grin, but quickly fading back to pleasure for the next quick, deep thrust. Both hands were back on Juliana's hips now, letting her beautiful tits sway free, the wide angle of the shot catching sight of his shaft each time before pushing it back into her, pulling her back with his hands, causing her rear end to ripple and bounce on his dick.

Then he pulled out. The camera switched to a shot of behind, showing his back, backside and legs as he moved off the bed, moved to stand at its side, the shot lingering a moment to now show off what was traditionally a very, very private view - the back of the young actress' pale thighs, bare, spread butt cheeks, her just-fucked asshole and glistening pussy, all on display for an estimated seventeen million to see. But to them, the characters, it was just the two of them in the grand bedroom alone. Caelius moved to stand on the side of the bed, instantly taking his throbbing hot shaft into his hand. It pounded himself rapidly, while his other gave young Juliana's hip a quick double pat, encouraging her without words to shift position.
 
Juliana didn't respond to the nudge immediately; instead, she held her pose for one long shot, elbows together to squeeze her breasts forward, swell of her ass thrust high in the air, almost presenting herself, displaying her most private self to him – and to the watching camera over his shoulder, capturing every inch of flesh. She was still breathing heavily, and had the glow of fresh, young vitality about her, lighting up her face when the camera eventually switched back to it, having finally tired of absorbing the allure of her freshly fucked body.

When she did move, she did so slowly, pulling herself up onto her hands, and sliding her legs around to turn on the bed, facing the Emperor on her knees. She sat back, resting on her heels, hands on her thighs, the rapid breathing still shaking her causing her breasts to lightly jostle, jewellery swaying, gown bunched around her waist, her eyes watching him with an adoring smile curling her pouty lips. Then she reached out a hand to his wrist, gently prising his hand from his shaft, and lowered herself. Seventeen million viewers who thought they couldn't possibly be more shocked were now treated to the new revelation of the twentysomething starlet sliding her lips onto the tip of the hard cock that had just barely slid out of her supple ass, her eyes never breaking contact with the Emperor's stern visage.

Her hand rested on his hip as her mouth slowly rocked back and forth, sliding midway down him, pausing with a slight puckering of her lips married to a flicker of her eyes, then sliding up so slowly that the viewers could practically hear the wet rasp of her tongue. Her breasts swayed steadily beneath her, her hips waving slowly back and forth, as she used her mouth to bring Caelius Marcellus the very most pleasure she had within her to offer.
 
There was no shyness in Rome. This was the first period of many that would punctuate the end of that sentence. The gaze she paid him as she bobbed her lips halfway over the velvety length of his manhood was returned in kind, Emperor Caelius Marcellus looking down to her with a lazy, languid expression and a sly grin on one side, still wearing naught but the sacred crown on his head. His far hand cupped her cheek, caressed it with his thumb, mindful to use the one that wouldn't block her face from the camera. He made no motion other than that, letting the beautiful blonde Princess work her soft mouth forward and back at her own pace, tasting herself every inch of the way.

"Ugh...nnh...hhn..." The only sound that filled the scene, that and the gentle smack of her sucking. His body was taut, flexed, all he could do at the moment while allowing Juliana reign. His chest, shoulders and upper arms still showed a degree of definition despite his age, as did his thighs, flexing and releasing seemingly without thought as she worked him gingerly with lips, cheeks and tongue. The Emperor's brown eyes wavered a bit, parted mouth quivering, head occasionally lilting, eyelids occasionally showing slight flutter. Heavy, occasional gasps sounded from his lips and when the camera view decided to switch, that it had had enough of his gaze doing its best to stay with hers, it showed a half-mouthed hardened shaft that visibly pulsed beneath her touch, dark curls closely cropped, and a leathery ballsac that clearly twitched, tightening in response to her ministrations.

All without words he kept his far hand, his left, holding the right side of her cheek, while his right came between her and the camera temporarily, holding the side of Juliana's forehead to guide her off. A slippery, audible smack came, followed by her face being re-revealed, that hand curving two fingers along the underside of her jaw, from her ear to her chin, then moving to grip the now saliva-slicked shaft in his hand. With heavy, labored grunts he pumped himself in a strongly flexed grip, knees at very mild bend, pumping the shiny, slick velvet for several lewd seconds until that eventuality came - the one viewers at home likely did not think to anticipate, and now that it was here, were surely left in shock and awe at the visceral sight of. Jets of pearly white semen shot forth straight out of his rigid cock, crashing like hot waves upon Princess Juliana's beautiful, beaming face.
 
Thick ribbons splashed across Juliana's cherubic face, warm splatters of white that marked her skin to gleam in the morning light. She allowed him to continue pumping even as a creamy dollop oozed across her top lip and down to hang off her chin in a viscous dollop, then moved forward to meet him, tongue gently flicking to the flared head of his shaft to lap up the last creamy drip. Her eyes were upturned to look at him as she lightly sucked, working her way down his length to clean him. When she pulled clear her face was still sticky; the camera captured an impish flash of her glazed tongue before she swallowed it in a smile.

That was how she was presented to the audience, beautiful in her disarray, sat up bare breasted and cum splattered, licking a stray drop enticingly from her finger, in the bed of her uncle, the Emperor of Rome, as the camera pulled back in a long sweep, framing them at the centre of the elaborately decorated bedchamber, in front a tall window, the sun rising above a city of white marble that stretched to the horizons; and at last the noise came, to fill in the scene, the hubbub of the city, the busy whispers of the streets, and in the very back, the creaking of a door to admit a gowned palace slave, entering to attend to the Emperor, as though the scene of incestuous sin was of no more concern than any other business of the palace.

And the credits smashed...

The cold open had captured an enormous audience. No one was still truly certain what they had seen, or what it meant, but everyone wanted to talk about it. The opening credits raced, listing the stars mixed in with teasing shots of the series to come: “Jeremy Irons”, “Scarlett Johannson” – a nipple blurred into a chariot wheel – “Jake Gyllenhaal”, “Emilia Clarke” – a gladiator contest into a swarming orgy – “Jennette McCurdy” – a hand clenched around a throat into a hand curling around a sceptre into a hand clasping a breast – co-stars and guest stars, including a credit for Ariana Grande – until the blend of skin and cloth dissolved into the forming title screen: DECADENCE.

The scene alighted on the Emperor's main chamber. He was seated in full regalia, though he sat on only a plain seat, no different to those of the various Senators and officials either side of him: the pretence of the Roman Republic continued, even if the absence of a gilded throne did little to disguise the true nature of the state. It was the kind of period detail the director had insisted on, though historical accuracy was probably not going to be the biggest talking point in reviews of the episode.

Juliana sat at his left hand, between two other women; yet there was little doubt she was his favourite. She was resplendent: hair tied up in an elaborate, interweaving pattern of golden locks clear of her pale neck, about which an immense gold chain hung, a huge ruby dipping into the swell of her cleavage bared by her deeply cut dark purple gown. Her eyes were bright and lively, the faintest hint of a smile playing over her lips, her face exquisitely made up to show no signs of that opening scene. Her beauty was almost so bright it distracted from the business of the palace, boring petitions from distant provinces seeming dry compared to her youthful energy.

The camera swept back from her to show the Emperor's audience. A proconsul from the south was delivering a speech about the tribute he was offering, including veiled references to girls skilled in the exquisite arts of the flesh. Such flowery language seemed a stark contrast to the raw, explicit scenes that had gone before, but then that was the point: already, the audience was imagining what those arts might be, aware that when they were revealed, it would not be through a soft focus hint, but vivid and real. The speech ended in praise of the Emperor, and the proconsul was led away by guards. The next petitioner came forward, a man richly dressed but clearly marked as a commoner nonetheless. Head bowed, he was flanked either side by Praetorians, and the proconsul of his province unfurled a scroll. The list of charges was read: the man had become wealthy trading in imported fruits and spices, but had evaded taxes and duties in the process.

A haughty Senator spoke up, demanding the man be put to death for subverting the finances of the Empire. Another suggested taking his entire estate and casting him out as a pauper. A third rose to speak in similarly self-important tones, but was cut off by a cry from the back. A young woman, slenderly built, with very long dark brown hair in a braid down her back, dressed in a suspiciously well-fitted gown of white and gold, had stepped forward. She approached the centre of the chamber with more power and authority in her stature than any of the titled, propertied men around her could muster, and when she beheld the Emperor, it was not with a meekly subservient look, but one fierce and proud.

“I wish to speak for my father,” she said, drawing surprised, slightly cartoonish whispers from the onlookers; no doubt viewers at home were similarly whispering, wondering whether it was that girl from Game of Thrones, remarking how good she looked in her natural brunette colours, or just still caught up in the whole theatre of the piece. “He is an honest man, who has worked hard his entire life to fill the pockets of thieves and plunderers in the provincial government. To take his life, to take his estate, would be another act of theft and plunder.” So shocking was it to hear someone address the Emperor like this that one Praetorian instinctively drew his sword, only to be urged down by the Captain of the Guard.

She took another step forward, blazing eyes staring down the Emperor. Her stance, hands behind her back, breasts pushed forward, subtly enhanced her figure; a momentary cut to Juliana saw something – curiosity? jealousy? desire? – fluttering away the smile from her face. “My father is an honest man,” she repeated, “And if he must pay, then take from him what is fair for him to give: take me. I will join your palace as a slave, and you will find none more obedient or willing than me.” It might have seemed an empty gesture had that introduction scene already set minds racing: if that was how the Emperor treated his niece, just what would he do to a slave?
 
The room, following the young brunette woman's offer, had gone quiet, though it was only her father standing a few paces back that had become speechless. Of the rest, some muttered amongst themselves, others stood wide-eyed and with bated breath, eyes looking to the crowned man that needed no throne.

"There's not much keeping us from making her slave anyway, after the man is hung," one in the circle of senators spoke, in the passive-aggressive style of a half-whisper; meant to be heard, but just bare enough to act like that wasn't one's intention.

"Or from ending them both," a senator beside him whispered back. The merchant in question could be seen stepping forward at this point, still a pace behind his daughter, but enough to place a hand on her wrist in nervousness. Rudely the more entitled man on the dais continued, in a tone one would have to strain to hear, but which was certainly audible regardless in the pindrop din of the chamber then, "It wouldn't be the first time a young man or woman was foot-to-throat on a pike for their arrogance."

"No," Emperor Caelius Marcellus spoke, his voice not a shrewd, scheming hint of a tone, but normal, confident. "It wouldn't be, would it."

"Name the end, then, Lord Emperor," spoke the man immediately to Caelius' right, Senator Octavius Gaianus. Enter Jake Gyllenhaal. Discomfort and uncertainty were painted clearly on the youngest of the senators' face, for despite being the man charged with overseeing Rome's military, both foreign and domestic, he was not as ready to be offended by the flick of a wrist as some of his more seasoned company here. The duty of seeing an execution through, though, was his. His mouth parted a moment. Simply, "...I will see it done."

At this point the nervousness in the hefty merchant grew too much. He took his daughter's shoulders in both palms, whispering something hastily, his body language speaking as if to urge her back.

"No," Caelius spoke again. A bejeweled hand rose, fingers out, held up in front of his sternum a moment and then brushed aside, as if brushing the idea away as a whole. "What a waste, to rush to such things. Here a beautiful young woman speaks on her father's behalf. Am I to condemn her for such?"

"Y-Your Highness!" The man at the foot of the two long steps that led to the senate's circle spoke up, putting his body in front of his daughter. "I apologize for her boldness, my lord! Let any talks of punishment be mine, and mine alone, I beg of y-"

Caelius silenced the man with another aloft expression of his hand, this a simple open palm. The hand lowered. "Worry not, I am not as quick to take offense." He shot several of the other men in his circle a glance. They all seemed indignant, which lacked in surprise, but his was the only opinion that truly mattered. Then, back to the man, "You have yet to stake claim as to your guilt or innocence. The charges have been clearly placed."

"... ... ...Guilty, my Emperor. I am guilty, and I beg your forgiveness - but please, let I be the one you punish! Cassia never used my books, she only ran the shop on days that I was away! Spare her life, please!"

"You beg forgiveness, by your own words. But you have yet to explain to the council why you robbed from Rome, dear sir."

The man's face paled even further at this, were that possible. Perhaps he'd held those last drops of blood in reserve for that very moment. "I... I-I..." Looking downward, he stammered quietly. Then, with a breath, "Truthfully, I thought I would not be found out. I thought I might use that coin to further invest in my business, o-only for another year! Then I would present all I owe as a gift, once my profits saw soar!" Looking back upward, eyes to the Emperor himself, the man took to a knee. "Truly, I swear on my life to you! I have had nights without sleep, dreading this day!"

"And yet you did it still, dishonest to we, your countrymen." Caelius' tongue took sharp. "Tell me, would you have failed in honesty? Would the model of business all others live and prosper by damned yours to ruin?"

"..."

The Emperor sat there for several long seconds, quiet himself. Then, "You are not entitled to forgiveness, but it is what you shall be given. You say in another year you would pay it all back at once - I say, instead, that you pay monthly, in equal parts, so that when that year is up your debt is finished, rather than only then being addressed. And over the course of this year you apologize to your countrymen daily, for it is from them you kept their fair share - from Rome. ...As well, on the topic of what is owed, this will see both the debts of your business and of your soul brought current. But debts incur interest, do they not?" He glanced briefly to Octavius, then back to the pair standing before them all. "The young lady offered herself a moment ago as slave, as apology, to scrub floors and wash dishes. Let it be known the council has shown mercy at a time when it needn't - tell me, would you return with your father, devote yourself to him and his trade? Or will you embrace the offer you make, to become slave in service to the palace?" After a moment, "As I said, mercy has already been chosen to be shown. Let the rumblings of my others be silent - no ill should befall either of you, whatever it is you decide today."

Octavius stood and motioned to one of the Praetorian guards, who took a torch from its sconce on the wall, working on lighting it. He spoke, "Such is an honored, sought-after place in life, to be servant to the greatest building in all of Rome, the greatest empire the world has ever known. To serve its Emperor, its Senate, its guards, scribes, nobles and guests - it is to serve Rome herself." The guard lit the torch. There were numerous large bronze braziers throughout the expansive room, at several different points. They were mainly used in evenings, or for events, but remained there during the day regardless. The guard brought his lit torch to one such brazier at the left side of the base of the steps, lowering it, lighting the brazier's contents. It quickly took, flame filling the wide bronze mouth, the brazier little more than a knee in height and three feet in width, up on small, intricately carved legs of its own. The flames bit as high as someone's waist. "By tradition, should you accept, you are to discard your worldly belongings to the flame, for you need only what you are given here, from the Emperor's bosom. As slave you retain only your given name, and you are to approach your new lord, speak it as you bow and kiss upon his feet, offering yourself lifelong to his service. ... ...Should this not be your decision, may you both thank your Emperor for his mercy and leave yourselves from the palace."
 
The shot switched to Cassia: was there a flicker in her defiant visage as the shadows of the flames licked over her exquisitely shaped cheekbones? Or was it merely the reflection of the flames in her dark eyes? The camera lingered, as if in question, then began to draw back slowly as she raised her arms to her hair and pulled out the clasp keeping her braid in place. She tossed it with a dismissive flick of her wrist into the brazier's mouth.

“I pledge myself to serve the Empire,” she said with more dignity and gravity to her voice than any of the bloviating Senators had managed.

Next came her sandals, stepping out of each one in turn and giving them to the brazier, which belched a flurry of sparks as its orange tongues coiled around the leather, quickly blackening in the immense heat. Shadows were playing along the walls of the high room as though the whole palace was ablaze, and a sizzling crackle spat out a disharmonious song.

“I pledge myself to serve Rome.”

Next came the ring from her finger and the rope belt about her waist. That left only her hands to raise to the back of her neck and untie the clasp of her gown. To draw out the suspense of the shot, the camera rolled right round to her back, framing her figure against the yellow-orange blaze, the light bringing motes of gold and copper into her dark hair. The gown rippled away down her back, baring shoulderblades, the curve of her back, the swell of her hips, bare buttocks proud and firm, shapely legs, until it was pooled around her ankles. She bent to pick it up as the camera returned: she truly was bare, head to toe, and there was no sign of the convenient tools of screencraft that normally softened such full-frontal nudity. From her nipples, faintly upturned, down to the small, thick, impossibly dark patch of bush between her thighs, everything was on display for the audience – both audiences.

“I pledge myself to serve the Emperor.”

With those words, she dropped the gown into the brazier, the fabric immediately caught by the flames' voracious hold, and stepped towards him. The camera drank in her approach, the supple sway of her hips as she walked, the proud jut of her shapely chin, the astonishing arrogance for one who was about to enslave herself in those dark, fire-lit eyes. And where any other show might have concentrated on a close shot of her bending to kiss his foot as she stooped to her knees, this one instead pulled back for a wider shot: her splayed cheeks, the hint of her hair between, her breasts dipping almost to scrape the floor, her entire body supplicating himself to him. This was not a place for the stylised artiness of Game of Thrones: this was real, unabashed, and so compelling that her former role would be practically forgotten already. Jennette for her part could only watch with a hint of jealousy. Emilia was such a fantastic actress, and she had blown this scene out of the water. It made her conscious of her own performance: she hadn't even had any lines yet.
 
The word was enraptured. It shone, if one paid very close attention, on the Emperor's calm, ruminative face. His was a role that required him to oft think, to concern and consider, yet that pensiveness felt overridden - or perhaps it was still there, and operating twofold? - at the gradual revelation of the exquisite brown-haired beauty currently being given audience. She had been pretty from afar, standing with her father, then as she let her hair down, casting the possessions from her current life back to the gods before approaching to embrace her new. But as she approached, it was not her long, flowing hair that kept Caelius Marcellus' gaze, nor her bosom of her belly, nor even her bush. It was the beautiful lines of her face, and the strength that shone in her eyes, riding outward through her words.

When she knelt, head down, he remained still. A long moment passed. Then two. The camera kept hold on the scene from afar, showing the circle of Senators, of Juliana and this girl's father nearby, of the guards periodically placed. It held look on the split of the girl's buttocks from behind, and the hint of something dark, perhaps shadows, perhaps her intimacy, beneath. And when that moment, frozen in time, passed, it was the Emperor's turn to move, leaning forward and brushing Cassia's long hair aside, from her neck and back to set it lightly over one shoulder. His fingers caressed very lightly over the back of her neck, exposed to him now, and just...stayed there. In a gentle, quiet pet, back and forth. Several would brush horizontal, languid and soft. One would move vertically, to where her neck turned into her back, then back up.

Off to the side another of the Senators mumbled something, leaning to his neighbor. It was a true whisper this time, though not a hidden one; Caelius took note of what was probably another disrespectful remark from these over-entitled men but changed nothing, unaffected, at least publicly, by their attitudes. The camera had shifted to them and their petty, quiet laughter, then back to his stoic face before returning to the quiet, intimate gesture of his hand. Finally, in a simple voice, "How will you serve me if I do not know your name?"
 
She remained bowed, head stooped low to the ground, rear held aloft high in the air, the firm, proud strut to her slender frame creating an interesting, and quite deliberate, contrast to Juliana's more submissive posture in the opening scene, but the microphone in the step below the Emperor's sandal picked up her voice, strong, clear, and British accented – already, the diversity of accents in the show was causing a few mutters among the watchers, but after opening with an explicit, unsimulated depiction of anal-to-mouth incest, what was coming out of the actresses' mouths still wasn't exactly going to be the biggest point of conversation – as she responded. “My name is Cassia,” she said, correctly omitting her family name: as a slave of the Empire, she knew she had no other name. It was not only her gown she had left to burn in that brazier.

Julianna watched with evident concern, her eyes drawn to her uncle's almost tender touch on the slave girl's neck. She shifted with unease, signalling her jealousy, and tried to fight back with a typically childish impulse: looking around with fiery eyes, she spied out a couple of handsome men in attendance, favouring each in turn with a flirtatious smile. The camera followed her glances for a moment, but then dragged back to dwell on the more interesting exchange at the heart of the scene, as though the wilful Princess's neediness was of much lesser concern.
 
"Cassia," the Emperor repeated, the volume of his tone not meant for others than themselves. His fingers continued their calm, even intimate pet of her neck, caressing her so tenderly only two or three minutes removed of when the room was calling for her and her father's heads. They grazed its back lightly, before finally pulling back, straightening himself and lifting his voice for all to hear, "I accept this woman's pledge. Henceforth she is to be known as a Roman slave, and is to be treated accordingly."

Then, lighter, to Cassia and any within a few feet of distance, "Spend a moment with your father. You do a brave thing, and should be allowed your farewell. ...The palace is kind to its slaves, kinder than most; you will be permitted brief leaves to visit him on occasion, should you ask, should your behavior and service be in good standing, and provided he also remains residing in our fair city. When you are ready, speak to the guards that saw you in. One will return your father to the palace entrance. The other will see you to your new place in life."

Caelius noticed nothing of Juliana's discomfort. He continued on, raising his voice to the room again, "She is dismissed. Bring what is next on the agenda."
 
Cassia kissed his foot once more, then rose and bowed in obedience. Still naked, the shadows of the flames flickering patterns of tiger stripes across her bare skin, she walked over to her father, placing her hand on his shoulder, her buttocks clenching as she rose to her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. His expression showed his relief at an arrangement that had given him far more than he might have hoped – and his discomfort at knowing it had still cost him his daughter. What manner of service she had become chained to was unclear as she walked away from him, flanked by two guards in ornate armour, but the final, lingering glance she shared with the Emperor as she was swallowed by the dark recesses of the palace gave some hint. Another guard came to wheel off the father. The tension of a scene that had seemed to have a dagger dangling over it throughout suddenly broke.

“Marcus Septimus, Tribune of the Fourth Legion.” The announcement rang out to the tune of sandals slapping, spearbutts scraping, and chains rattling. A column of visibly battle-fatigued legionnaires came forth, bearing behind them a massive chest, and in their wake, a shuffling column of chained women. At the head of the column stood General Marcus, removing his helmet and going to his knee, laying forth an immense, scarred sword at the Emperor's feet. He then rose.

“I bring news of victory in the provinces for the Empire,” he began. “Many months have we waged campaigns to subdue the barbarians of the east. They are heathen savages, but brave fighters – and fought to the very last. I have brought tribute to the Emperor. The sword of the last chief to bend the knee to the glory of the Empire. The precious jewels and metals, furs and silks, spices and myrrhs, of his last chief.” The chest was opened behind him, sparkling colours spilling out as though belching plunder into the very lap of Caelius. “And his daughter, as slave property of the greatest city in the world,” finished the general.

The slaves were pushed forth, a group of women manacled to a common chain, they were all young and beautiful, though poorly dressed in rags; the occasional dirt smudge or bruise here and there did little to dampen the exotic mystery their eastern origins promised. From among them one was led forth, to whispers of “barbarian whore!” from the Senators – and “hey, isn't that Ari Grande?” from the TV audience. Even among these women, she stood out for her beauty. Petite and slender with the delicate, fragile quality of youth, her cheeks hinted at dimples that only her current downcast, piteous state could hide. Her eyes were dark, luminous pools of ink. Her lips were full, her figure divine. She was dressed in a drab gown, but her skin was so smooth and tan as to be the envy of any of the fine silks looted from her father's corpse.
 
As with anything, the Emperor was in a slightly leaned position, face stoic, mind at thought as all was presented forth to him. And, as with anything, there was brief pause before he responded, mulling over the moment in his mind so as to make the best decision. A bejeweled hand rose to stroke briefly the short hair on his cheeks and chin. He stood, wordless, the din of the room going quiet, all but the sound of his steps and the clattering of the sword as he reached to lift it. This lack of else made the sounds feel magnified, the ting of metal upon marble floor as it was lifted, he standing up fully, holding its handle gripped with two hands.

"I accept these gifts," Caelius spoke lightly, eyes looking up the length of the blade he held outward with both arms before him. Louder now, "And congratulate you all on a hefty task now complete. Rome is not grander for your might - it is grand because of it. Octavius," he said, turning to the youngest of the Senators. Octavius immediately stood, hands at his sides, head dipped forward in respectful incline. "As Commander of our army you bear the brunt of all failures, as you do the respect of all victories. Come." Turning back to those standing before him, Emperor Marcellus walked forth.

"Marcus Septimus, and all of you. I commend you on a job well done. Tell me, General," the sword pointed down now, tip on the floor, both hands on its hilt, "can you say to your Emperor that your men conducted themselves well, the truth of victory aside?" Turning his gaze to the legionnaires, "That they did not pillage for themselves, rape nor murder unnecessarily? That Rome is not to be known outside its walls as the same type of barbarians we nobly risk ourselves to fight against?"

"That I can, my lord," humbly.

"Good." The hefty two-handed sword was brought to his left, tip again let to set upon the smoothly carved marble floor. "Octavius," turning head to the man, "See that one third of these claimed goods make it to the royal treasury, and that this sword is placed in my personal armory." The Senator nodded again, accepting the extended weapon from Caelius' grip. He continued, though, "See that another third be spread among General Septimus and his men, in my own tribute to them for their deeds."

He looked among the chained girls. Pointing one out, "Have her hung in town this afternoon. Let it be said that ours is a mighty nation, one who all may join and be better for, and one that those who take stand against will know what it means to be conquered." Then, pointing to the girl directly next to her, "Repeat the same with this girl, only have men return her to her barbaric lands; let them understand the price they have chosen to pay. ...And when that is done, have the barbarians presented with one third of these spoils back, to show firmly that Rome is a benevolent master, worthy of being served."

"As you wish, Emperor," Octavius spoke.

"But first..." He looked now to the most beautiful of the plundered girls. "This is the one that was his daughter, you say?" A moment. Then, a hard, sudden smack, slapping her across the face. "In chains," he sneered. The back of his hand came from the other direction now, striking across her other cheek. "Befitting." His hand gripped the young, barely-a-woman's face, gripping so firmly around both cheeks and chin that it caused her lips to purse. Glaring directly at her, "Your family was shown opportunity how oft to steer its peoples' course towards Rome? To avoid bloodshed? And yet your father killed my last messenger and took arms." If two direct slaps from a man to a woman wasn't controversial enough for television, the spit that came next, the mouthful of saliva crashing humiliatingly on Ariana's face was certainly over that perceived, social line. "Octavius," he spoke, "see by day's end that this one is had in all the ways a woman's body is able." Then, finally, he broke gaze, brushing her face to the side.

Turning to the Senator, "Continue with the slaves." He then turned back to the circle, ascended each of the two long marble steps, and returned to his seat at its head. The Senators, as Caelius passed, all either seemed pleased, or pleased enough to be silenced.

"Aside from the two chosen," Octavius spoke, hands together, clasping the handle of the large blade, "the rest shall henceforth become slaves to the royal palace. Such is an honored, sought-after place in life," repeating himself from before, "to be servant to the greatest building in all of Rome, the greatest empire the world has ever known. To serve its Emperor, its Senate, its guards, its scribes, nobles and guests - it is to serve Rome herself. One at a time you are to discard your worldly belongings to the flame," taking one hand temporarily from the sword, using it to gesture to the lit brazier. No traces of Cassia's life before her willful enslavement remained; already that merchant girl from before had no turning back. It would be similar for each of these ones, in a few minutes' time. "For you need only what you are given here, from the Emperor's bosom. As slave you retain only your given name, and you are to approach your new lord, speak it as you bow and kiss upon his feet, offering yourself lifelong to his service. ...Those who cannot humble themselves to graciously embrace their new life will come to know this blade instead. General," looking to Marcus Septimus now, "please unshackle all but the two prisoners."
 
The crack of his hand across her cheek rang out so sharply, the snap of her head so abrupt, the blushing red mark that flourished in a rose of violence on her delicate features so immediate, that it was immediately apparent that this was no “stage slap”, but as real as the sex and nudity that had come before, as real as the tears that welled in those ink-black eyes, kept from spilling past the impossibly long lashes only by a reserve of effort that brought out a slight sob of shock from her. The second slap came just as fast, just as hard. Another sob, accompanied by the surreal jingle of her chains. If as Caelius's hand grabbed her, holding her cheeks so hard her lips squeezed forth in a pouty pucker, there were any sceptics as to the visceral nature of the scene, their doubts were quickly expunged in what critics would later call a “ground breaking moment”, as he spat directly onto her face. Naiah could do nothing to shield herself as the saliva struck her nose; as it dribbled down her tan skin, it was joined by a single tear, coursing the path of a solitary river on her stung-red cheek.

The curt, cold sentence delivered was so brutal as to make the hanging he had placed upon the other two girls seem almost generous. Naiah turned her tearful eyes up towards Octavius in a pleading entreaty as she was shoved aside by Caelius, but she met only the stern gaze of a man undoubtedly loyal to every word of his Emperor's command. The horror was drawn across her face – indeed, though she too had no lines in the scene, it was quite a performance; the same critics who praised the act of her being slapped and spat on and given over to be raped were touched by her “understated quality” that “quietly described the other side of Rome's decadent nature”. Perhaps this was true: but for Ariana, it really was also more than just a performance.

One by one, the girls shuffled forward to have their chains struck off, and the dresses torn from their backs, while the two of them selected for death sobbed and pleaded. The brazier was burning brighter than ever with its fresh food of gowns, clasps, sandals, jewellery; in its glow, the women's nakedness was commented on by the lapping light of the flames. Women from their twenties to their forties, bodies from curvy to slender, skin from pale cream to dark olive: the palace was being augmented by every taste of flesh imaginable. The last was the most enticing of all, as Naiah had her gown pulled from her. Her frame lithe and toned, her tan rich and complete, she was framed in an uncompromising frontal shot: breasts bared and the dark fuzz between her legs thin enough to treat to a brief gold flash of a piercing. She was handed her rags, giving them a contemplative stare before tentatively offering them to the flames – offering herself to the flames.
 
One by one they burned their past, thereby embracing their present as their future. One by one they approached the Emperor, these girls, now slaves, walking naked with a guard on either side of them as they came to stand in a circle made up of the most powerful men in the world. One by one they took to their knees, and one by one they offered themselves, some stammering, some sobbing, others a little better kept. The scene panned out from this view, the girls being brought naked to their hands and knees like dogs learning to heel, a wide bronze brazier kicking up flames off to the left side of the screen. The camera panned left, the flame taking center shot, panning away from the room, to the wall, then to black. A little after the sound of the scene died out, replaced by that of walking feet as a new setting began.

It was Octavius, some hours later, sandals upon cobblestone as he walked tiredly through the empire's streets. The sun shone in the latter part of the day, glistening beads of warmth on slight bits of facial hair, neck and throat. The bustle of the city was still very much that, a donkey-led cart off in the background, two women with pottery passing by in the foreground, in front of him, but it was a different sort of liveliness. In the late afternoon it was not quite the energy one had during earlier hours, just people seeing to their errands, finishing their respective things before each would venture home.

He was already at his. Right in the heart of the city and raised up on four pale white steps, a hand pushed at the door, gliding it open. Octavius brought a foot into his home. Then a second, it sandaled bottom sounding lightly. Then a thi- then two large, raucous mastiffs, barking and charging for him, dancing excitedly all around! With his face breaking out into a warm smile, one that wholly erased any tension left over from the last scene, Octavius dropped to a knee and eagerly pet his two boys. "And greetings too to you both!" Laughing, "Has your mother fed you yet? ...You would lie, even if she had. Tell me, is she even here?"

One danced around him, sniffing, checking every inch out, while the other was content to sit and simply be pet. Octavius gave each a firm final pet and stood, still laughing to himself, face full of warmth. By what viewers had seen already between this scene and the last it was clear this was not a man who came from the same mold as the others in the Senate circle, or at very least one who had yet to be jaded by it. He stood, removing the white robe from his body that was tradition for meetings, draping it on a nearby table. Underneath was revealed the armor of a man who very much remembered his military days, leather and form-fitting, styled in the shape of a muscled torso and pleated leather skirt that showed off legs and arms both. Closing the door behind him, Octavius unhitched the belt that held his sword at his side, a relic as unnecessary as the rest of the armor considering his newfound position, but one he carried regardless. That too was set upon the table with the robe, and off he turned, peeking about the house for-

-a deep moan, long and low. Then again, two seconds after, just as his mind had registered the voice. They were both the groans of a man coming from nearby. From the bedroom? The former soldier's eyes focused. His hand wanted to instinctively reach for his blade, and maybe did, going halfway to the non-existent weapon at his side when he just stopped himself...because he knew. Stepping more, quietly now, there was not going to be a soft-tuned, "Darling, I've missed you!" in his future. At least not right away. His hand pressed to the bedroom door, guiding it quietly open just in time to hear the lurid pop of a set of lips, the assumed picture coming clearly into view.
 
The camera followed Octavius to the door, then zoomed past him to peer in through the narrow crack of the door. The bedroom was, by the standards of the Emperor's palace, plainly furnished, just a few amphoras and ferns around the edges, and a massive bed in the centre. On it half-lay, half-sat a fit, handsome young man, completely naked, a look of confused pleasure on his face; curiously, a tattoo on his arm marked him as a slave. In his lap was the head of a woman, steadily bobbing up and down, the noisy slurping betraying her purpose. She was naked, long blonde tresses tumbling about the bare skin of her back, ass hiked high in the air and wafting slowly back and forth, immediately obliging a view of a neatly trimmed strip of pubic hair, and two of her fingers casually stroking herself between her thighs.

Once more, it did not take long to establish that this was no stylised glamour, but real and unfettered. The shot switched to a second camera, inside the bedroom, from over the man's shoulder. Looking down, the woman's face was revealed to amazed gasps, explosions of Twitter and Facebook comment, and not a little jealousy from the audience at home: the beautiful and talented Scarlett Johannson, a well established actress in her own right with serious credentials and just enough of a daring streak to entertain a role like this, had her full lips wrapped around the man's thick shaft, saliva glazing her chin as she slowly bobbed her head up and down on him with rich slurps. Her eyes were half-lidded in pleasure, but as the camera switched they momentarily flashed up, fixing the viewer with a challenging, enticing stare.

Another succulent pop sounded as she slowly pulled her lips from him and pulled herself up, replacing her lips with a hand to steadily stroke him, the other hand wiping a trail of thick drool dangling from her chin and seductively licking it up. Sitting upright on her heels, the beauty of her body was on full display, curves fuller than those of Juliana, heavy breasts adorned with small gold nipple rings that caught the light as her shapely frame shifted. Her fingers disappeared again between her thighs while her eyes continued to smoulder at the man, who could only let out another helpless groan of adulation as her skilful hand worked at him. And then, curiously, she looked off to the side – where a sudden snap of the camera revealed the second man.

He was seated in a chair off to the side. A rival for Caelius in age, his dark hair was flecked silver, and he wore a richly embroidered gown of high status. His attention was understandably glued to the scene on the bed, watching with rapt attention and shallow breath, fingers curling and uncurling around the chair's ornate armrests. He was practically salivating, and as Tatiana locked eyes with him he gave a wordless rumble of delight. She smiled playfully back to him, slowly drawing her fingers from between her legs, and stretching them forward, towards the slave she was straddling, offering him a taste of the visibly dazed digits. He glanced nervously to his master, who nodded greedily at him; muscles tensing, the young man sat up slightly and sucked Tatiana's fingers into his mouth, one hand reaching up to grasp her breast as he did so. Tatiana gave an exaggerated moan at this, but her eyes barely flickered: already, it was clear who held the real power in this moment.

“Are you sure you do not wish for a taste?” came her sultry whisper to the seated man.

“Alas, I took a vow of chastity as Pontifex Maximus,” he said, providing a neat bit of exposition for those of the audience who hadn't already picked up on his gold sigil of office. “The High Priest cannot take a woman to bed, for he must remain true to one woman above all, Rome herself.”

Tatiana cocked her head, grinning mischievously. “But, he can watch?”

The Pontifex Maximus nodded eagerly.

“You are a faithful and loyal servant of Rome,” she commended him. “To go without the touch of a woman's body, of a woman's skin, of a woman's lips.” With this, she lowered herself again, the slave's eyes rolling back in his head as her mouth enveloped him once more – and slid all the way down until her nose was grazing his washboard stomach. Eyes at home reacted similarly, widening in amazement. Talented actress, beautiful woman – and Scarlett could deepthroat! This was going to be the role of a lifetime.
 
The door opened quietly, or what sound it did make was easily drowned out on the screen by the apt suckling of an experienced and generous lover, a woman not too shy to drool all over a man and herself as she slurped him lewdly. Not about to spectate through the crack, nor certainly not needing to stand outside, this his own home, Octavius opened the bedroom door in his grip, stepping inside, calmly closing it behind him as he kept face toward the bed.

The warrior-Senator need say little; this was a moment when the camera focused on the language of his upper body, and a moment later just his face. Scarlett's slurping was still well and audible. Jake seized the opportunity to show a wealth of emotions, of a ride of inner thought in the span of a few brief seconds that hopefully the viewers would read and identify with. He'd come home after a day of work to find his lovely wife avidly blowing another man. His expression went from still to that of a man dealing with it, to calm, to understanding, then really to nothing. Then a little smile at the end, as if it were nothing. People watching would hopefully identify with what just happened, finding the one you love engaged in such, then going through the rollercoaster of thoughts not in weeks, but seconds, and ultimately coming to grips with it as something that would meekly be if the relationship were to exist.

In time people would understand that this type of wanton, extracurricular sex was very commonplace in Rome and wonder what the character Octavius' discomfort was. That was a fair point, and would be discussed by men over drinks, or by women as they poked through a book store. But in time the story would unfold that Titania partook in such delights a little too often for her husband's taste, and normally as something he only found out about later on, and only half the time from her lips. Whether it was a happy hunger for men in power or simply a nymphomaniac in high political stature, for a once-priestess who was virginal until their not that long ago wedding, her constant exploits were like a cold shock to a husband that slept around barely at all.

Yet there was warmth between them, genuinely.

"A true professional," in a joking, jovial tone. The Pontifex turned to him and the young man on the bed looked up quickly, breath catching, but Octavius continued, a smirk on his face, "Rare a day that goes by where she isn't further perfecting her God-given skill." With a smile now, "Merchants, soldiers, the Senate itself...if only the rest of Rome were as good at what they do as she, we'd be standing atop the entire world instead of only half it." He looked between the men, the joking calming them both, the moment back at ease. In testament to this common among them at this point - Octavius arriving home to find his wife bedding man or woman, oft even at hours throughout the day - it didn't look, from his vantage point, from the camera being on the three various men with her only partially in each shot, that Titania smoothly lost not a beat at his arrival.

Then it was back on her, the shot, showing Scarlett Johannson's face as her full lips and her repeatedly hollowing cheeks bobbed the length of the young man. It was down at her height now and at an angle, the shaft sticking up slightly off center, slightly to the right, its slicked glisten catching in the light. The world was treated to a mixture blowjob and handjob that was ironically softcore compared to the hard anal they'd been given already, though no less immensely sexy, and being performed by a much higher marquee name. Over her shoulder Jake could be seen stepping in close, from the background to the foreground, Octavius now putting a hand on his wife, setting his touch lightly on her shoulder.

Saliva glistened, and dripped. "Sweetheart, you're beautiful when you're a mess," he playfully stated, moving finger to her chin, tracing up enough to gather some of the blonde woman's drool up, offering it back to her mouth next when she'd switched back to her hand. Then his touch went to the back of her head, part holding her hair, part petting the back of it. Then he moved his fingers to her shoulder once more.

"Enjoying her?" He piped up in question, smirking, turning, walking away from the bed. Octavius approached a chair similar to how Pontifex Maximus was sitting, though whereas the Pontifex's seat was in the corner inside and far right of the door, this was inside and directly to its left. He faced it, beginning to unstrap the heavy leather armor he still insistently wore.
 
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