Homelands Pt. 08 Ch. 01

"Do you like it?" she asked, giving him a little twirl.

And such a perfect ass?

Was it only because of the makeup she was wearing that her skin seemed so fair? Her lips so red? A more gorgeous woman had never walked the earth.

"Hope your guy hasn't got a family history of heart problems, or we're going to be calling an ambulance the moment he walks through the door," Chris said.

Karen blushed, her porcelain cheeks turning pink.

Some part of him insisted that she wasn't his daughter. That it was entirely acceptable for him to look at her the way he was trying to pretend that he wasn't. To notice that she had a woman's body. She was a woman, after all.

And his lover, at that.

But, no. That didn't make any sense. Of course she was his daughter. Daddy's little princess. She couldn't be anyone else. Couldn't be any more precious.

He'd convinced himself, momentarily, that she was his lover only because he was prone to daydreaming. Because he was a filthy, disgusting, lecherous bastard, who couldn't look at her perfect skin, big brown eyes, beautiful red-brown hair, and insane luscious body without thinking horribly inappropriate thoughts. But no matter how perfect her body was, he had no right to look at her that way.

"Dance with me?" she asked.

"There's no music playing," he said.

Or maybe he didn't. Suddenly there was, anyway. They weren't in the dressing area of the formal wear shop, either. They were home, in their living room.

"Okay," he said.

He shouldn't have. He knew that. It was an innocent enough request, but nothing good lay at the end of that road. Nothing good at all.

When she leaned her head back and stared up into his eyes, he found himself thinking that she didn't look like a teenager at all. The beautiful woman in his arms was young, all right, but she was probably her early twenties. Maybe, maybe, a few years past that. He was old enough to have a daughter picking out dresses for the prom. Even though he wasn't. That made no sense, but there it was.

Still, it was as if he spat in God's eye when she leaned her head against his chest. Sure, it felt good to feel her warm breath against his body, to look down at her beautiful hair and the shape of her backside. But he should not, not, NOT get hard over his daughter.

"I-I'm-forgive me," he said, pulling away.

Karen blushed. "It's okay," she said. "I take it as a compliment." Digging impossibly white teeth into a full lower lip, she added, "I had no idea you were so big."

The look on her face as she said that was equal parts embarrassment and excitement.

Only she hadn't said it all. Nor had he gotten hard for her to feel his erection pressing against her. They hadn't even danced together.

They were still in the store.

Of course they were. His daughter hadn't noticed how well-endowed he was, nor been aroused by that. If she ever had cause to discover that, she'd shriek in embarrassment and run away, as any girl in her shoes would. She wouldn't tell her father that she saw his erection as a damned compliment. That was just the deluded fantasy of a horny old man.

His daughter smiled, clapped her hands together excitedly, and disappeared back into the changing room.

Chris tried to convince himself that it was worth spending that much money on a dress she'd only wear once. It made her happy, after all, and there was no price he wouldn't pay to make his little princess smile.

#

His opponent danced away, deflecting a lazy thrust with his rapier.

"Stop this madness!" the source of their contention cried.

The fair lady was, of course, married. And not to either of the men dueling for her affections. But she loved her husband not, and she'd been stringing the two of them along for ages. If she wouldn't choose one of them herself, then he would make her choice for her.

Both combatants were practiced fencers. Finer swordsmen could not be found in all of Paris, save for the Musketeers of the Guard. But there was no question which of them was more skilled. The other man was older, his goatee more silver than brown, and his hairline receding enough to make his widow's peak seem even more pronounced than it must have in his youth. Practiced as this one was, his best days were behind him.

As soon as he chose to end it, the redheaded beauty would have but one suitor. Even if he let the older man live, as he was inclined to do, the poor fool would be too ashamed to let her see his face again.

"I won't have any blood shed!" the object of their affection declared.

"Then name me as your lover and spare him," he said.

"Ha!" the older man said in response, though he was already beginning to perspire.

He hadn't even begun to press the old man. So far, he was merely toying with him.

The gorgeous redhead seemed about to proclaim her favor for the younger of her suitors, but she stopped short. There was a glimmer of excitement in her brown eyes as she watched them exchange half-hearted blows.

Decency compelled her to object to their contest, but she'd no sooner put a stop to it than she would content herself with her with affections of her lord husband. Their deadly dance flattered her. Maybe she'd finally give herself over to one of them after this.

His heart accelerated, though not because of the barrage his opponent sought to unleash on him. The attacks were easy enough to deflect. No, it was the thought of finding himself between those soft thighs at long last that had his blood flowing.

#

The small hole in the door to his cell opened. Was it morning already? It felt as though he'd only stumbled off the yard an hour or two ago. The fresh bruises on his thighs and along his ribs had barely begun to lose their sting.

"Lady Callista would see you," his guard said.

If he hungered for the whip, he might have asked why. But he knew better.

"On your feet!"

He did as ordered. Like a good slave.

The redheaded noblewoman had taken an interest in him. That much he knew. But what the nature of that interest was, he couldn't have said. There were rumors among the slave pits, that Domina liked to lay with her favorite gladiators. But it was also said that she liked to sell their bodies to her friends. Or have them serve stand around like statues for her friends to admire, if only to prove that her control over them was complete. Similarly, some said that she liked to force them to sodomize each other while she and the other noble women watched, laughing their fool heads off.

Each of those rumors was as plausible as the next. Their bodies were not their own. They existed to amuse and to enrich Lady Callista and her lord husband. He hoped the last one wasn't true though. Anything else, he could live with. But not that.

That was all he hoped. To avoid being violated by another man, or being forced to do the same himself. That blood rushed into his manhood at the prospect of being used by the noblewoman for her personal gratification was a purely biological response. He relished the thought of that no more than he did being made to stand around like a statue. Both would be thoroughly degrading, but preferable to sodomy.

Or so he told himself.

He'd never gotten a good look at her. But the fleeting glimpses he'd caught of her up on the balcony, watching them beat one another senseless with their practice weapons, had been enough to confirm that she was as beautiful as they all said. It was not for want of seeing any other woman in years that the slaves all said her beauty was without rival.

"Now!" the guard barked.

He rose slowly to his feet. The heavy chains binding his ankles and wrists barely slowed him. It was depressing to admit, but he'd grown accustomed to them. No, it was the injuries earned in the pit that sapped him of his grace.

No. That wasn't right. The irons didn't feel weightless because they'd become a part of him. It was because they weren't real. None of this was. He was no more a slave than a father or a Frenchman. He was having lucid dreams again. As he so often did.

As he emerged from his cell, Chris noticed that the guard looked familiar. He was short, fit yet thin, and older. His goatee was silver, and his hairline was receding. It formed a sharp V in the center of his forehead.

The man who slept on his couch back in Georgia. Kevin. The same man who'd dueled with him over his wife in the dream segment just prior to this one.

No sooner was the connection drawn than the man forgotten. As was wont to happen in dreams, the story skipped right over the next few steps in the sequence. One moment, he was being led along at spearpoint by the guy who currently slept on his couch, and the next stood before his wife, who wasn't his wife here, but a Roman noblewoman.

Whether actual Romans had ever dressed like that, he couldn't have said. In all likelihood, her costume was more influenced by recent TV shows he'd watched than anything else, just as he and Kevin had, in his previous dream segment, looked exactly like Kiefer Sutherland and Chris O'Donnell in that movie he'd just as soon pretend he'd never seen. But whatever the historical accuracy of her attire, he approved. Strongly.

It looked like someone had taken a bolt of red silk and wrapped it round and round her body. It fit her quite snugly, except for below the mid-thigh, where it flared out a bit. It covered an absolutely minimal amount of her expansive bosom, leaving ample cleavage on display. Real cleavage. He hated when people said that women who wore dresses with plunging necklines were showing a lot of cleavage even when those women's breasts were so small that they didn't come close to pressing together and forming a line of cleavage.

The gold medallions hanging from her ears and encircling her neck and waist, complemented by the arm band on one bicep and thick bracelet on the opposing wrist, would have looked gaudy in most any other setting. But sitting there on her chaise lounge of crushed velvet, surrounded by marble pillars, bronze trinkets, gold tapestries, and silver mirrors, she'd almost have looked inappropriate without those accessories.

He'd never seen her look anything short of stunning, but he just might have found her a touch more irresistible than usual at that moment. If that was even possible.

The part of him that had bought into the dream, that believed he was a slave forced to risk his life over and over again for her husband's enrichment, resented her. But even that part of him desired her. Not unconditionally, not without shame and guilt, but there was no denying it. She perfectly embodied the very notion of femininity. If the Roman goddess Venus had been real, she'd have come down from the heavens to smite Karen lest she have to suffer the indignity of being the second most desirable woman in all creation.

She looked him up and down, those dark eyes of hers seeming more than ever like chips of onyx. They gave no indication of whether she liked what she saw or not, nor did her plump red lips. Her face was impassive. Beautiful, painfully beautiful, but impassive.

"Domina," he said, bowing his head low. He was not to speak her name, of course. Only refer to her by the honorific.

"Does my husband have such a poor eye for talent?" she asked.

He didn't answer. How could he, without being insolent?

"You've not a mark on you," she continued, eyes traveling over his body once more. "Not so much as a single welt, bruise, or scratch. Are the others so slow and clumsy that they can't land a blow on you? Should I have them all whipped?"

Again, he didn't answer. Just glanced down at his body to see if what she'd said was true. And of course it was, even though he'd been covered in injuries just a few moments ago. Minor injuries, by and large, but sufficient to keep anyone from thinking that he lacked for worthy adversaries. Now, though, they were gone.

That wasn't the only remarkable thing about his body.

If not for his loincloth and sandals, he'd have been completely naked. Yet he wasn't the least bit ashamed or embarrassed by that exposure. Not when he was sporting such mass and definition. In his dream, he had a perfect eight-pack, legs that were long and strong, and a chest you hammer iron against. His skin was bronzed and smooth.

Did he look like that in the waking world? He couldn't even remember. Something told him that he was lean and fit, but not that fit. And definitely not that well developed.

"I asked you a question," she said.

"Sorry, Domina."

She looked from him to the guard. To Kevin. "Has he suffered brain trauma?"

"Not that I'm aware of, Lady Callista."

Beautiful brown eyes regarded him again. "So. Is my husband blind? Or should I have the other slaves whipped?"

His mouth opened, but no words came out. What was he supposed to say to that?

"Forget it," she said with dismissive wave of her hand. "You," she said, turning her attention to Kevin.

"What would you have of me, my lady?" he asked.

"Your body," she said.

Kevin stared silently back at her, but apparently the redheaded beauty only found silence unattractive in some men. Flames of desire danced behind her eyes, warming the room.

He wasn't sure if that was why the guard's uniform disappeared or not. For a moment, it seemed as though his gilded armor melted while the scarlet cape and boiled leather turned to ash. But in the blink of an eye, all evidence that the man had ever been clothed vanished. He found himself wondering if he'd imagined the melting and burning.

Lady Callista's sumptuous attire remained, but Kevin was slowly removing it. His hands moved carefully, meticulously, exposing inch by exquisite inch. By the time the red silk made it halfway up her full thighs, slave and guard alike were breathing heavy.

The mere sight of her was torture. Words could not describe how perfect her skin was, or the shapeliness of her divine body.

"Going to take your time, are you?" she cooed at her very fortunate lover, raking her nails through his thinning hair as she did.

And with that, Kevin tore the rest of her garment to shreds.

His hands moved so quickly, so violently, that it seemed impossible for him not to have hurt her in the process. But he must not have, for all she did was giggle like a little girl. And squirm a bit, in an unconvincing display of mock resistance.

She looked even better naked than he'd have imagined. He didn't get a great look, of course, what with the other man lying atop her, but he saw enough. No woman with such delicate ankles, so a slender waist, and those willowy arms, could have breasts that big. Yet she did. He'd have gladly given his left leg for two minutes alone with her.

And yet he thought that he had been with her before. Many times. That "Lady Callista" was in fact someone he knew quite well. A former lover, perhaps.

Or maybe even a current one?

Yes. That was it. Not just his lover, but his wife.

Upon realizing that, it grew even more painful to watch her offer herself to the other man, who was no more an ancient Roman guard than she was a noblewoman. In his dream, the redheaded goddess did not belong to him. There was no betrayal in their fornication. But he still knew that he was watching his wife squirm and scream for a complete stranger. A man he'd welcomed into his home. Who at that very moment lay asleep on his couch.

And she did squirm and scream for him. He wasn't sure he could remember the last time his wife had enjoyed herself so much. Some of that was for show, of course. Her dark eyes focused on his nearly as often as they did those of the man atop her. She was getting off on the jealousy she found there as much as the hard cock inside her.

But that didn't help any.

#

He looked out the window onto the ocean. Their hotel suite, or "villa" as the brochure called it, occupied its own man-made islet, as did a dozen others forming a dashed line off the coast of the island paradise. Only accessible by boat, the suite afforded them all the privacy they could desire, and disorienting yet intoxicating exoticism to boot. Remote as the place was, it nonetheless came equipped with a flat-screen plasma TV, wireless internet access, and a host of other amenities typically found in luxury hotels.

"This is really amazing," he said to his mother.

"You don't have to be sarcastic," she replied.

"I wasn't," he replied. "Well, only a little."

She rested a hand on his shoulder. "I'm not marrying him for his money."

"No one said you were."

He could practically feel her brown eyes drilling into the back of his head. Rather that confirm his suspicion, he continued staring at the endless expanse of crystal blue water.

The man his mother was marrying, whose name escaped him at the moment, wasn't even around. Nearly a thousand dollars a night for these astonishing accommodations, and he was spending the evening with his groomsmen in a last-minute bachelor party. The way the man threw money around made Chris sick to his stomach. His mother might not have been marrying him for his money, but it sure didn't hurt that he was filthy rich.

Whoever "he" was.

Was he dreaming?

He must have been. On some level, he "knew" that he was barely eighteen years old. But in the real world, he was over thirty. And the woman who had her hand on his shoulder was in her mid-thirties, but looked like she was in her twenties. If he looked as young as his subconscious was telling him he was supposed to be here and now, they might have looked all of seven or eight years apart. Yet she was supposed to be his mother. It made no sense.

Or maybe she was his soon-to-be step-mother?

Yes. That was it.

Nevermind that only a moment ago he'd mistrusted the man she was marrying. Suddenly, that nameless and faceless man was his father, and it was her that he mistrusted. Though it hadn't been true a mere moment ago, he now knew that he'd insinuated that the beautiful and buxom young redhead was marrying whoever she was marrying for his money not because Chris didn't want some strange man to join his tightknit little family, but because he wasn't sure this gold-digger was good enough for his hypothetical father.

That meant it wasn't too weird that the moment she'd laid a hand on his shoulder, he'd gotten a raging boner. His mother, he couldn't lust after. But his not-yet step-mother, who was nearer his age than his father's? That was naughty, but not revolting. Wrong, but only in a late-night, premium cable softcore kind of way.

The back deck, which had been empty a moment ago, was now occupied by three stunningly fit men. Two of them had blurry faces, but to judge by their hair, were in their late thirties or early forties. The third was even older. He had a face, unlike the others. And what a face it was. His features were fine. If not for the silver goatee framing his mouth, leaving no doubt as to his masculinity, he could almost have been called pretty rather than handsome. His skin was surprisingly tight and firm for a man of his age, though there were deep grooves in it testifying to his years of experience. His distinct widow's peak, accentuated by a receding hairline, only seemed to give him more character rather than detract from his appeal. He was short and slender, but the muscles he had were perfectly defined.

Why he alone had a face, Chris didn't know, but for some reason, that seemed perfectly reasonable. This man deserved to stand out from the pack. Chris accepted that fact just as readily as he accepted the knowledge that the three of them were his future step-brothers. Sure, they were older than his mother was supposed to be, but so what?

Maybe they weren't her sons, but the progeny of the elderly billionaire she was about to marry. Maybe he was her son after all. He couldn't decide. Somehow, he was sure that the redheaded goddess standing behind him was no more his mother than those men out on the deck were his brothers, though the impending wedding would make all of them family.