Soft, well-filtered sunlight wafted through the thin curtains, painting the large bed with a buttery glow. Antony opened his eyes fractionally and heaved a mighty yawn. He inhaled the balmy air of the room and smiled at the lingering fragrance of Atia's perfume. Raising his arms above his head, Antony stretched his limbs luxuriantly, reveling in the softness of the mattress, the feel of silken sheets on his naked form, the exquisite beauty of the woman asleep beside him--all so welcome after weeks, months, YEARS in a soldier's camp, enduring freezing nights in drafty pavilions and taking his pleasure with found women against trees, on dirt roads, in seedy whorehouses. Although there had been a perverse attractiveness to such spontaneity...he glanced toward Atia, mentally debating over whether to wake her for a proper start to his morning...but no. She rarely responded positively to such intrusions, and he had no desire to threaten his favorable position...particularly after so vigorous and inventive a coupling. The recollection of the previous evening caused a swelling in his nether regions, and Antony quietly slipped out of bed and tossed on a loose-fitting robe. Perhaps he'd venture to the kitchens for some relief.
He strode out into the bright atrium, eyes sharp and searching. Slightly bruised lips curved into a grin as he spotted a slave woman briskly crossing the walkway, her hands clasping a clay pitcher of water. He squinted in her direction, examining her with some scrutiny: she was a touch mature for his age, but well-built and decently attractive. She would do.
Several large but silent steps carried him into the path of the woman, who proceeded into the central courtyard of the villa. Antony leaned against the entrance arch, watching as the woman placed the water pitcher on a low table. And the creature sitting beside the table...Antony allowed the passable slave woman to fall completely from his mind, for he'd found a far superior alternative.
She was young, but not especially so; eighteen, perhaps...twenty at the oldest. Golden hair fell abundantly about her shoulders, spilling over her small but perfectly formed bosom. Her dress hung loosely upon her slim frame, but the sheer fabric revealed the well-toned muscles of her limbs. He flicked his tongue over his lips, profoundly pleased by the girl's wispy figure; although soft and robust women were more to his taste, he enjoyed a waif every now and then--they put him in mind of dainty, pubescent virgins. He cast a perfunctory glance at her face and found it more than acceptable: high cheekbones, large blue eyes, full pink lips. Perfect.
He bided his time by the entryway, waiting for the slave woman to exit before making his approach. She bowed her head to the girl, muttering what sounded like "domina" before slipping away through the opposite entrance. 'Domina'...Antony mentally cursed himself for his foolishness; he should have been able to discern from the girl's clothing that she was no slave or servant. Of course, he had been distracted by other things...but never mind that. Who IS she? A visiting cousin, perhaps, some distant kinswoman...he felt a sudden lurch in the pit of his stomach...It couldn't be...impossible...
When last he saw Atia's daughter, she was a gangly, emaciated chit of a girl, always sulking about with sullen eyes and an expression that turned her solemn face sallow. When he bothered to notice her at all, Antony found himself pitying the child for lacking her mother's russet beauty and wondering how large a dowry Atia would have to offer to marry Octavia off in a year or two. Never did he imagine that she'd become this white-gold vision...If Atia found out...but would she...could the girl be discreet....?
Immersed in thought, Antony felt a jolt of surprise when he exited his reverie long enough to notice Octavia's cobalt eyes fixed upon him. If he'd had any fleeting doubts about her identity, they vanished at the sight of the vague annoyance lingering in her gaze; precisely the same disillusioned ennui possessed by her thirteen-year-old self. He shifted his weight forward, intending to step into the courtyard and greet her...but she rose abruptly from her perch and hastened toward the opposite entry, glancing over her shoulder just long enough to deliver a curt nod in his direction before disappearing completely.
Antony returned to the passageway, leaning against the wall and releasing a beleaguered sigh. Little Octavia, a beautiful woman...Juno's cunt. How inconvenient. He winced sharply at the thought and dropped his head back, pivoting his face so that his cheek rested upon the cool stone. A glint reappeared in his eye as his gaze drifted toward the kitchen entrance...a young serving girl, no older than fourteen or fifteen, stepped out into the light. As she scuttled past him, she lowered her head in deference, but Antony noticed a pink flush spreading across her plump cheeks. With a wolfish grin, he laced his fingers and gave his knuckles a firm crack, moving with a lackadaisical grace in the slave girl's wake.