His Master’s Wife

An excerpt from His Master's Wife

"Slave," said the mistress, "come and wash my feet." She sat naked at the edge of the huge sunken bath, smooth and open.

Marcellus set down the tray and came to her, pausing just for a moment at the edge. "Take off your things," she told him.

Marcellus removed his toga and laid it on the chair. His ruddy, muscular body bore the marks of his life as a warrior and a slave: scars from attacks, scars from beatings, and the blue tattoo of the eagle of General Appus.

The mistress admired him openly; his upright carriage, his powerful frame. He stepped down into the water and stood before her, eyes averted—but more to admire her lithe legs and slender feet than out of respect.

He took her foot in his hands and began to bathe it. They were not dirty; she had been bathing for a little while already. Marcellus washed her ankle, her calf. The mistress lay back and closed her eyes, her breath now coming in slow, even draws, her nostril's flaring.

Marcellus felt his scrotum tightening, his penis swelling at the sight of his noble master's wife laid out before him, naked and demanding. Her foot slid out of his hands and pressed against his chiseled stomach. He took it in hand again, but the lady pressed it back—and down... down to his hard manhood, stroked it gently, curled her toes around the tip.

"Don't stop," she breathed. "Bathe my legs... all the way up." Marcellus washed her knee and kneeled down in the water to wash her soft, smooth thigh. "Yes," she whispered. "Don't stop."

The slave crouched before his mistress and raised her leg over his shoulder. Then he pressed his hand between her thighs to bathe her most thoroly—most sensually. His mistress sighed heavily and spread herself for him.

All models are 18 years or older, regardless of the text.