Page 42 of Thawed Gladiator: Varro

“No! A woman just doesn’t flaunt her personal tools.”

“Personal tools!” He squawks with amusement, then rises to grab a pen and one of my notebooks. He sketches for a moment and then turns the pad toward me. It looks to be a takeoff of an ancient trebuchet, perhaps five feet tall, with a mechanism that, if properly operated, would a) kill the woman on the receiving end or b) pulse against her body about once every two minutes. An utter engineering failure.

“Not even close. Where, pray tell, do you think I’ve been hiding a machine as big as Jenny?”

“You tell me.”

“No!” But I know I’m a goner when my gaze darts to my bed frame.

He stalks closer to my bed. “I’ll find it, Laura. I know it’s an invasion of your privacy, but the first time you step outside to use thelatrinae, I’ll find it.”

Shit. I might as well give in. If I don’t show it to him now, he’ll rummage around under there and not only find my rabbit, but he’ll find my stash of Oreos, still in their plastic sleeve. I feel a wave of guilt about it. It’s not pretty keeping something so wonderful a secret from my roommate, but I keep telling myself the ends justify the means.

“There are rules,” I say primly, then purse my lips.

He nods solemnly.

“You can have all the fun and hilarity you want for five minutes, then we never speak of it again.”

“How about fun and hilarity until we go to sleep tonight?”

Really? He wants to bargain about the time limit?

“Fine,” I snip, then manage to purse my lips to clarify just how much I regret doing this.

I shove the mattress to the side, exposing the small trove of personal treasures I keep in the hollow platform. The object in question is in a bin, wrapped in a small towel. I’m not stupid. I figured he’d go snooping sooner or later and thought it might be safe from his prying gladiator eyes. But no, I gave myself away and have no one to blame but myself.

I grab it, turn toward Varro, and unveil my sex toy.

I expected a derisive burst of laughter, but his response is a silent tip of his head as he stands in place but leans closer.

“What am I seeing?” He cocks his head the other way. “Obviously, it’s a phallus, but…”

“Remember our deal,” I warn before I launch into a guided tour, “you’re going to get all your yucks out by bedtime and we never discuss this again.”

“Deal. Yes. Explain.” He inches closer.

“This, gladiator, is called a rabbit.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Marcus Fabius Varro

“Obviously, it’s a phallus, but…”

She gives me a tour of the purple thing—why on earth would one choose such a color?—explaining that the rabbit ears stimulate thelandica;she calls it the clit. Even though I recently relieved myself outside—watered the cucumbers—my cock is twitching, hardening as she talks.

“The beads?” I ask.

“The beads are… hell. Here.”

She presses buttons, showing how the controls make the floppy bunny ears vibrate faster and faster, then she touches another button and the phallus gently rotates, making the white pearls near the base swirl inside the casing.

Back in Rome, few houses didn’t have stone phalluses of various sizes lying in one bedroom or another, but the way this is mechanized is truly an engineering feat. My mind sticks to the quality of the design for only a few moments until my thoughts arrow to pictures of Laura using this tool on herself.

My cock is rock hard, leaking semen, as I imagine her on her bed, knees pointed at the roof, thighs spread wide, using both hands to plunge this toy inside her dripping channel.

She clicks off the machine and reaches for the towel to cover it up.

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