Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [164]
I bowed, kissing her hand. "The honor is mine, my lady."
She laughed as I straightened. It made her breasts move beneath the bronze silk of her gown. She was tall for a woman and abundantly curved. I found myself trying hard not to gaze at the deep cleft of her cleavage. There was a faint sheen of sweat on her skin, and I wondered what it would taste like. I didn't want to, but I couldn't help it.
"Come, my friends," Deccus Fulvius said in a good-natured tone. "Let us take our seats and enjoy the pantomime."
Surrounded by a coterie of servants, we traipsed into the theatre. A box large enough to seat a dozen spectators was reserved for Deccus Fulvius and his family. The servants bustled efficiently, setting cushions on the stone seats and plumping them, bringing out tidbits of food and flasks of wine. All around us, the theatre filled with less fortunate folk, noisy and chattering.
Seated at her husband's right hand, Claudia Fulvia patted the marble bench beside her. "Sit next to me, won't you, Imriel?" She paused. "Do you mind if I call you Imriel?"
"Please do," I said, sitting. Our shoulders brushed.
"Call me Claudia." She smiled at me and lowered her voice, pitching it beneath the surrounding clamor. "Are you one of Lucius' playmates?"
"No, my lady." I held her gaze, shaking my head slowly. "I'm no one's playmate."
"Pity," she murmured.
Soon the pantomime began, though for the life of me, I couldn't recount it if asked. It was a comical farce based on an episode of ancient Tiberian history, about two quarreling generals and the Menekhetan Queen who outwitted them. The generals sported enormous leather phalluses laced to their breeches. They acted the part of buffoons while the Queen led them a merry chase. In the end, they battered one another with their phalluses, staggering about the stage until they collapsed. The hero of the piece appeared to be a wise old senator, who was aided by his prying servant.
Although the Tiberians laughed until they wept, doubling over in the stands at the antics of the dueling generals, I had the idea that there was somewhat subversive about the play. Betimes, when the sage senator spoke, Deccus Fulvius nodded his head in approval.
For the most part, I found it hard to pay attention.
It was not that the comedy was rude and absurd by D'Angeline standards, though it was. It was the pressure of Claudia's thigh against mine, and my own acute awareness of it. My resolve to be good began to seem distant and childish.
A short way into the play, the shifting sun put us in shadow. Claudia turned, beckoning to one of the servants. "A blanket, please." She spread it over her lap, solicitously extending a fold to me. "We wouldn't want you to take a chill."
Precious little chance of that, I thought.
It was not long before I felt her hand beneath the blanket. She was a woman grown—I guessed her age to be in her late twenties—and there was no uncertainty in her movements, no girlish groping or fumbling. Her palm slid over my tensed thigh, slow and firm, savoring the contact. Doing nothing to dissuade her, I glanced at her strong profile. Her gaze was fixed on the stage below, and she was laughing at the players. It looked for all the world as though she'd no other thought on her mind.
Meanwhile, her hand continued unerringly.
I twitched when she reached my phallus, hard and rigid beneath my breeches. On my other side, Lucius gave me an odd look.
"Are you all right, Montrève?" he asked.
"Fine," I said through gritted teeth.
Smiling at the stage, his sister stroked my phallus, filling her palm with it, her long fingers skillfully stroking its trapped length. For a terrifying moment, I thought I might climax beneath her hand, right there in the theatre. I took slow, deep breaths, thinking about maintaining Elua's vigil; the cold ground beneath my knees, the icy stars above.
It got me through the performance. Mercifully, Claudia released me ere the end. I muttered a prayer of thanks to Blessed Elua, and set about