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You’ve kneeled upon the foot of his throne, gazing up with angel eyes like he’s never seen upon the streets of Rome. A beauty beyond reason; the golden laurel for his crown. Your lashes glisten in the everlight from the eaves, sweeping stola puddled at your feet. Like the others before, you’ve come humbly to worship your emperor.
Geta reaches for your hand, seeking purchase in your grasp. Without falter, you meet him halfway through the dark, fingers clasping at his rings. Busying your mouth atop his cock, Geta shutters his lidded eyes, now succumbed to mortal pleasure. Even in sin, he would never concede, those muscled tendons stiff with need; trembling hidden from the naked eye. But you can feel everything — in this nightly tryst of touch, he is far from sobered, rhythmically enchanted by your nimble tongue along his tip.
“You are much too giving, little dove,” Geta purrs. His other digits worry your hair. “You will be handsomely rewarded.” Thick rings adorn your face, wide hands petting your forehead and temple as if to appease a wanting kitten.
“Such a beautiful thing,” he murmurs, eyes flickering dark as the passing skies. “Come, now. Bow down to your God.”
Hand to skull, Geta pushes you down, down; all the way onto his girth until your nose bristles the fiery hair. He is far more divine than any lover ought to be, more blinding in beauty than any kindled flame — often, you fear the whole world could crash down upon your feet, and you would never blink, so long as he’s with you. You cannot focus, when he’s near.
You splutter and choke, and he relishes it, humping his thickened cock against the back of your throat. He loves the struggle. He covets your warmth, your mouth a second haven for serpentine love, forever elating the will of your god. And for his little, loving pet? Gold-threaded linens for your knees, woven to cushion the weight of your worship.
Dutifully, he releases you, forcing your lips down and around his fuzzy balls, fitting your skull in whatever way that he likes. Geta watches you suck and moan, nothing but a hole for wicked pursuit, gleefully abusing your whoreish mouth. His gentle musk allures you so, the fine smattering of hair around his cock readily gnashing your face. He’s thick with sweat in the fresh, open air, freed at last from his stifling toga and the searing Roman sun. His aching cock awaits your tongue, your holes; only you, forever You, the emperor’s sack drooping low against your lips.
You venture lower, swirling your tongue against his taint, licking one fat stripe from globes to tip. He anchors your skull into place around his length, pace quickening, ringed fingers wrestling you closer. “That’s it. Suck my cock,” Geta moans, fanning open his chocolate eyes to look on fiercely while you work.
“Mm… Fffuck–” He throws his head back, golden halo striking the throne, and pumps your dripping mouth full of cum; the sweetest seed of the Great Emperor Geta freely given unto you.
Panting heavy, Geta ushers you onto his lap, stroking your face with a trembling hand. “Nunc et semper,” he whispers, vicious teeth clicking into your salty mouth. Now and always. Both a gospel and promise. He could slay a thousand men with a single rusted sword just for a second to be near you. Tear the heavens from the earth just to meet you in between.
“My emperor, my god,” you confide, frotting slow his limpid cock. When he awakens beneath you, divine hunger envelopes you both, your bodies eclipsed into lust.
“Let me hold you now,” he speaks, beautiful and dangerous, crimson fringe awry upon his laurel crown. “Let us reward your generosity.”