Amantes sunt amentes (Lovers are lunatics)
Disclaimer: I don't own them.
Octavia loved Servilia's breasts. Every time they made love she spent endless moments kissing the full, creamy mounds, teasing her way towards firm pink nipples which she greedily took into her mouth, sucking feverishly while her hands worked the warm, plump flesh.
Servilia's body wasn't trim and sleek like hers; it was full and curvaceous, womanly and full. When they finished making love she loved to press herself up against Servilia's side and feel those curves molded against her, her head resting on Servilia's full bosom as the older woman gently stroked her hair.
She loved how small and delirious she felt when Servilia would mount her. The older woman straddling her waist, her fingers running down over her throat, her breasts, her stomach, mapping her skin, fingernails scrapping marking her momentarily, hands taking ownership of her body, commanding her to moan and arch and buck and gasp.
She felt safe with Servilia, protected by the strength of her arms and comforted by the warmth of her body. When Servilia climbed behind her, rubbing a leather bound cock between her legs lubricating it with wetness born of anticipation she felt excited and free instead of nervous or degraded as she had in the past. As Servilia pushed inside of her and moaned one hand on her stomach as the other stroked her back she felt powerful and sexy and lifted her ass higher offering more of herself to Servilia, pushing back against her giving all of herself to the other woman's pleasure.
Octavia loved that Servilia tasted like ambrosia and she ate like a goddess. In Servilia's bedroom she was a scholar of pussy expertly wielding her tongue as a bard did his words making Servilia moan and twist above her as the older woman's fingers ran through her hair, scratching at her scalp, pressings Octavia's learned mouth more firmly against her desperate to discover more.
Servilia's voice was like honey, sweet, light and addictive drawing you back for more no matter how many times you dipped your fingers into the pot. It was gentle and melodic, her perfectly formed words rolling off over her lips smooth, clear and refreshing as water, capable of both calming her and enflaming at any given moment. It was like a blanket warmed by a lovers body, and Octavia loved to be wrapped up in it.
And despite it all, despite the tears and curses and the names, she loved Servilia still. She dreamed of her smile, and her voice, and her warmth, and her curves. She could still taste her ambrosia and feel the gentle weight of her body, and her hands on her hips. She longed to feel slim elegant fingers tangled in her hair, and to bury in nose in the delicate, pale skin of Servilia's neck and breathe in her scent. Months later, her fingers still worked between her legs to the sight of Servilia's soft smile and the remembrance of her full breasts, warm mouth and strong hands.
However, as she stood across from Servilia, her uncle's shrouded body lying between them she knew that love had never been enough and never would be.