He has Mark Antony by the hair -- as no doubt many in Rome have fantasized, if for no other purpose than to haul him off the writhing bodies of their prone young wives. Brutus presses a thumb into his cheek, and for a moment Antony jerks his head upward, eyes flashing with what one would almost swear was merriment. Under the circumstances, this should really be impossible, but knowing Antony...

Brutus thrusts him down by the back of his head, feeling that hollowed wet mouth strain around his cock -- Antony's broad insolent mouth, worked red and raw around the shaft of him as Brutus forces past it. His mouth is one of his finest features, turned in a sneer or wrought in profile on a silver coin -- now it is a place to be occupied, and its master allows it, in a shocking turnabout.

Antony kneels at his feet, subjugated and sweating, with a whopping great erection jutting out between his thighs. There are tears standing in his eyes, tears of true shame and proper manly honor impugned, but he is lit with a lunatic determination that burns in his cheeks and in the hot passage of his mouth.

He had thought to shame him, to chastise him in the light rough language that lovers use, and then that had turned to this, to this coarse usage, and now -- insolently the man refuses to simply be fucked, and with each deep and fierce thrust he arches into Brutus' grasp, driving his prick deeper into the wet tautness of his throat.

"Shameful," Brutus hisses through gritted teeth, though he does not know what he means.

Antony's hands make fists in his drawn-back tunic, as if drawing him forward, even as Brutus works him harder against his lap. He must feel him nearing a crisis, with whatever intuition it is that wins battles by one decisive sweep.

Brutus spills himself all at once, helplessly -- the crisis comes so swift and so hard that he loses his grip on Antony's dark damp curls, and the soft blade of Antony's ear brushes his hand, burning like a coal. In this manner he loses himself, shot through with thin fire and pursued by his shame.

His prick comes away still stiff, shining with spit and seed. Antony swallows, raises his head, and grins. Brutus fairly wheezes, breathless and unstrung. His back is to the broad cold stone of the doorway, abut just the same he feels as though he might topple; his knees have turned to water, and his eyesight swims.

Pleasure has always been a polite business to him, enjoyed with moderation in the right ways and at the right times; it is only lately that his animal appetites have run away with him, like rivers rising past their banks or horses driven by an unskilled hand, and all the other common metaphors for unseemly desire. If not for Antony he would have only himself to blame.

When Brutus finds his tongue again, he starts in, quarrelsome:

"How, by the black stone, am I meant to keep you in check when you insist on enjoying yourself like this?"

"If you're being plundered, better to lean back and let it happen. Make the best of a bad situation." Antony's voice is thick and broken, but as arrogant as ever; he sinks back on his haunches in the doorway, rubbing his raw red lips with one hand and clasping his own prick with the other.

"You were doing very little leaning back," Brutus says, accusing.

"Was I? No matter. Now get down here and help me."