Nobody really plans it.  You can't plan a thing like that.  It is the very definition of spontaneity.  And it certainly can't be tamed or forced into anything resembling even the slightest inkling of propriety.  Or reservation.  Or decency.  Uninhibited doesn't even begin to describe it.  Even that word seems tame.  It seems to lack that certain something; that shameless, unapologetic frenzied wallowing in ecstasy.

Sex.  That raunchy, dirty, intimate, grab and grunt and grind kind of sex.  The kind that makes you forget everything but the fire in your blood.  No boundaries exist to be crossed.  No shred of modesty remains to fuel embarrassment.  There is nothing you want that you can't have and no act that is too lewd.  It is literally no holes barred sex.

It was in a word....excessive. 

A state where passion consumes you so tightly in its fierce grip that things like reason and control and responsibility are less than meaningless.  Worldly inhibitions are rendered void and all that is left is the most primal drives, like some Dionysian ritual of old where the veneer of humanity is cast aside and instinct takes over, drawing you down, deeper and deeper into some labyrinth of wine and tragedy and ecstasy as you writhe together in madness and desire, down into the pit, through the fire and into the exquisite stillness on the other side.

All in all, not quite how I imagined the evening would wind up.  I certainly hadn't been thinking of it while I dressed for dinner.  Max either.  He was his usual self, breezing around in a state of casual undress, wearing socks and a dress shirt that he did up with his typical carelessness, unaware that the pink tip of his penis was peeping at me from under the hem every time he raised his arms.  God, I love men.

Dinner was a romantic affair.  Nothing too swanky.  A table on an outdoor terrace and the talk of lovers, eating Merluzzo Dorato (Fish with lemon sauce... my Italian is improving!) while we watched the moon rise over a couple bottles of Val di Cornia Suvereto Rosso.  And of course, lemon ice for dessert.  

It was a pleasant evening, but not one I would have ever imagined would turn out as it did.  We were away from our home, work had called him north to Perugia and when it was over he'd sent for me.  I still remember his charmingly boyish smile when he told me why.  He'd wanted to drive back instead of fly... and he was so adorably formal when he asked me to be his traveling companion.  As if I'd have said 'no' to that offer?

It was also a time of recovery for us; a time of new beginnings.  The news that Jack and Uma brought to us had eviscerated him; enraged him so completely that it was many weeks before we could speak of it without it eliciting a physical reaction from him.  That anyone would dare play games with his fertility, a part of him that was so central to his idea not just of masculinity but of his life's duty to connect past with present... It was an affront to him, to his line, to his very being. 

In accordance with his deeply ingrained beliefs, he had steeled himself and set aside his pain until his obligation as host to our visitors was at an end.... and then when we were alone, he opened his heart and spoke to me.  Pain.  Rage.  Vengeance..... Hope.  Someday we would make a child in love.  I still remember how he spoke of it, not like it was a wish or some shimmering dream that existed just beyond our grasp.  He simply touched my face and spoke with unwavering conviction.  It is our fate, papilio, he'd whispered, touching his forehead to mine, a soft smile on his lips. 

Our fate.  

I liked that.  I didn't like the way he felt in my arms though.  Rigid.  Tense.  So full of impotent rage that his hands shook.  He was gone in the morning.  I half expected his sword to be gone as well, but apparently he'd found another way to cut away the demons tormenting him.  He was gone a week.  When he returned, he wouldn't tell me where he had gone or what he had done.  I had an idea, but it was enough for me that his heart was lighter.

In the weeks that followed, we began our first real steps together toward the future we'd both wanted so desperately but had been afraid to even imagine in our wildest flights of fancy.  For me, it was the sweetest gift.  For Max, it was something beyond words.  Once again, the watchtowers were lit and glowing, an unbroken line from the past to the present.... and now, into the future where the next light would someday herald the birth of our child. 

It was a journey that began in the lemon scented air of our home and had grown deeper and more sure as the corn grew in the rich black earth of our garden.  In a way, it was a part of the route we took home from Perugia.  A time for us to forge ahead on our own... and to celebrate what Max called 'our fate' with such surety.     

Tonight's hotel was more decadent than the others had been.  Our room was very grand, full of luxurious fabrics, rich tapestries and thick carpets... marble and granite and crystal.  It had fresh, fragrant white flowers in a big vase, voile curtains that let in the gorgeous light and a bowl of fresh fruit on a lacquered ebony coffee table.  It was quite lovely, though both of us found it a bit amusing, considering the simplicity with which we usually live.  It felt a bit like we were playing dress-up, like two naughty children who'd invaded their parents' inner sanctum.

And it was yet another reason neither of us had imagined the night would take such an unexpected turn.  It was one of those places that brought to mind those stiffly formal rooms of an elderly relative.  You know what I mean.  The kind where you don't even dare touch anything, much less sit on the furniture.  Who ever imagines having insane sex in a room like that?   

I'm not quite sure how it happened, actually.  Dinner was lovely.  We took a long leisurely walk through the cobbled streets afterwards, holding hands and murmuring softly to each other.  We had a bit of a private laugh when we returned to our room.  The open suitcase on the antique dresser seemed to be mocking us, an unsightly blight spoiling the pristine elegance of the room. 

We were both tired... from the drive as well as from the unexpected quickie we'd managed at one of our roadside stops that morning.  I still blush to think of it.  We'd been stopping at various attractions along the way; most were secluded sites marked with a statue and a plaque, noting some local historic event of importance.  My Bellus is hardly one for modern convention and definitely one for taking advantage of the moment.  A bit of sunshine, fresh air and privacy and he was away. 

I can't say I remember a damn thing except how he felt thrusting behind me.  Something which later became apparent as we walked back toward the car and passed another couple walking in who seemed quite confused by my dreamy murmuring of what a picturesque spot it was for a sculpture like that...

How Max's eyes had danced when I turned and realized we'd just had it off beside a crumbling public toilet.  The virile young Italian man had it worked out in about two seconds and chuckled knowingly while I died and blushed a million shades of red.  Of course, Mr. Smug just nodded at him with this infuriatingly cocky grin and then whispered something very rude in Latin into my ear. 

Anyway, after the day we'd had, I had imagined a quiet evening, perhaps reading to each other or taking a long relaxing bath...  It had looked to be shaping up that way at first.  We'd unwound in that casual way lovers have, wandering around in various states of undress.  Asking for help with a zipper or a stubborn button, unconcerned with our nakedness and taking only the most passive interest in the flesh on display.

He was lounging on the bed.  I was rummaging around through his suitcase to find the bag of toiletries where I knew he kept a bottle of scented oil.  We use it for bathing and for massage, and occasionally for more intimate purposes.  (Sometimes just for fun and sometimes because he's a big man and an..... enthusiastic.... lover, with nearly endless stamina...  You get the picture, I'm sure.)  There are days I happily wonder if I will ever walk again.  

I can't even say what sparked it off.  One moment we were these two inert placid people who were simply enjoying a quiet evening together.  The next we were two wild things rolling around on the carpet as we struggled to devour each other.  It was hard to believe we even had the energy for such an encounter and I couldn't imagine where the deep well of feeling we were calling on had hidden itself all day long.  Surely if we'd been so close to erupting we'd have noticed?  And yet I think it took both of us by surprise.      

He felt unstoppable.  Strong.  Virile.  Unapologetic in his mastery of me.  I wondered how I felt to him.  Like a bundle of wet rags, I imagine.  My strength is a pittance compared to his.  It was erotic and confusing.  I wanted to fight his intrusion, it was too intense, too much... and at the same time, I couldn't get close enough.  I struggled and writhed to get away even as I pressed my face into his thick neck and mouthed the sweaty skin in supplication as I moaned against the force of his assault.  I bit him and he grunted hard.  I was shocked when I pulled back with a gasp to taste the metallic tang of his blood in my mouth.  And then my gasp changed to a low cry when I felt his teeth on my neck.

As he thudded into me, I thought how confusing it must be for him too.  Like wrestling with an orchid.  He wanted with such desperation and yet, too much force and he risked damaging the very thing he most desired.  His hips bucked and surged powerfully, bringing him into my body again and again.  It was an orgy of sensation.  The slick slide of his sweaty, hair roughed skin.  The weight and scent of his body.  The raw stinging where the carpet had abraded our skin.  Teeth on my neck again.  Sharp.  Out of control.  Goosebumps rising through the sweat at the wet suction of his mouth.  A cry from me that only spurned him on, driving him to suck harder until the bruised pleasure swelled into a full body shiver of exquisite agony. 

His English was gone.  All that remained was crude mutterings in Latin and deep growling grunts.  Hisses when my teeth found his golden skin and broken curses as I shoved at him.  It was that wild frantic kind of sex where you turn your face away even as you open your legs wider and dig your nails into the surging, flexing muscles... even when you know your body can't take any more of him.  He is too big and you are too fragile and the thudding ecstasy goes on and on until you're twisting to get free and the noose seems to tighten the more you struggle....

There was more...  hearing his prideful roar as he felt me tighten up and come around him again.  Feeling the magnificent press of his powerful body.  Rolling and thrashing and trying to get free.  Trying to crawl away.  Being dragged back.  A hand gripping my ankle hard.  A rough jerking and then friction and heat as I slid helplessly over the carpet.  His growl of triumph as he flipped me and pinned my hands, ramming himself back in to the one true place he could always call home. 

Mindless euphoria.  Gasping.  Great ragged breaths.  Fingers threaded in his short hair.  Adrenaline and ecstasy and the wild surge in the fierce pounding of my blood that blocked out almost everything.  Burning alive in my own pleasure, I barely registered more than the heavy weight pinning me down and the bruised throbbing deep inside me, driving me further and further into the flames.  It seemed a litany.  Almost there... almost... almost...

He slowed.  The fire retreated slightly.  My ears hurt.  Had he bellowed?  Had I?  My throat was dry, whether from panting or shouting I wasn't sure.  He seemed to have stopped fighting me.  His stillness was maddening.  It made the ache inside me so much sharper.  Almost... almost...almost....  With every throb inside my body the screaming litany seemed to get louder. 

The heavy press of his hot sweaty body eased and I slipped away, rolling to my knees.  Someone was humming with need.  I think it was me.  Without shame, I did my best to entice him, dropping my chest low, legs open, waving my fanny at him.  I was desperate to come but even more desperate to feel the weight of his body draped over mine once more.  I can't explain my need for that or what made it so incredibly satisfying.  It had so many different elements.  It made me feel... safe.  Excited.  Powerful.  Aroused.  Dominated.  Protected.  There was something animal about it.  And also something divinely human too.  Something so much finer than anything we could ever do with just our bodies. 

He crawled to me and fell over me heavily.  I groaned.  His big warm bulk covering me was exactly what I wanted.  And inside, I was still throbbing.  Almost... almost... almost...  I rubbed my buttocks against his wet groin and felt his wild heartbeat against my back.  His hips rocked against me in torment.  I could feel his cock, not penetrating me... just rubbing idly back and forth between my cheeks, teasing both the sensitive skin of my anus and the open, weeping whorls of my sex.   

His hands were braced on the floor on the outside of mine.  I heard his rough sigh in my ear the same moment I realized he was softening.  Had I been so far inside my own pleasure that I had missed him finding his?

I looked down and realized I could see the pearly proof of his pleasure running down the inside of my thigh.  In my frantic state, I almost couldn't make sense of it.  I felt the tickle of his soft beard rub against me as he nuzzled my cheek.  "I am done."  It came out in a lethargic, if somewhat regretful, whisper.  He was spent.     

"I'm not."               

It was honesty born of extreme sexual hunger.  And after the raw openness we'd just shared, was there wasn't anything I was too embarrassed to say to him.     

He chuckled and we sort of both collapsed to the ground, rolling a bit until I found myself under him once more.  I was surprised to find we'd somehow managed to become wedged in the small space between the divan and the coffee table.  When had we gotten there?  The feeling of being trapped was exciting.  To say nothing of the naughty little thrill I had thinking we'd probably just had it off over the pristine divan that was upholstered in a pale green raw silk fabric. 

The carpet was soft and cushy under my back and against my left shoulder I could feel the hard lacquered leg of the coffee table.  And of course, above me, I felt the glorious sprawl of a spent male body, hairy and sweaty and warm, content to simply rest upon his woman's soft curves.

I squirmed, too uncomfortably close to orgasm to enjoy the restful leisure I seemed to have found myself in.  Sea green eyes glittered down at me.  His flesh might be spent but his spirit was more than willing.  He was still as caught up in the violent pleasure as I was.  Just knowing he was there with me in the moment made me shiver against his large frame.  He is an unpredictable lover at the best of times; earthy and capable of a blunt crudeness I find incredibly appealing. 

But even after months together, I was unprepared for what he did next.  With a grunt and a rough push, he knocked my legs apart and reached over me, plucking a small green apple from the dish on the coffee table.  I watched enthralled with shock and anticipation as he dangled the apple over me by the stem and then placed it between my breasts, adding a bit of force with his fingers to press it tightly against my flesh.  It was cold.  Hard.  Shiny and smooth.  He started to roll it down and down..... 

I thought of all the times we'd fed each other slices of tart-sweet apples while we read to each other.  I thought of Eve tempting Adam.  I thought, with my heart in my throat, that he couldn't possibly be intending to do what it looked like he was going to do.... 

I was wrong.  He rolled the apple straight down until he was holding it between my legs.  Pressing it against me.  I writhed.  He held me fast and pressed harder.  I think I gasped.  We both knew it wouldn't fit there.  I could barely manage his girth, and the apple, though small, was quite a bit larger than even his impressive organ.  And it was not nearly as forgiving as flesh and blood.  I felt a few moments of real fear, wondering if maybe this uninhibited play had called forth too black a beast...  And then I flushed under his knowing gaze, feeling foolish for ever imagining he would hurt me.

He called my name, shifting to look into my eyes from where he was kneeling between my parted thighs.  "Papilio, tell me what you feel..."

The languor on his face had been replaced by a rough insistence.  The erotic visual was exciting him.  Unbelievably, his pleasure was rising again.  He put the slightest bit more pressure on the apple, forcing it a fraction of an inch further into the mouth of my vagina, stretching the delicate tissue even more.  I writhed, flushed and trembling. 

"Tell me."  This time it was a command not a request... and his fingers traced the sleek distended petals of my sex in a soft caress.  A tickling flutter that drove me mad.

"Cold.... Smooth."  The cold hard skin of the fruit was oddly soothing to my raw, throbbing skin.  "Pressure."  The blunt pressure of it stretching just the very entrance of my cunt felt good, assuaging the ache while at the same time, making me crave a very different sort of penetration.  It pushed me out of myself.  A high of pleasure and endorphins and mindless desire for my mate and what he could make my body do. 

"Watch me."  When I didn't respond he shook me, nipping at the skin on the inside of my knee and coaxing more pearly fluid to drip around the hard fruit.  "Watch me!"  I saw his head dip down and felt the wet drag of his tongue, warm and soft as it teased along the seam of flesh and fruit.  He bit down hard.  I flinched. 

His teeth made a crisp sharp sound as they bit deep into the white flesh of the apple and he lifted his head, arousal and amusement dancing in his eyes above the apple he still held in his strong white teeth.  I could feel the chuckle rumble in his chest as he crunched through the apple and chewed the enormous bite with relish.  Sweet juice dripped down his chin and fell in cold drops onto my stomach.  He made absolutely no effort to catch a single one of them.     

I moaned at the erotic display and the apple dropped from his fingers to roll away under the divan.  My legs were clamped together, already missing the pressure of the apple.  I was dying, needing release more than ever and nearly ready to end this game of ours by slipping my own hand down to put out the fire raging wildly in my blood.

Swooping up, he lowered his mouth to mine.  His kiss tasted sharply of tart apple.  The juice was sticky around his mouth and under that flavor, I could taste the faint musk of my own arousal.  I moaned into his mouth and he let me go, grabbing for my hands with a growled rebuke when they slipped down between my legs.  He knocked them away roughly. 

"No!"

I think I sobbed.  The fiery ache was burning me alive.  I begged for him; his mouth... his hands... the feel of his body.  Anything.  And there, trapped between the divan and the coffee table, I had his answer.  It wasn't his mouth or his hands I felt.  It was the trickle of scented oil.

My eyes flickered open.  He'd retrieved the bottle I'd taken from his suitcase moments before this whole wild encounter had started.  I barely remember setting it aside when he first grabbed me up.  Shivering, I closed my eyes again as I felt the slow creep of oil, spotty at first on my belly and thighs and then a heavier trickle between my legs.  Then a splash and his curse and I felt what must have been half the bottle pour thickly on my groin and creep slowly down my whorls and folds to pool under my back. 

I barely had time to think before his hands followed it, smearing it without hesitation across my belly and thighs, pushing it inside of me and slipping his hands into every crevice and dip that he could find.  Everything goes a little hazy after that.....  I remember turning my face away, trying to scramble back from the exquisite torment and then feeling the heavy weight of his body pinning me down.  Forcing the pleasure on me.  Slipping his fingers in, massaging deeply only to pull them out just when I was on the brink.

I remember begging until my voice was hoarse.  Moaning like a whore for him.  Worse than whore.  At least they have some sense that what they're doing is beyond the scope of acceptability.  I was beyond even that.  I simply wanted.

One of the sexiest things about Maximus is that he has absolutely no modern notions of propriety.  One hand held me down tightly while his oily fingers slipped out of my vagina and down, teasing and massaging the tight ring of muscle below.  He is quite without any reservations about anal sex and the groan of pleasure he made as his fingers pressed inside was wholly primal and utterly decadent.  There was no embarrassment.  No hesitation.  Just an obscene amount of pleasure on both our parts.

I had my face turned away and for one surreal moment I opened my eyes and saw the green apple had rolled away under the divan and then he was hauling me up and throwing me roughly down over the padded mint-green silk, without a shred of remorse as our oily skin instantly ruined the gorgeous upholstery.

But within moments, I was beyond caring.  Unbelievably, he was hard again.  I could feel his hands, one steadying me in the center of my back, holding me in place.  The other was oiling his erection.  I could believe he was aroused, but to have another erection after what we'd just done?  It was beyond comprehension.  And then I was beyond thought as he pushed into me with the rudest, dirtiest grunt I think I've ever heard a man make in my life.

What followed was pure sex.  Raw.  Unflinching.  Deeply gratifying, satisfyingly primal sex.  He growled out to me to touch myself.  I did.  And came with such force the world swam before my eyes and blackness encroached on the edges of my consciousness.  When the world had righted itself, I realized he was still ramming away behind me, his body heavy and sweaty where it was draped over my back.  I couldn't move.  Could hardly breathe.  And I came again.  And then again.  My vagina stung.  I thought I would pass out from exertion and pleasure.

It was the kind of sex where you're aching and your muscles are screaming in agony as you push yourself harder and harder toward that desperate release that you're really too exhausted to reach but still you can't make yourself stop trying.  It's agony.  Almost more like work than pleasure... and then when you finally get there the relief is so sharp and flooding that you disconnect from the world.

I barely remember it.  Just bits and pieces mostly.  His last shuddering hitching thrust.  A hoarse bellow.  A hand pulling my hair hard.  The crushing weight of him slumping against me.  Falling back down to the carpet.  The surreal sight of the rest of the fruit rolling away from the overturned bowl when Max's heavy body crashed into the coffee table on his way down.

We were a mess.  Sweat and semen and saliva and oil..... Smears of all of passion's flavors anointed our exhausted bodies.  Our skin was stinging and sore, pink with exertion and rug burns, and marred with bites and scratches and the early purpling of bruising kisses.     

Unexpectedly, tears blurred my vision.  I know it sounds stupid and trite, but I am no stranger to death and I found myself thinking if it took me just then, replete and wrapped up in the arms of my lover...

It wasn't hard to blink away the tears before he noticed.  He was flopped over me, his head resting on my spine, thick arms wrapped around my hips.  I rested my head on my folded arms with a languorous sigh.  He pressed a soft kiss to the small of my back and I heard him chuckle hoarsely. 

"The arena was a breeze in comparison to entertaining you, madam."

 I giggled, too tired to turn over.  "I can't walk."

Max snorted.  "Nor I."     

"Wuss."

He bit me playfully and then rubbed his face tiredly against my skin, like he does on the bedsheets at home when he's come back exhausted from a job.  The boyishness of the gesture made me smile.  I'm not sure how long we lay there recovering... but we did eventually rise.  He cursed and rubbed his shoulder where it had crashed into the coffee table and then winced as he cupped his aching droop of his genitals in one big hand.  I laughed and then shivered at the resulting trickle of spent semen that leaked from me to run down my leg.  He chuckled softly.  I swayed on my feet, unused to such excess.   

I suppose it would be more romantic to say he swung me into his arms and carried me to bed where we slept like the dead, but the truth is we pushed and pulled each other groaning and giggling to the bathroom where we took a long relaxing (and much needed) bath.

Our toes wrinkled.  I lazed.  He snored.

When we finally did make it to bed... what do you know?  We carried each other.

And when sleep came, we dreamed of silk.  And apples.