Chapter Text
— I named this one Septima, and this one Octavius. They are my seventh and eighth personal slaves my father gave me, explains the master to his friend.
At the mention of his name, Octavius raises his lowered gaze slightly, trying not to let his tiredness show. He's been kneeling since the beginning of the party, for more than an hour now. These one-guest parties have not been uncommon since they moved to this city, but this one is particularly boring. Septima lies on the master's lap, leaning against his chest, his hand stroking her thighs gently while Octavius stays beside the guest, awaiting some order.
— Why did you rename them ? It's not like a name change could get rid of their nature.
— I know. That's not my intention, but I do like a little refinement around me. And what was I supposed to do? Ask them their barbarian names? No—my slaves, and therefore mine to name, because they were born again when they became mine. To be honest, she should have been Octavia, and he should have been Nonus. But the previous Septima conceived five years ago, then lost the child. She was crying and crying…, the master sighs. I couldn't get anything out of her after that.
Septima stiffens almost imperceptibly before nuzzling her face against the master's shoulder. The master shrugs, explaining how he got rid of her predecessor while petting her.
— And I thought about you and the others—always with boys. So I got one too. I should have done that from the very beginning. This is much better, fucking him without the inconvenience.
As the master gestures toward him, Octavius refrains from pressing his lips together. The guest nods, eyeing the slave with an impatient bounce of his foot, draining the last drop from his glass. This one speaks little, unlike the master, who loves to hear himself talk. When the guest finishes his wine, Octavius stands up to refill the glass. Their eyes on his bare skin will never feel anything but uncomfortable. At least the master’s gaze stems more from boredom than lust, unlike the guest’s.
— I know you are fond of pretty colours, would you like to try on one of them?
The master gives Septima a slight shove. She immediately straightens from her languid posture and kneels on the floor demurely. He makes her stand up again with a light kick and asks for his rod. His friend seems to regain interest.
— Octavius, show yourself. This one is not as cute as your boys, nor as white, but I hope he is still to your taste.
Septima returns, presenting the rod to the master, her eyes on the floor, while Octavius rises to his feet. The masters leave their chairs, circling the slave.
— He is tall, the master's friend comments.
— I wanted a strong one. Delicate limbs are charming, but trying to wrestle with a weak bed-slave does nothing for my pride.
The guest raises an eyebrow.
— Do you wrestle with them? he asks, unable to hide his amusement.
— Not with her, I know she wouldn't stand a chance. But with him, yes, the master replies flatly.
— Does he win? the guest inquires, startled.
— Sometimes. We place wagers. If he wins, I grant him one wish.
The guest's smile widens, as if the master were recounting a pleasant joke.
— What does he wish for?
— Do you want to find out for yourself? You are welcome to wager against him.
He shakes his head.
— The last time I wrestled was a long time ago…
— Do you declare forfeit before even trying? the master says, chuckling with a smug smile.
— That's not what I— I thought we were going to colour him, not fight him, his friend replies, his irritation dripping through his polite composure.
Octavius tightens his jaw. It's been a long time since his last 'colouring' too. Two or three years earlier, the colouring sessions he shared with Septima had been a regular occurrence, but thankfully the master eventually grew bored of that distraction.
— But if we beat him before wrestling, he will be weaker. There would be no pride in winning like that,the master argues, then falls back into his chair with a pout. You can wager on Septima but she cries every time I start handling her.
The guest stares in silence at the rod the master is playing with, visibly irritated.
— I trust you did not intend to insult me.
The master nonchalantly crosses his legs.
— Are you offended?
— One doesn't need to fight an ant to know one is superior.
— And others prefer hunting lions. It does not mean the lion is superior; it means it is dangerous, and there is beauty in breaking what is dangerous. But slaves are neither lions nor ants. They are human beings. Like us. And our difference lies in our civilisation. One has risen above the other. There is beauty in bending them, and victory is more beautiful when they have a chance to win.
— Not like us. Same flesh, perhaps, but—
— Then why are you afraid to wrestle? The master interrupts sharply. Listen, he softens his tone, elbows resting on his thighs. I know why you accepted my invitation, and it's all right. I cannot promise my father's voice, but I'll speak for you, and I promise you mine. Only if you agree to wrestle with Octavius, and grant his wish if he wins. If you don't want to grant his wish, all you have to do is win.
The guest hardens, as straight as the rod in the master's hands.
— Are you really bargaining away your voice over a mere wrestling match?
— Aren't you about to ask for it eventually, anyway? These are simply my terms, the master replies evenly.
— Enough. This is ridiculous.
The master raises his voice slightly as the guest heads toward the study door.
— I will host another party in two days. I will tell everyone you did not dare match your words with actions. They will ask Octavius. He will have to tell them what a coward you were.
The guest freezes, his voice low and thickened by anger.
— You wouldn't dare…
Octavius remains still, uncertain whether he is expected to kneel again. The master's playful laugh echoes through the room, easing Septima's stiffened shoulders.
— Oh, come on… Don't be so serious. See how easy it is, he says lightly. Septima. Stand. Kneel. Jump. Now, dance.
She gracefully obeys his petty demands. With one quick movement, he pulls her back onto his lap.
— All of this is boring, he scoffs. Don't you crave challenges sometimes? Is debate itself not stimulating? We couldn't do it if we all agreed. We need resistance to feel alive, the master says, his eyes widening with excitement. Wrestling a slave does not diminish a man, it is elevation through competition, an assertion of power, fighting to justify our existence, confirming our rightful place in this world!
The guest says nothing for a few moments, his jaw still tense as he leans against the master’s desk.
— You speak as though superiority were fragile. I have never needed a slave’s resistance to reassure myself of my own worth.
The master nods, humming approvingly.
— Yes, yes. You are right. Nevertheless, I'm easily bored and passivity bores me. I didn't intend to offend you earlier. I was merely trying to elicit a reaction from you. Let's put aside all this philosophical talk. Would you not wrestle him? You are shorter; you have the advantage. We shall colour him afterward, fuck him perhaps, if you still feel like it after winning? Ever since I first heard of your reputation, I have always wanted to see you fight. Accept, and you make me a happy man. And if, by some mischance, you were to lose, I promise I won't tell a soul.
He chuckles, stroking Septima's ass. The master's friend ogles Octavius from head to toe. He exhales through his nose, irritation giving way to reluctant calculation.
— Since you are in the mood to bargain, I would like to set further conditions for my participation in this… distraction.
— Now we are talking!
As the guest returns to his chair, Octavius kneels again beside him. They discuss business favours and political alliances, the master's friend trying to extract as much advantage as possible for his political ambitions, and the master far too eager to agree to anything remotely reasonable.
He indolently slips his fingers between Septima's thighs, settling into his chair with a satisfied expression. It's the fifth guest he convinced to wrestle Octavius since they left the countryside. And Octavius doesn't want to lose to any of them.
He briefly closes his eyes, trying to picture victory, trying to shake the fatigue from his body.
A clap snaps him out of his meditative state as the two men rise from their chairs and shake hands.
He and Septima push the furniture aside, creating a large space in the centre of the room.
— Please, hand your clothes to Septima. You wouldn't want Octavius using them to grab you.
The slave kneels again, his head lowered, waiting for the master's friend to be ready while his master enthusiastically explains how much better fucking feels after a victory. Once both men are naked, Octavius bows until his forehead almost touches the floor, as his master trained him, and speaks carefully through his thick accent.
— I thank you deeply for agreeing to wager with me, master. I hope you will find in me a worthy opponent. Please, allow me to touch you and look into your eyes until the end of the match.
— As it should be for a fair fight, I suppose, the master's friend says flatly.
— Thank you, master.
Octavius allows himself to observe his opponent for the first time. The man is slightly shorter, just as his master indicated, fit and healthy. His flaws lie in his posture. The man seems far more accustomed to using his rod on slaves than fighting them.
Septima is asked to count them down. In her clear voice, she announces the start of the match.
The man does not move, his feet planted firmly. Octavius lunges toward him, trying to grab his thighs. The man attempts to throw him off balance by shoving at his shoulders, but Octavius drives into his torso, pushing hard enough to bring him down.
With an outraged cry, the man falls onto his back, Octavius pinning him down firmly. The man struggles to break free, but Septima declares the first round over.
Only then does Octavius realize he has won, still holding his opponent against the wooden floor, his thighs pressed between the man’s. He meets the man’s outraged gaze, his face tight with humiliation and restrained fury. The guest shoves him off immediately while the master reassures his friend that the loss means nothing.
The humiliation seems to disappear from the man's face like none of this mattered, but the fury Octavius witnessed was far too visceral to fade so quickly. This would have been the first time this master was under a slave.
Octavius pushes the pleasant thought aside to focus on the next round. He doesn't want to know if Septima has started smiling yet.
Septima calls the start of the next round.
This time, the man steps toward him first, going for the same hold Octavius used on him. He manages to counter, dropping his shoulder hard against his opponent’s. The man steps back sharply, dragging Octavius forward but fails to throw him off balance.
— No. Kneel! The guest shouts.
The command snaps through Octavius before he can think. As Octavius tries to secure his grip on the man's hips, his fingers loosens for the briefest instant, suddenly uncertain. His opponent takes advantage of it, sliding his leg behind Octavius’s and tripping him, making him fall to the sound of his master’s laughter. Startled, Octavius fails to react before the man uses his weight to pin him down long enough to secure his victory.
His confused gaze briefly meets the guest's mocking eyes, both of them breathing heavily.
— It seems obedience comes more naturally to them than fighting, he says with a smug smile, still forcing Octavius's arms to the ground.
The master's laugh grows brighter.
— Well, it's still fair. The rules never forbade giving orders. How did I never think of that? he wonders aloud.
Octavius bites his lip, silently cursing himself. The master's friend finally releases the slave, allowing him to rise.
— I don't know if it will work a second time, though. He adapts, the master warns with obvious delight.
The temperature in the room seems to have risen. But the heat is not what makes Octavius sweat. Septima raises her hand to announce the final round, then calls the start.