As I rose to a sitting position I glanced around me. It was like something out of a banned Eric von Stroheim16 movie. Twosomes, threesomes, twelvesomes were strewn about the garden in patterns of eroticism that were not to be believed. Bare breasts swung wildly in the night air. Male organs quivered wherever I looked. Derrières arched nakedly to the sky and every so often a whip hissed to turn them pink. Wine was poured over the lash marks; more wine was poured over the most intimate parts of male and female bodies and everywhere there were heads bent in eagerness to drink it.
The redhead produced a long feather. She fell on the brunette and began tickling her intimately with it. The brunette stretched her body to its full length and began laughing and crying hysterically as one spasm after another shook her body. She reached blindly out and grasped my manhood, squeezing it rhythmically in time to the paroxysms. The blonde was at my feet.
“What are you doing?” I gasped.
“Sucking your toes,” the blonde told me.
“Why?”
“I like it.”
“Well, everybody to their own fetish,” I told her.
The redhead switched targets with her feather. As she made contact, I felt an indescribable sensation spread over my body. The brunette released me and scrambled atop my chest. She contrived the position she wanted, and once again I felt as if I’d be suffocated. The redhead tossed aside the feather and climbed over me behind the brunette. She was built small and bounced with great enthusiasm. She held onto the brunette’s breasts and her grip urged the brunette onward. The blonde continued sucking my toes. Finally another quake shook the four of us and we rolled apart.
I darted away from the tireless threesome before they could involve me in another round. From the shadows of the grove of trees I looked towards the staircase to see how the Princess and the poet was faring. Julia Minor was still there, standing now, one large man in front of her, another equally large behind her, both phallically filling the front and rear entrances to her voluptuous body. Ovid was missing from the tableau.
I was still casually searching the crowd for him when he popped up beside me. “Pleasant orgy, don’t you think?” he asked conversationally.
“Ginger-peachy,” I agreed.
“It’s all in the people you know,” he told me. “If you’ve got a congenial group it’s bound to be a fun orgy.”
“I guess so.”
“The secret is in everybody feeling enough at ease with each other to drop their inhibitions.”
“Well, this gang doesn’t seem to have any problem.”
“Yes. They’re all swingers.” Ovid stretched. “Some of them are going on to a bridge game after the orgy’s over,” he told me. “I’m sure you’ll be welcome if you want to go along.”
“I’m not much for cards.”
“Well, I’m tired myself.” He stiffled a yawn. “I’m going to skip it. Would you like to join me for some coffee instead?”
“All right. Thanks.”
“You know—” The voice came from behind the bushes. “— a funny thing happened on my way to the orgy17 . . .”
“There goes Clautus with one of his interminable stories again,” Ovid observed. “Pity the poor girl he’s cornered. He always gets sidetracked talking and forgets to perform.”
“Sort of an absent-minded possessor,” I punned.
Ovid ignored it. He led the way out of the gardens and I followed him, the two of us picking our way carefully among the entwined bodies strewn everywhere. Just before we passed through the gates, Ovid paused for a last look back at the action on the marble staircase. He gave a low whistle and nudged me.
“Look at that!” he pointed.
I followed his gaze. Julia Minor stood naked with her head flung back, calling to all in her vicinity to witness her next antic. A giant slave, almost seven feet tall, stood in front of her. There were shackles around his ankles; he carried a tray with a beaker of wine and goblets; he wore only a brief white loincloth. His features were classically Greek, his skin a deep, glistening bronze color, his manner subservient.
Julia Minor knelt in front of him. Her hands pulled the loincloth away. The Greek’s phallus twanged like a spear as it was released. She grasped it with both hands. The slave was fantastically well endowed. Her jaws stretched wide to accommodate him.
“A slave!” Ovid exclaimed. “There’ll be hell to pay if her husband or grandfather hears about this!”
“Her husband?”
“Yes. This estate belongs to him. He’s away on business at the moment. Still, even his wrath isn’t to be feared as much as that of Augustus. He didn’t hesitate to exile her mother and he won’t stop at punishing her.”
Ovid’s prediction was accurate—perhaps even more so than he realized. I found that out later in the evening, after I’d once again accepted his hospitality. We’d gone to his house, had a snack, and then he’d offered to put me up for the night. I was shown to the same room I’d had on my first visit, and shortly after I entered, the two slaves, Wallatzius and Echo, had put in an appearance.
They didn’t remember me, which was natural enough. Evidently considerable time had passed since our last meeting. They looked older, perhaps a little meeker, but otherwise unchanged.
“I trust everything is satisfactory, sir,” Wallatzius remarked after the two of them had puttered around a few minutes. “Our master prides himself—as do we—on our southern hospitality.”
“Southern hospitality,” Echo repeated.
“Southern hospitality?” I queried.
“Yes sir. This villa is in the southern part of Rome and hospitality is part of the tradition of the region.”
“Tradition of the region,” Echo rondelayed.
I assured them that everything was fine and watched them bow out. When they were gone I activated my wrist radio.
“EX-GOVERNOR GEORGE WALLACE TODAY WARNED NORTHERN CIVIL RIGHTS ACTIVISTS THAT THEY INFILTRATE ALABAMA AT THEIR OWN RISK. HIS WIFE, THE CURRENT ALABAMA GOVERNOR, ISSUED A STATEMENT TO THE EFFECT THAT OUT-OF-STATE AGITATORS WOULD BE DEALT WITH HARSHLY.”
The voice ceased as I fiddled with the dials. It took a little while, but finally I’d established contact with Tibet, circa 1967. Dudley Nightshade had been waiting for my call.
“Steve! You’re alive!” he exclaimed when he heard my voice.
“Barely. What happened?”
“Just as Papa Baapuh was trying to move you up, the machine shorted out. Some kind of break in the wiring. We were afraid it might have affected the force field and electrocuted you.”
“Well, it didn’t. But I guess I haven’t progressed much either. I’m still in Rome and from what I can gather, not too many years have passed.”
“You’re still in Rome? That’s a coincidence.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the way this thing works, as far as I’ve been able to learn from Papa Baapuh, there’s no telling what place you’re going to land at after each movement. You see, the world is round and it revolves and—”
“Are you sure?” I asked sarcastically. “I’ve been hearing rumors that it may really be flat—that the sky is really a giant lid covering it, a sort of dome with holes in it for the light to shine through—and that we only think those holes are stars.”
“Steve, I’m not a well man and I don’t have time for nonsense. I’m only trying to tell you that because the world revolves and we don’t have absolute control over the time machine, there’s no way of knowing what part of the world you’re going to land on. That’s even harder to determine than what time period you arrive at. So, considering the short-circuit and all, it is remarkable that you’re back in Rome. Incidentally, I dug up some information about the Emperor Augustus and the others you asked me about. Are you still interested?”