Roller suitcase rattles over Fiumicino’s tiles. Red-eye from Athens, 12-hour layover in Rome. Anonymity hits hard—no one knows me here. Check into the Hilton Garden Inn near Termini. Magnetic keycard beeps green. Elevator whirs up, empty except for my reflection. Floor 5, room 512. Unzip bag, city skyline twinkles beyond the window, distant runway lights pulsing. But palace boredom waits at home. Claude’s snoring in my mind. I need Suburra’s filth.
Blonde wig from secret pouch, black hair tucked away. Tight red dress hugs curves, no panties. Heels click corridors, hushed voices behind doors. Taxi outside, 20 euros to Suburra alleys. Neon buzzes, piss stench mixes with cheap perfume. Dive into Lupanar bar, ninth hour vibe. Actor guy at counter—Mnester eyes, pretty boy post-Caligula glow. Buy him wine. He resists. I lean in, breath hot: ‘Obey, or emperor orders it.’ He smirks, caves. Hands on thighs under table.
The Layover
Back alley lupanar, her box reserved—Lysisca, little wolf. Hood off, naked on stained mattress. Clients line up, rough hands grab tits, cocks thrust. First one pins me, fat shaft rams pussy raw. Grunts echo. Cum drips thighs. Next, actor bends me doggy, balls slap ass. I demand more, insatiable. Prostitute rival bets: who takes most asses? Twenty-five by dawn. I win, vulva throbbing, stretched wide. Slaves, freedmen, senators’ sons—fucked them all. Silius lookalike last, beautiful Roman, promises throne in whispers. Orgasm crashes, juices flood.
Sweat-soaked, repue, I stagger out last, burning ache between legs. Taxi back, pre-dawn haze. Keycard swipe, room door clicks. Shower scalds cum off skin, mirror shows smeared makeup, bite marks. Pack fast, suitcase zips. Elevator down, lobby ghosts. Coffee gulp, shuttle to airport. Boarding pass scans. Seat 14A, engines roar. Suburra fades below—perfect parenthesis, no strings. Next stop, empire awaits. But tonight’s tally burns eternal.