Only the Grand Sire had rights to that flesh. Behind this gilded door was a courtyard of flesh: a harem of his offspring which he had begun to cultivate since he took the throne at age 13. With her death, Tacitavus was nothing more than in the way. Or perhaps an idle afternoon amongst the shepherds, commanding his finest centurions to pleasure themselves among the young boys who tended the beasts and the mute, dumb sheep whose wet and gaping vaginas winked so teasingly at groin’s height? With her death, Tacitavus was nothing more than in the way. It was not enough to suckle her flesh, her sweet dew dripping out of her hole and into his mouth while his father probed his anus with is finger, his hot cock-flesh pressed against him, preparing to stretch wide his hole and bury deep and hard inside him.
