Cleopatra - the Night She Blew 100 Men

Two things inspired this story; the discovery that lipstick, in ancient Egypt, was worn as a sign that its wearer loved giving head; and the supposedly ancient legend that Cleopatra once blew one hundred Romans in one night.  I say supposedly, because the oldest verifiable reference I can find is an Adam & The Ants song from 1978 or so: “Cleopatra did a hundred Roman centurions for afterdinner mints.  She was a wide-mouthed girl.”  So I don’t know if either tale is true.  But I certainly hope so.

Even from the outer chamber, I could hear her anger and, believe me, Her Majesty’s rage was not something you wanted to witness first hand.  Still I had been summoned and, ducking past the eunuch who stood in the doorway, his face betraying his nervousness despite his attempts to maintain his usual passivity, I entered.

The Queen sat at a table, her dark eyes fiery, her mouth a tight slit across her beautiful face.  I stood silently, even after her hand swept some documents to the floor, waiting until her glance fell upon me.

“You took your time.”

I apologized, although I had no idea whether it would do me any good.  But she simply shrugged.  “I suppose you’ve heard?  I suppose everybody has heard by now.”

I nodded.  Gossip moved quickly around the royal court, and it moved even quicker when Κλεοπάτρα Φιλοπάτωρ, Cleopatra VII Philopator, was its topic.  “They say...”

“They say,” she interrupted, “that I sucked off fifty Roman noblemen in one night.”  She paused.  “But they don’t say that I sucked each of them in such a different fashion that every single one of them so envied the others that, had I only had a mind to do so, I could have sucked them all off again before the night was through.  And still had them begging for more.”

I smiled, I could not help myself. The first question any girl was asked when she was first signed into service here was, how much did she enjoy giving head?  And the world would know her answer at a glance.  The girls who loved it were the ones who painted their lips.  The girls with no taste for it walked the corridors unadorned.  

Κλεοπάτρα’s lips were always painted.

So were mine, for that matter, and I confess to these pages that when I first heard the gossip, my pussy moistened at the very thought of my Queen’s accomplishment.  Fifty men!  And Roman men, too!  Even the common soldiers who guarded the emissaries and diplomats who were constantly swanning around the court were out of reach to a mere serving girl like myself, no matter how high in Κλεοπάτρα favor I had risen... and I had risen high, I understood that, for who else had she called for in her moment of fury?

Not Berenice, with her fat legs and sagging breasts.  Not Octavia, the Roman wench who was a gift from some admirer or other.  Not even Arsinoe, her sister.  No, she had called me, and her smile as I stood a few feet to her side warmed me as much as that knowledge.

Her lips were deep red.  Mine, paler, less full, less... what was the expression?  Voluptuous.  That is something else the Romans gave given us, a range of words that taste so delicious that you want to use them all the time.  She was looking at them now.  

“How many men have you taken into your mouth?”

I blushed and paused, although I had no need to count.  “Seventeen,” I said softly.  “But not in one night.”  

“Half an hour’s work,” Κλεοπάτρα smiled back at me.  “Forty minutes if you find one that is especially pleasurable.”  She rose and crossed the room to the balcony, stepping into the sunlight and gazing down into the courtyard.  I followed her uncertainly, but she grasped my arm as I came in reach and, pulling me to her side, inclined her head towards the river.  “The palace will be busy tonight,” she said.  “At any moment I expect to see the sails of a great ship making its way toward us.  A trade delegation.  An important trade delegation.”  And she emphasized the words.  “I would like them to discover that I am not the only woman in Egypt who the gossips can call ‘the great swallower’” - and a sidelong glance from those lovely dark eyes shocked me as much as her words.  Was there nothing that had been said about her that had not made its way back to her hearing?

“I am yours to command, Your Majesty,” I said mechanically, and her eyes flashed for a moment.

“I am not speaking to you now as a hand maiden,” she said slowly.  “I am speaking to you as a beautiful woman, one who has excited glances from many more visitors than you might ever imagine.  Including many of those who will be with us this evening.”

My surprise must have registered on my face, for she laughed aloud. “Of course you were never told of this.  The affairs of state are known only to those who need know them.  But you, my sweet, silly, girl, are more of a bargaining chip than you realize.  And if, in making that bargain, you can have some enjoyment for yourself, well all the better.

“Last month, it is said, I sucked off fifty Romans in one night, and no doubt history will recall that as much as any of my other achievements.  Tonight, with your assistance, I intend to see that total doubled.”  And drawing me closer, she put her lips to my ears and, with a giggle that I had never before heard her issue, she told me her plan.

The evening started raucously and grew wilder.  The Romans  may have enjoyed positions of power and respect back home, and conveyed themselves with fitting dignity while they discussed the trade and affairs of state that had brought them to our land.  But the drink flowed freely tonight, and the food was so fine that even their jaundiced eyes bulged with surprise and delight.  

They bulged, too, at the sight of their hostess, Κλεοπάτρα, enthroned and glittering with the most  precious jewels that could be imagined.  But only jewels.  She was naked, and one hundred pairs of Roman eyes stared across the room at her, drinking in the breasts that were perfect in size, shape and symmetry; at the torso that was tight and lean despite childbirth; at the hips that seemed to sway invitingly even when she sat perfectly still...  and they craned to see more, too, but Κλεοπάτρα was not on the menu tonight.  Not yet, anyway.

One hundred men, seated in rows, ten to one side of a table that faced towards the Queen in a rough semi-circle.  And I entered, unseen, from one side of the room, my eyes drinking in the scene before me.

The men varied in age.  Some were old, as Κλεοπάτρα had warned me, and she laughed as they did so, because she said they’d be quick.  Others were young, still wet behind the ears, learning their trade from the elders who sponsored them.  And they, too, would be quick, for the most part, teenaged hard-ons that had barely been touched by any hand but their owners, and had almost certainly never been kissed.  

It was the ones in the middle that I needed to work on, the ones with experience of all I could offer; the ones to whom I needed to prove I was best.  And when I asked how I did that, with just the knowledge that I had, Κλεοπάτρα placed her hands on my shoulder, then drew me close for a kiss.  “You will know.  And they will let you know.”

I knew.

I slipped beneath the first table, my knees cold on the floor despite the soft matting beneath them.  The view was surreal.  So many legs, and I knelt before the first pair, trying to recall the features of the man who they belonged to.  Dark, I thought; dark hair and dark eyes.  His toga was crimson, denoting his rank... and I raised it, unsure if he knew I was there.  

His cock hung soft and for a moment I hesitated, before reaching gently for it and caressing it.  I felt it twitch as its owner shifted in his chair, and for a moment I thought he was going to stand and protest.  But no, he simply edged forward on his seat and I tugged at the thick flesh, watching as the skin only reluctantly pulled back from the head.  I closed my eyes and engulfed him.

He was hard in an instant, but not so huge that my mouth felt at all strained or stretched.  I held him still for one moment, drinking in a flavor that - yes!  I knew it!  Romans do taste better than the local boys; sweeter yet saltier, as though the meat and wine that is their customary food permeates their flesh and becomes a part of it; not like the bitterness of the local, spice-filled diet. 

I held him with one hand and removed him from my mouth, licking the length of a cock that seemed to grow ever longer from the wet of my saliva, and my other hand cupped his balls with soft squeezes; then followed my eyes to the legs alongside him, whose own owner had obviously been told what was happening.  For one was pressing against my arm, insistent and excited and when I reached between them, a hard cock already awaited me.  

I began to stroke it, as I sucked on his neighbor, and only released my grip when I felt the first twitching warning that my mouth was about to be flooded.  Then both hands wrapped around that first delicious cock, milking it dry into my waiting mouth and swallowing so hungrily that I barely got a taste.  Next time.  I would go slower next time... and next time was now, for as I slipped easily from one cock to the waiting other, it was barely a minute and it was pumping thick and creamy, and I tasted the soul of the Eternal City.  Tasted it and wanted more.

I moved along, slipping past two legs then crouching between two more, unfolded the cocks on either side and all three were stiff as the last.  I folded my fists around the two on either side of me, then licked my tongue up the central erection, closing my lips round the helmet.  Above me, I heard somebody groan.

Have you ever had three cocks in front of you?  One in each hand, one in your mouth?  There is no sensation like it.  Some girls reckon that a cock’s a cock, and that apart from size and sometimes smell, there’s nothing to choose between them.  Wrong.  Each one felt very different… the heat, the texture, its responses to my touch.  And each one tasted different as well… this one’s a little sour, this one’s a little bland – and this one’s just right.  

My head darted back and forth, from one to the next to the next and then back, and every ridge and vein on each dick felt so different that each one demanded something extra from my tongue, from my mouth, from my lips... and when I had made my way through the whole of the first table, and rose to walk to the second, now it was my body that every eye was locked onto, the Queen’s as well as the guests whom I’d serviced, and those whose turn was yet to come.  

Some I admit I did not take a fancy to.  Others I could have suckled all night.  And others still... other still, Κλεοπάτρα told me when we spoke the next day, had been so exhausted by my ministrations that she barely raised a twitch out of them as each man rose to stand before her throne and, having spoken the few words that courtesy insisted every visitor to the royal court should utter, then received the gift of the Queen in return.

How many cocks did I suck that night?  Ninety-eight… ninety-nine if you count the guy who came as soon as my mouth closed over him.  One hundred, if you count the guy I returned to because his prick felt better than all of them.  And how much Roman cum did I swallow?  Probably not as much as I could have, but more than enough to please my guests.  And how good did I feel afterwards?  Like a Queen.

A Queen who received me the next day with smiles, and treated me as though I too were Royalty,; who praised me with words, with jewels and high rank.  But the greatest gift of all was the one that she handed me just as I was preparing to leave the room.  An earthenware pot whose lid she removed... to reveal lip paint as dark and as lustrous as her own.

“We’ll have to do that again,” Κλεοπάτρα laughed as I thanked her for the gifts.  “But next time, I think I’ll be the one who goes under the tables.  I’d hate history to remember me for only sucking off ninety.”