Gore Vidal’s Caligula Read Free Page B

passion, arousing each other with kisses and bites.
    Slowly, Caligula drew his erection up his sister’s body, squeezing her large breasts together to make a tight tunnel for it. Fascinated, Drusilla lay back against the pillows, watching his thick cock move up and down between her breasts, coming closer and closer to her face. Reaching down, she lightly grasped his balls, tickling them, rubbing between the scrotum and the anus, while her head bent and her tongue came out to flick at the tip of his cock as he brought it up to her face, still keeping the shaft between her breasts, and working his fingers around her stone-hard nipples.
    “Gaius . . . ahhhhhh . . . Gaius,” she breathed. So many years. They had been making love for so many years, she and her younger brother, ever since he was old enough to keep an erection. He aroused her as nobody else could. It was as though Caligula were Drusilla herself. He knew every nerve ending of her body as well as she did, as well as she knew his . . . they melted into each other.
    Now he turned her over on her belly, and drew her up to her knees. Kneeling behind her, burying his face in her buttocks, he licked and sucked at her anus and her clitoris, while his fingers teased her breasts. When her moans and gasping cries told him she was ready, he slid his penis slowly into her, letting her savor every inch of its hardness.
    “You are bigger . . .” Drusilla panted.
    Caligula thrust into her again . . . and then again.
    “Better?” he demanded, his hips moving in a strong rhythm. The rattle in her throat told him she was about to mount to her climax, so he withdrew partway and held still. “Better?” he demanded once again.
    “Ohhhhhh . . . Yes! YES!” she gasped, her hips pursuing his cock, seeking to impale herself as deeply as possible. “Don’t stop, Gaius . . . in the name of all the gods, don’t stop . . .”
    The sudden blast of a trumpet shattered the silence. Alarmed, Drusilla fell forward onto the bed, leaving Caligula on his knees. Both turned toward the door, through which they could now hear the clanking sound of armed men marching. The trumpet sounded again, unmistakably military.
    “What’s that?” asked Drusilla, terrified.
    Caligula lifted one hand to silence her. His eyes narrowed as he concentrated on the sound. “Commander of the guard,” he decided.
    “Is he coming here?” Pushing the bed curtains aside, Drusilla swung her legs to the marble floor and reached for her linen robe. Swiftly, silently, she gathered up her gold hairpins and her sandals and looked for a place to hide. Caligula pointed to the door, and she ran to place herself beside it, so she would be hidden by it when it opened.
    Caligula had slipped on a robe of gauzy silk, trimmed in gold thread, and armed himself with a Scythian dagger. As Drusilla placed the last hairpin, catching up her tumbled locks in a matron’s demure style, a gentle knock sounded at the door.
    “Prince Caligula,” the slave’s voice said. “May it please Your Highness to receive Macro, the captain of the Imperial Guard?”
    Darting a warning look at Drusilla, Caligula stood up straight. “Come in,” he called, and unlatched the iron door-pin.
    The heavy wooden door swung open, and Naevius Sartorius Macro marched in, his helmet held under his arm in deference to the Emperor’s adopted grandson. Macro was a swarthy man, not much taller than Caligula himself, short for a Praetorian guard, but there was so much strength in his chest, shoulders and neck that one forgot the shortness of his legs. His breastplate was polished to a dazzling shine, and his leather greaves were oiled to suppleness. Raising his right arm in the Roman salute, palm downward, he then clenched his fist to his chest in homage.
    Nodding, Caligula put down the Scythian dagger. Insofar as he trusted any man, he trusted Macro. Besides, he had to display that trust—he needed Macro.
    The captain of the guard looked around him