The Roman sun was a merciless god, beating down on the cypress-lined driveway of the Villa Benedetti with a heat that shimmered above the ancient flagstones. Even after a decade of fieldwork in deserts that made Italy's summer feel like a mild spring, Sahara Quinn felt a bead of sweat trace a slow, deliberate path from the base of her neck down between her full breasts. The sensation made her acutely aware of the golden sun disks permanently affixed there—relics of her trial in the lost Temple of Ishtar that had changed her life forever. The disks kept her nipples in a constant state of arousal, and despite the thin pads she wore to conceal their obvious state, the heat and moisture made her feel as if she were on display for all to see. She paused, ostensibly to admire a particularly fine marble bust of Augustus near the entrance, but really to gather herself and adjust her blouse. Private consultations were a necessary evil, a way to fund the less glamorous, grant-starved research that truly fueled her passion. They were also, invariably, a performance.

Marco Benedetti met her at the villa's massive oak doors, his smile as polished as the marble floors within. He was a man sculpted by generational wealth and tailored suits, somewhere in his forties, with the easy confidence of someone who had never been told 'no'. His eyes, the color of dark espresso, did a swift, appreciative inventory of her appearance—from the practical but form-fitting khaki trousers to the simple linen blouse she'd deliberately left one button lower than strictly professional. She caught his gaze lingering on the subtle curves beneath the fabric and felt the familiar warmth spread through her chest, the sun disks seeming to pulse with heat.

"Dr. Quinn," he said, his voice a smooth baritone that matched his surroundings. "Welcome. I trust your journey from Rome was pleasant?"

"As pleasant as a two-hour crawl on the Autostrada can be," Sahara replied, her tone dry. She shook his offered hand, her grip firm, her gaze direct, trying to ignore the way the movement made her blouse shift against her sensitized skin. "Though I have to say, your directions were impeccable. Not everyone can find this place without getting lost in the hills."

"The pleasure is all mine. And please, call me Marco." He gestured for her to enter. "I am the one who should be thanking you. Your reputation precedes you. To have the archaeologist who uncovered the Ishtar Temple rituals examine my humble collection is an honor."

The mention of Ishtar sent a jolt through her, and she felt her nipples tighten further against the pads. "Humble?" Sahara raised an eyebrow as they stepped into the atrium, her eyes taking in the priceless frescoes and marble statuary. "If this is humble, I'd hate to see what you consider ostentatious."

Marco laughed, a rich sound that echoed off the vaulted ceiling. "Touché. I suppose when you've grown up surrounded by all this, you forget how it must look to others. My family has been collecting for generations. Sometimes I think the artifacts own us more than we own them."

"That's a surprisingly philosophical perspective for a collector," Sahara said, genuinely intrigued. The cool air of the villa provided some relief, but she could still feel moisture gathering beneath the pads, making her hyperaware of every sensation. "Most people in your position see themselves as saviors of history."

"And you don't approve of private collectors?"

"I think history belongs to humanity, not to the highest bidder," she said bluntly. "But I also understand that sometimes private collections are the only thing standing between priceless artifacts and the black market. It's... complicated."

"Spoken like a true academic," Marco said, his tone amused rather than offended. "Always seeing the nuances. Tell me, Dr. Quinn, what drew you to archaeology? And specifically to the more... provocative aspects of ancient culture?"

Sahara felt the familiar tightness in her chest that always came with this question, compounded by the constant awareness of her altered body. "You mean why does a respectable woman study ancient pornography?"

"I wouldn't have put it quite so crudely."

"But that's what you're thinking." She stopped walking and turned to face him fully, the movement causing another trickle of sweat to slide down her chest. "Look, Marco, let's get something straight. I study the erotic aspects of ancient cultures because they're integral to understanding those societies. Sex isn't separate from religion, politics, or daily life—it's woven through all of it. The Romans understood that. They didn't compartmentalize sexuality the way we do."

"And that's what led you to the Ishtar Temple?"

"Among other things." Her voice took on a harder edge, even as she felt the sun disks seem to warm against her skin. "My mother was an archaeologist too. She disappeared when I was twelve, pursuing research into fertility cults. I suppose you could say I'm following in her footsteps."

Marco's expression softened. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"It's not exactly something I advertise." Sahara resumed walking, her heels clicking on the marble, each step a reminder of how the trial had changed her, how every movement now carried an undercurrent of sensation. "But it's why I do what I do. There are mysteries out there, connections between ancient practices and modern understanding that we're only beginning to grasp."

He led her through the villa, a masterpiece of restored Roman architecture, its atriums and peristyles filled with priceless antiquities. "You know," Marco said as they walked, "I've read your dissertation. All of it, not just the sensational excerpts that made it into the tabloids."

"I'm impressed. Most people just skim the juicy parts."

"The theoretical framework was brilliant. Your argument about the integration of sexual and spiritual practices in Mesopotamian culture was groundbreaking. It's a shame the media focused on the more... explicit discoveries."

Sahara shot him a sideways glance, feeling another bead of sweat trace its way down her neck. "You're not what I expected, Marco."

"What did you expect?"

"Another rich dilettante playing with antiquities he doesn't understand. Someone who collected ancient erotica for the thrill rather than the scholarship."

"And now?"

"Now I'm wondering if you might actually be worth talking to."

They reached the glass doors that led to the garden. "The villa itself is a reconstruction," he explained, sliding them open. "But the garden... the garden is my passion. We've used historical texts to replicate it as authentically as possible. The plants, the layout, even the statuary."

The blast of heat that hit them as they stepped outside made Sahara gasp softly. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and sun-baked earth, and she immediately felt fresh moisture gathering on her skin. The pads beneath her blouse were already damp, and she knew that in this heat, they would soon be useless. Every step deeper into the garden made her more aware of the golden disks, of how they caught and held the heat, of how exposed she felt despite being fully clothed.

"This is incredible," Sahara breathed, her professional excitement overriding her physical discomfort. "You've actually recreated a Roman villa garden. The plant species, the layout—this is museum quality."

"Better than museum quality, I hope. Museums are static. This is a living recreation. The herbs are the same varieties the Romans would have grown. The fruit trees, the flowers—everything is historically accurate."

"Even the statuary?"

"Especially the statuary." His voice took on a note of pride mixed with something else—anticipation? "There's one piece in particular I want you to see. It's why I called you."

He led her deeper into the garden, to a grotto shaded by olive trees. The relative coolness was a relief, but Sahara could feel sweat continuing to gather and slide down her chest, making the sun disks slick against her skin. And there it was.

Priapus.

Carved from a single block of weathered travertine, the statue was rustic, almost crude, yet possessed a raw, undeniable power. The god of fertility stood leaning on his sickle, a basket of fruit at his feet, his most famous attribute on full, unapologetic display. The phallus was enormous, exaggerated, a symbol of procreative force so potent it bordered on the comical. But Sahara knew it was also a threat—a warning to thieves and a ward against the evil eye.

"Jesus," she whispered, then caught herself. "Sorry. Professional hazard."

Marco chuckled. "I had much the same reaction when I first saw him. He's quite... imposing."

"Imposing is one word for it," Sahara said, her eyes still fixed on the statue's most prominent feature. "Though I have to say, the ancient Romans certainly didn't suffer from performance anxiety. This guy could put a porn star to shame." She tilted her head, studying the exaggerated proportions with academic detachment mixed with wry amusement. "You know, there's actually a whole scholarly debate about whether these representations were meant to be realistic or symbolic. Looking at this specimen, I'm voting firmly for symbolic. Otherwise, Roman women would have needed a lot more than wine to get through the evening."

Marco's laugh was genuine this time. "I see your reputation for... colorful commentary is well-deserved."

"Where did you find him?" Sahara asked, finally tearing her gaze away from the statue's anatomy, trying to focus on the professional aspects while fighting the growing awareness of her body's response to both the heat and the statue's raw sexuality.

"I acquired him from a recent, not-entirely-official excavation near Pompeii," Marco explained, his voice dropping to a more conspiratorial tone. "The provenance is... delicate. But the real mystery is the inscription."

Sahara knelt, her professional instincts taking over despite her physical discomfort. She pulled on latex gloves, the rubber sticking slightly to her damp hands, and ran them over the statue's base, her eyes scanning the carved letters. Another trickle of sweat slid down her chest, and she felt the pads shift slightly, no longer providing adequate coverage. "This isn't standard Latin," she murmured, her pulse quickening. The lettering was familiar, yet subtly different. The phrasing, the meter... it was poetry.

"Can you read it?" Marco asked, crouching beside her.

"It appears to be a fragment of the Carmina Priapea," she said, her mind racing even as she fought to ignore the way her blouse clung to her damp skin. "But the verse... I don't recognize it from any of the known collections. The meter is right, the vocabulary is consistent, but this specific poem..." She trailed off, her excitement building.

"Is that significant?"

"Significant?" Sahara looked up at him, her eyes bright despite her physical discomfort. "Marco, if this is authentic, it could be a major discovery. The Priapea is one of the most important collections of erotic poetry from the ancient world, but we only have fragments. Most scholars believe there were originally many more poems that have been lost."

"And you think this might be one of them?"

"I think this might be several of them. Look at the inscription—it's not just one poem. There are clear breaks here, and here. This could be an entire section we've never seen before."

Her examination was cut short by a sharp, condescending voice from behind them. "Still dabbling in the profane, Dr. Quinn?"

Sahara stiffened, then rose slowly, acutely aware of how the movement made her blouse pull against her sensitized skin. She turned to face Dr. Alessandro Torretti. He was everything she despised in her field: a pompous, self-important gatekeeper whose own work was derivative and dull, but who wielded his tenured position at the University of Rome like a club. He had been a vocal critic of her Ishtar research, dismissing it as sensationalist and lacking rigor.

"Alessandro," Marco said, his smile tightening slightly. "I wasn't aware you were joining us."

"I heard you had acquired a new piece, Marco," Torretti said, his eyes flicking dismissively over Sahara before lingering on her chest in a way that made her skin crawl. She could feel the dampness of her blouse, knew that the outline of the pads was probably visible, and fought the urge to cross her arms. "I thought I might offer a... more experienced opinion on its authenticity."

"Dr. Quinn's qualifications are impeccable," Marco said smoothly, though a flicker of amusement danced in his eyes.

Torretti scoffed. "Her qualifications are in generating headlines, not sound archaeology. Tell me, Dr. Quinn, have you concluded that this statue is a portal to another dimension, powered by orgasms?"

Sahara felt her temper flare, the heat making her feel even more exposed and vulnerable. "No, Dr. Torretti. I've concluded that it's a 2nd-century piece, likely from a private domestic shrine, and that the inscription is a previously undocumented Priapic epigram. The tooling on the base is consistent with Pompeiian workshops of the period, and the travertine shows weathering patterns that suggest it was exposed to the elements for a significant time before being buried."

"How convenient," Torretti sneered. "Another 'major discovery' for the media darling of archaeology."

"You know what, Alessandro?" Sahara stood, pulling off her gloves with deliberate slowness, feeling another rivulet of sweat slide down between her breasts. "I'm curious. When was the last time you made any discovery? Major or otherwise?"

"I don't need to sensationalize my work to⁠—"

"That's not what I asked. When did you last contribute anything new to our understanding of the ancient world? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you spend more time tearing down other people's work than doing any of your own."

Torretti's face flushed red. "How dare you⁠—"

"How dare I what? Point out that your last publication was a review article? That you haven't led a dig in over five years? That your idea of scholarship is sitting in your office in Rome, pontificating about work done by people who actually get their hands dirty?"

"Dr. Quinn," Marco interjected, though his tone suggested he was enjoying the confrontation. "Perhaps we should⁠—"

"No, let her continue," Torretti said, his voice tight with anger, his eyes still lingering on her chest in a way that made her feel sick. "I'm fascinated to hear more of her professional insights."

"My professional insight is that you're a dinosaur, Alessandro. You represent everything that's wrong with academic archaeology—the gatekeeping, the elitism, the assumption that anything involving sexuality must be somehow less scholarly. You're so busy protecting your precious reputation that you've forgotten what it means to actually discover something."

"And you think pornography is discovery?"

"I think understanding how ancient peoples expressed their sexuality, their fertility concerns, their religious practices through erotic imagery and literature is absolutely discovery. I think dismissing an entire aspect of human experience because it makes you uncomfortable is intellectual cowardice."

Torretti stepped closer, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper, his eyes fixed on the damp fabric of her blouse. "You think you're so clever, don't you? Playing up your sexuality to get attention, using your body to advance your career⁠—"

"Careful, Alessandro." Sahara's voice was deadly quiet, even as she felt completely exposed, the sun disks seeming to burn against her skin. "You're about to cross a line you can't uncross."

"What line? The line between serious scholarship and academic prostitution? I can see exactly what kind of woman you are, Dr. Quinn. The way you dress, the way you flaunt yourself⁠—"

The slap echoed through the garden like a gunshot. Torretti staggered back, his hand flying to his cheek, his eyes wide with shock.

"You bitch⁠—"

"That's enough," Marco said firmly, stepping between them. "Alessandro, I believe you have somewhere else to be."

Torretti looked between Sahara and Marco, his face a mask of rage and humiliation. "This isn't over," he said finally.

"Yes, it is," Sahara replied calmly, though she could feel her heart racing and sweat continuing to gather on her skin. "Because if you ever speak to me like that again, I'll file a formal complaint with the university. And unlike you, I have witnesses."

After Torretti stormed off, Marco turned to Sahara with a mixture of admiration and concern. "That was... impressive. But you've made an enemy."

"I made an enemy the day I published my dissertation. Alessandro's just too much of a coward to admit it." She flexed her fingers, wincing slightly, acutely aware of how the confrontation had left her feeling even more exposed and vulnerable. "God, I haven't slapped anyone since graduate school."

"Remind me never to insult your work."

"Just don't call it pornography and we'll be fine." She turned back to the statue, her professional composure returning even as she fought the awareness of her body's state. "Now, where were we?"

The rest of the afternoon was spent in detailed examination of the inscription. Sahara made rubbings, took photographs, and filled several pages of her notebook with observations, all while fighting the constant awareness of the sun disks and the way the heat made her feel perpetually on display. Marco proved to be a knowledgeable and engaged collaborator, asking intelligent questions and offering insights based on his extensive knowledge of his collection.

"I'll need to consult with my colleagues," she told him as the sun began to dip below the cypress trees, finally offering some relief from the oppressive heat. "A linguist and a specialist in transitional religious periods. If this discovery is as significant as I think it is, we'll need a full team to properly analyze and authenticate it."

"Of course," he said. "My resources are at your disposal." He paused, his hand resting lightly on her arm, his touch sending a jolt through her already sensitized skin. "And perhaps, once you've had a chance to process what you've found, you and I could discuss your findings over a private dinner?"

Sahara felt a familiar warmth spread through her, the golden sun disks seeming to pulse with renewed heat in response to her arousal. The constant state of arousal they maintained, combined with the day's heat and exposure, had left her feeling raw and electric.

"Perhaps," she said, her voice a low purr. "But first, I need to see what other secrets you're hiding."

His smile widened. "I was hoping you'd ask."

He led her not to the dining room, but to his private study—a room lined with climate-controlled glass cases filled with artifacts. The cool air was a blessed relief, and Sahara felt some of the tension leave her body. On a central pedestal, under a soft spotlight, lay a fragmentary manuscript.

"This was found with the statue," Marco said, his voice hushed. "I didn't mention it to Torretti. I wanted to show it to you alone."

Sahara's breath caught. The parchment was brittle, the ink faded, but the text was clear. It was more of the poems, dozens of them, many of which she had never seen before.

"Marco," she whispered, "this isn't just a lost verse. This is a significant new section of the Priapea. Do you understand what this means?"

"Tell me."

"It means we might be looking at the discovery of the century. These poems... they could change everything we know about Roman erotic literature, about the Priapic cult, about the transition from paganism to Christianity." She looked up at him, her eyes bright with excitement, the discomfort of the day forgotten in the face of this incredible find. "This is why I became an archaeologist."

As her eyes scanned the Latin text, she felt that electric thrill again, stronger this time, a current running directly from the ancient words to the core of her being, resonating with the golden disks that marked her as touched by ancient power. This manuscript, this statue... they were a key. A key to a mystery she was just beginning to understand. And she knew, with absolute certainty, that this garden of secrets was only the beginning of the path.

The sun had finally surrendered to the Roman hills, painting the villa's terraces in shades of amber and gold. Sahara stood in the guest bathroom Marco had directed her to, staring at her reflection in the antique mirror. The day's heat had taken its toll—her hair was slightly disheveled, and despite her best efforts, the outline of the nipple pads was still faintly visible through her damp blouse. She peeled them away with a grimace, the golden sun disks immediately responding to the freedom, her nipples hardening to prominent points that would be impossible to hide.

"Fuck," she muttered, then caught herself. She was in a villa worth millions, about to have dinner with a man who might hold the key to another significant archaeological discovery of her career. She allowed herself a wry smile. Not bad for a twenty-four-year-old, she thought. The Ishtar temple, the Byzantine relics, and now this—she was building quite the reputation. She needed to get her head in the game.

But as she splashed cool water on her face and neck, she couldn't shake the memory of Marco's appreciative gaze, or the way his hand had lingered on her arm. The manuscript in his study had set her mind racing with possibilities, but her body was responding to entirely different stimuli. The golden disks seemed to pulse with each heartbeat, a constant reminder of her transformation in Ishtar's temple, of the power that now flowed through her.

She thought of Layla and Elias, her beloved partners waiting back in their respective cities. Their relationship was unconventional but unshakeable—a loving triangle that allowed each of them the freedom to explore while always knowing they would return to each other. Layla would understand this attraction, might even encourage it. Elias, with his more traditional sensibilities, would struggle with jealousy but ultimately accept it as part of who she was. They trusted each other completely, and that trust extended to moments like this—when desire and opportunity aligned in ways that demanded exploration.

She made a decision. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a spare blouse—silk, in a deep emerald that complemented her eyes. It was more revealing than her usual fieldwork attire, the neckline designed to hint at rather than conceal. If Marco wanted to play games of attraction and intellect, she was more than capable of matching him.

When she emerged from the bathroom, Marco was waiting in the corridor, having changed into a crisp white shirt and dark trousers that emphasized his lean frame. His eyes widened slightly as he took in her transformation, his gaze lingering on the way the silk draped over her curves.

"Much better," she said, noting his reaction with satisfaction. "I hope you don't mind. The heat was rather... overwhelming."

"Not at all," he replied, his voice slightly rougher than before. "You look... stunning. Shall we?"

He led her to a private dining terrace overlooking the garden, where a table had been set for two. Candles flickered in the evening breeze, and the scent of jasmine drifted up from the darkened paths below. It was undeniably romantic, and Sahara felt a familiar warmth spreading between her legs.

"This is beautiful," she said, accepting the glass of wine he offered. "Do you always dine like this, or am I getting special treatment?"

"I rarely have guests who appreciate both the aesthetic and the historical significance of what they're seeing," Marco replied, settling into the chair across from her. "Most collectors are more interested in the monetary value than the cultural context."

"And most academics are more interested in the cultural context than the human element," Sahara countered, taking a sip of the wine. It was excellent—a Barolo that must have cost more than her monthly salary. "We're both guilty of reducing complex human experiences to our own narrow perspectives."

"Is that what you think you do? Reduce human experiences?"

Sahara considered the question, swirling the wine in her glass. "Sometimes. It's easy to get caught up in the theoretical framework and forget that these were real people with real desires, real fears, real pleasures. The Priapic cult wasn't just about fertility symbolism—it was about people trying to understand and control the most fundamental aspects of human existence."

"Sex and death."

"Sex and life," she corrected. "Death was the absence of both. The Romans understood that sexuality wasn't separate from spirituality or daily existence. It was woven through everything—their art, their religion, their politics, their humor."

Marco leaned forward, his eyes intent. "And you think that's what we've lost? That integration?"

"I think we've compartmentalized ourselves into dysfunction," Sahara said, warming to the subject. "Romans didn't just accept sexuality—they celebrated it in ways that would shock most people today. During the festival of Liberalia or the more famous Floralia, people paraded through the streets with garlands and sang bawdy songs, while actors performed erotic dances and sometimes even simulated sex acts on stage. Statues of Priapus, with their exaggerated features, weren't hidden away—they were the centerpiece of garden parties, and guests would make jokes or even play games involving his phallus. At some banquets, erotic riddles and performances were part of the entertainment. What we'd consider scandalous or explicit, they saw as joyful and essential to life."

"Is that why you study what you study? To reclaim that integration?"

The question hit closer to home than she expected. "Partly. But it's also personal." She took another sip of wine, feeling the alcohol warm her blood. "My mother's disappearance, my own experiences... I've learned that sexuality and spirituality aren't opposites. They're different expressions of the same fundamental force."

"Your own experiences?"

Sahara met his gaze directly, seeing the curiosity and desire there. "The Ishtar temple wasn't just an archaeological site for me, Marco. It was a transformation. The trials I underwent there... they changed me. Physically. Spiritually. Sexually."

She saw his eyes drop to her chest, where the outline of her hardened nipples was clearly visible through the silk. She made a decision—if they were going to explore this attraction, he deserved to understand what he was getting into.

"You're staring," she said, not accusingly but with amusement.

"I'm sorry, I⁠—"

"Don't apologize. But you should know what you're looking at." She leaned back slightly, the silk pulling taut across her breasts. "During my trials in the Ishtar temple, I underwent a transformation. Part of that involved having golden sun disks permanently affixed to my breasts—not just attached, but fused with my flesh through ancient ritual. They're slightly larger than my areola, positioned directly over my nipples."

Marco's eyes widened. "Permanently?"

"Forever," she confirmed, her voice dropping to a more intimate register. "They keep my nipples in a constant state of arousal, a perpetual reminder of what I experienced, what I learned about the connection between pleasure and power. They're not just decoration, Marco—they're a living symbol of my initiation into mysteries that most people can't even imagine."

"May I ask what that was?"

"That denying our nature is the greatest form of self-destruction. That pleasure, when approached with reverence and understanding, can be a pathway to transcendence." She leaned forward, matching his posture. "That the ancient mysteries weren't just intellectual puzzles—they were lived experiences."

The first course arrived—a delicate antipasto that neither of them paid much attention to. The conversation had taken on an electric quality, each exchange charged with subtext and possibility.

"You're not what I expected," Marco said, echoing her earlier words.

"What did you expect?"

"A brilliant but cold academic. Someone who studied sexuality from a safe, theoretical distance."

Sahara laughed, a rich sound that carried across the terrace. "Safe distance? Marco, I've had my nipples permanently altered by an ancient fertility goddess. I think that ship has sailed."

His sharp intake of breath was audible. "You're remarkably direct."

"Life's too short for games. Besides, you invited me here for more than just professional consultation, didn't you?"

"Yes," he admitted, his honesty matching hers. "From the moment I read your dissertation, I wanted to meet you. When I acquired the statue and the manuscript, it seemed like fate."

"Fate, or careful planning?"

"Does it matter?"

Sahara considered this, studying his face in the candlelight. He was handsome in a refined way, but there was something deeper there—an intelligence and intensity that appealed to her. "No," she said finally. "It doesn't."

The main course was equally ignored as their conversation deepened. Marco proved to be surprisingly well-read in areas beyond archaeology, and Sahara found herself genuinely enjoying his company. He was witty without being cruel, confident without being arrogant, and refreshingly honest about his desires.

"Tell me about the manuscript," she said as they shared a dessert of fresh figs and honey. "How did you really acquire it?"

Marco's expression grew more serious. "There's a network of collectors and dealers who specialize in... sensitive acquisitions. Items that might not survive the official channels, or that governments might claim for political rather than scholarly reasons."

"The black market."

"The gray market," he corrected. "We're not talking about looted artifacts or stolen treasures. These are items that fall through the cracks—estate sales, private collections, pieces that have been in families for generations without proper documentation."

"And you don't see the ethical problems with that?"

"I see the ethical problems with letting priceless artifacts disappear into private hands where they'll never be studied or shared. At least this way, they're preserved and made available to qualified researchers."

Sahara nodded slowly. It was a rationalization, but not an entirely unreasonable one. "And the statue and manuscript came from the same source?"

"A villa near Pompeii that's been in the same family since the 18th century. The current owner needed money, and the Italian government was... uninterested in purchasing the collection at fair market value."

"So you stepped in."

"I stepped in. And now, instead of these pieces disappearing into some bureaucratic warehouse, they're here, being studied by one of the world's leading experts in ancient sexuality."

The flattery was obvious, but Sahara found she didn't mind. The wine, the setting, and Marco's undivided attention were having their intended effect. She felt relaxed, aroused, and intellectually stimulated—a combination that was proving irresistible.

"You're very good at this," she said, finishing the last of her wine.

"At what?"

"Seduction. The setting, the wine, the intellectual conversation, the appeal to my professional ego. It's very well orchestrated."

Marco's smile was rueful. "Is it working?"

"That depends. What exactly are you hoping to achieve?"

"Honestly? I want to take you to bed. I want to explore the connection between intellectual and physical pleasure that you write about so eloquently. I want to understand what you experienced in that temple, what those disks mean to you."

His directness was refreshing, and Sahara felt a surge of desire that had nothing to do with the wine. "And if I said yes?"

"Then I'd show you that some modern men can appreciate the integration of sexuality and spirituality just as much as the ancients did."

Sahara stood, her decision made. "Then show me."

Marco rose as well, moving around the table to stand close to her. "Are you certain?"

"I'm certain that I want you," she said, her voice husky with desire. "I'm certain that this discovery has awakened something in me that needs expression. And I'm certain that you're not the kind of man who would disappoint a woman."

He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw. "No," he said softly. "I'm not."

The kiss was inevitable, a collision of desire and intellectual connection that left them both breathless. Sahara felt the familiar fire spreading through her body, the sun disks seeming to pulse with heat as Marco's hands found her waist, pulling her against him.

"Your room or mine?" she whispered against his lips.

"Mine," he said. "I want you in my bed, surrounded by my things, so I can remember this night every time I see them."

He led her through the villa's corridors, past priceless artifacts and ancient frescoes, to a master suite that was both luxurious and tasteful. The bed was enormous, draped in silk that matched the color of her blouse, and the walls were lined with carefully chosen pieces that spoke to both wealth and genuine appreciation for beauty.

"Second thoughts?" Marco asked, noting her pause.

"Just admiring the setting," Sahara replied. "You really do have excellent taste."

"In art or in women?"

"Both, apparently."

This time, when he kissed her, there was no hesitation. Sahara melted into his embrace, her body responding to his touch with an intensity that surprised her. The golden disks seemed to amplify every sensation, turning each caress into something electric and transformative.

Marco's hands were skilled and patient, exploring her body with the same careful attention he gave to his artifacts. When he discovered the sun disks, his intake of breath was sharp with wonder and desire.

"They're beautiful," he whispered, his fingers tracing their edges with reverent care. "And they're part of you now."

"Forever," Sahara confirmed, arching into his touch. "A reminder of what I learned, what I became."

"And what did you become?"

"Unashamed," she said, her hands working at the buttons of his shirt. "Unafraid. Uncompromising in my desires."

Marco's fingers deftly unbuttoned her emerald silk blouse, his eyes darkening with hunger as he peeled it away, revealing the golden sun disks fused to her breasts. The disks gleamed in the dim light, her nipples erect and throbbing beneath them, perpetually aroused. He traced their edges with his thumbs, sending jolts of pleasure through her body. "God, I want to slide my cock between these," he murmured, his voice thick with desire.

Sahara smiled confidently, her hands reaching for his belt. "Then do it. But first, I want to taste you." She tugged his trousers down, freeing his hard cock, thick and veined, already weeping pre-cum. Kneeling before him, she wrapped her lips around the head, sucking greedily, her tongue swirling around the shaft as she took him deeper, hollowing her cheeks and moaning around him. Marco groaned, his hands tangling in her hair, hips bucking slightly as she bobbed her head, pleasuring him with expert skill, loving the way his cock throbbed in her mouth.

He pulled her up gently, kissing her fiercely before laying her back on the bed. His mouth trailed down her body, nipping at her skin until he reached her skirt. He slid it off along with her panties, exposing her dripping pussy, slick and swollen with need. "So wet for me," he whispered, parting her thighs and diving in, his tongue lapping at her folds, circling her clit with firm strokes. Sahara arched, gasping, her fingers gripping the sheets as he sucked and licked, devouring her like a man starved, his fingers slipping inside to curl against her sensitive spots.

Rising up, Marco straddled her chest, his cock glistening from her mouth. He positioned himself between her breasts, pressing the golden sun disks together around his shaft. Sahara pushed her tits together tighter, encouraging him as he began to thrust, sliding his hard cock back and forth in the warm valley, the disks rubbing against his skin with each stroke. He groaned deeply, fucking her tits with increasing urgency, the sight of his cock gliding between the ancient symbols driving him wild, pre-cum slicking the golden surfaces.

"Fuck me now," she demanded breathlessly, her voice commanding yet laced with desire. "I need your cock inside me."

Marco positioned himself between her legs, his cock nudging her entrance. He thrust in slowly at first, filling her completely, her dripping pussy clenching around him as he began to pump, hard and deep. Sahara wrapped her legs around his waist, meeting his thrusts, her mind drifting lovingly to Elias—imagining his strong body over hers, his cock driving into her with the same passion, the thought amplifying her pleasure, blending memories with the present ecstasy.

She pushed him onto his back, straddling him, her hands on his chest as she rode his cock, grinding down, the sun disks bouncing with each movement. "You feel so good," she purred, telling him exactly what she liked, her hips rolling to take him deeper. She loved pleasuring him this way, watching his face contort in bliss as she controlled the rhythm, her dripping pussy sliding up and down his shaft.

"Where do you want to cum?" she asked, her voice husky, leaning forward so the disks dangled temptingly.

"On the disks," he growled, his hands gripping her hips.

She dismounted, stroking his cock firmly until he erupted, hosing thick ropes of cum across the golden sun disks, coating her breasts in his release. Sahara moaned, rubbing it into her skin, the warmth of it sending aftershocks through her body.

They collapsed together, sweat-slicked and satisfied, the moon high above the villa's gardens. Sahara lay in Marco's arms, her head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. "That was..." Marco began, then trailed off.

"Transcendent?" Sahara suggested, her voice lazy with satisfaction.

"I was going to say incredible, but transcendent works too."

She lifted her head to look at him, noting the genuine wonder in his expression. "You sound surprised."

"I am. I've had my share of experiences, but nothing like that. It was like you were channeling something ancient, something powerful."

"I was," Sahara said simply. "That's what the disks do. They connect me to the power I found in Ishtar's temple, to the understanding that sexuality and spirituality are one force, not two."

Marco's hand traced lazy patterns on her back. "Is that what you think the Priapic cult was about? That same connection?"

"I think it was about recognizing that the force that creates life is sacred, whether you call it Priapus or Ishtar or simply desire. The Romans understood that denying that force was denying a fundamental part of human nature."

"And the manuscript? What do you think it will tell us?"

Sahara smiled, her mind already racing with possibilities. "I think it's going to change everything we know about the transition from paganism to Christianity. I think it's going to show us that the old ways didn't just disappear—they went underground, preserved by people who understood their true value."

"People like the Custodes Priapei?"

She looked at him sharply. "What do you know about the Custodes?"

"Only rumors. Whispers in collector circles about a secret society dedicated to preserving Priapic traditions. Some say they still exist, that they're the ones who ensure certain artifacts find their way to the right hands."

"And you think they're involved in this?"

"I think," Marco said, pulling her closer, "that we're about to find out."

As they drifted toward sleep, Sahara's mind was already working on the next steps. She would need to contact Layla and Elias, would need to begin the careful work of translation and analysis. But for now, she was content to lie in Marco's arms, her body still humming with satisfaction, her mind alive with possibilities.

The manuscript in his study held secrets that could reshape their understanding of the ancient world. And she was going to be the one to unlock them.

Sahara woke to the sound of birds singing in the villa's gardens and the warm weight of Marco's arm across her waist. The morning light filtered through silk curtains, casting everything in a golden glow that reminded her of the sun disks adorning her breasts. She lay still for a moment, savoring the contentment that came from a night well spent, before the urgency of her discovery reasserted itself.

"Good morning," Marco murmured against her neck, his breath warm on her skin.

"Good morning," she replied, turning in his arms to face him. "Sleep well?"

"Better than I have in months." His hand traced lazy patterns on her bare shoulder. "You're remarkable, you know that?"

"So you keep telling me." She smiled, then grew more serious. "Marco, I need to make some calls this morning. The manuscript—I can't analyze it properly on my own. I need my team."

"Of course. Whatever you need."

"I'll need to bring them here, if that's acceptable. Dr. Layla Hassan—she's a linguist specializing in ancient languages. And Professor Elias Kane, an expert in transitional religious periods. They're... they're my partners."

Marco raised an eyebrow. "Partners in research?"

"Partners in everything," Sahara said simply. "It's complicated, but it works for us."

"I see." His expression was thoughtful rather than judgmental. "And they'll be comfortable with... this?" He gestured between them.

"They'll understand. We don't own each other, Marco. We love each other, but we're not possessive. What happened between us last night was beautiful, and they'll see it that way too."

"You're very sure of that."

"I'm sure of them," Sahara said, leaning forward to kiss him softly. "Now, I need to wake up some very important people."

An hour later, Sahara sat in Marco's study, her laptop open and her phone pressed to her ear. She'd already spoken to Layla, who had been characteristically direct in her response.

"Another discovery, darling? You're becoming quite the sensation." Layla's voice had carried amusement and affection in equal measure. "And you've already seduced the collector, I assume?"

"How did you⁠—"

"I can hear it in your voice. That particular satisfaction that comes from a night well spent. Good for you. Is he worth the trouble?"

"I think so. He's intelligent, well-read, and surprisingly ethical for a private collector. Plus, he has excellent taste in wine."

"High praise indeed. I'll be on the next flight to Rome."

The call with Elias had been more complicated. His voice had been thick with sleep when he answered, and she could picture him in their Oxford apartment, hair disheveled, reaching for his glasses.

"Sahara? Do you know what time it is?"

"Time for you to get excited about potentially the most significant Priapic discovery in decades," she'd replied, launching into a description of the manuscript and statue.

"And this collector—Benedetti—he's legitimate?"

"As legitimate as any private collector can be. Elias, the manuscript contains poems I've never seen before. Entire sections of the Priapea that could change our understanding of the transition from paganism to Christianity."

"I'll need to see high-resolution photographs before I can⁠—"

"You'll need to see the originals. I'm asking you to come to Rome."

There had been a pause, and she'd known he was processing not just the professional implications but the personal ones. "You're staying at his villa."

"I am."

"Sahara..."

"Elias, you know who I am. You know what we have together. This doesn't change that."

"I know. It's just... difficult sometimes."

"I love you," she'd said simply. "Both of you. That doesn't change because I find someone else attractive or because I act on that attraction. You know this."

"I know. I'll be there tomorrow evening."

Now, as she waited for Marco to return with coffee, Sahara found herself thinking about the complex dynamics that would soon converge in this villa. Layla would arrive first, probably charming Marco within minutes and making herself completely at home. Elias would be more reserved, his natural jealousy warring with his intellectual excitement about the discovery. And through it all, they would need to maintain their focus on the work.

"Deep thoughts?" Marco asked, entering with a tray bearing coffee and pastries.

"Just thinking about how interesting the next few days are going to be," Sahara replied, accepting a cup gratefully. "You're about to meet two of the most brilliant people I know, and they're going to turn your quiet villa into a research center."

"I'm looking forward to it. It's been too long since these walls heard serious scholarly debate."

"Oh, you'll get that. Elias and I can argue about Byzantine religious practices for hours. And Layla has opinions about everything."

"And they're both your lovers."

It wasn't a question, and Sahara appreciated his directness. "Yes. We've been together for almost two years now. It started as a professional collaboration and evolved into something deeper."

"How does it work? Practically, I mean."

Sahara considered how to explain their relationship to someone outside it. "We're committed to each other, but not exclusive. When we're together, we're together completely. When we're apart, we're free to explore other connections."

"And jealousy?"

"Exists, but we work through it. Elias struggles with it more than Layla, but he's learning. The key is communication and trust."

Marco nodded slowly. "And last night? How do I fit into that dynamic?"

"However you want to," Sahara said honestly. "This could be a one-time thing, or it could be the beginning of something more. That's up to you."

"And if I wanted more?"

"Then we'd figure it out as we go. But Marco, you should know—my heart belongs to them. I can offer you sex, companionship, intellectual stimulation, but I can't offer you exclusivity or the kind of traditional relationship most people expect."

"I'm not most people," Marco said, moving closer to her. "And I find the idea of sharing you with two brilliant academics rather intriguing."

Sahara's eyebrow arched, and a wicked smile played at her lips. "Sharing me how, exactly? Like a foursome? What dynamics appeal to you, Marco? Elias and you double-teaming me? Pussy and ass? Or are you curious about some man-on-man action?"

Marco's face flushed a deep red, his composure cracking for the first time since she'd met him. "I... that's very direct."

"I told you, life's too short for games." She laughed at his expression, reaching out to touch his cheek. "You don't have to answer now. But if you're going to be part of this, you should think about what you actually want, not just what sounds intriguing in theory."

Before Sahara could say anything else, her phone rang. Layla's name appeared on the screen.

"That was fast," Sahara said, answering. "Please tell me you're not already on a plane."

"Darling, I'm calling from Heathrow. I'm about to board a flight to Rome. I should be at the villa late this afternoon."

"Perfect. Layla, I want you to meet someone." Sahara handed the phone to Marco. "Marco Benedetti, meet Dr. Layla Hassan."

"Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Hassan," Marco said, leaning toward the phone.

"The pleasure is mine, Mr. Benedetti. I hope you're prepared for an invasion. When Sahara gets excited about a discovery, she becomes rather... intense."

"I'm beginning to understand that," Marco replied, his eyes on Sahara's face.

"Excellent. I'll see you both soon. And Sahara? I'm bringing supplies."

"What kind of supplies?"

"The kind that will help us work through the night if necessary. Coffee, wine, and some of those chocolate biscuits you love. Oh, and I may have stopped by the British Museum's photography department on my way to the airport."

"Layla, you didn't."

"I did. High-resolution camera equipment, proper lighting, the works. If we're going to document this discovery properly, we need to do it right."

After Layla hung up, Marco looked at Sahara with renewed interest. "So we have several hours before she arrives."

"We do," Sahara agreed, noting the way his eyes had darkened with desire.

"I was thinking..." He moved closer, his hands finding her waist. "We could make good use of that time."

Sahara felt the familiar heat building in her core, the sun disks responding to his proximity. "Mmm, and what did you have in mind?"

"I want you again," he said simply, his voice rough with want. "Last night was incredible, but I want to explore more, to understand what you meant about the connection between pleasure and power."

"Well," Sahara said, a wicked smile playing at her lips, "we do need to wait for Layla and her equipment before we can do any serious work on the manuscript. We might as well make productive use of our time."

"Productive?"

"Oh yes. I was thinking we could take this outside. To the garden." She paused, letting the implication sink in. "Near your Priapus statue. I'm curious to see how you stack up against the god of fertility."

Marco's sharp intake of breath was audible. "In broad daylight? In the garden?"

"Afraid someone might see? The villa is private, isn't it?"

"It is, but..."

"But nothing. The Romans would have found our modern prudishness incomprehensible. They celebrated sexuality in the open, made it part of their daily lives." She pressed closer to him, feeling his arousal against her hip. "Besides, I want to see if being near that statue affects you the way it affects me."

"How does it affect you?"

"It makes me feel connected to something ancient and powerful. It makes me want to honor the old ways." She reached up to trace his jawline with her finger. "It makes me want to fuck like a goddess."

Marco's control snapped. He pulled her against him, kissing her with a hunger that made her knees weak. When they broke apart, both were breathing hard.

"The garden it is," he said.

They made their way through the villa and out into the afternoon sun. The heat was less oppressive than the day before, and the garden was alive with the sound of birds and the gentle splash of fountains. Marco led her to where the Priapus statue stood, its exaggerated masculinity even more impressive in the dappled sunlight.

"He really is magnificent," Sahara said, running her hand over the weathered stone phallus, tracing its rigid curves with her fingers. "All that power, all that unashamed sexuality. The ancients understood something we've forgotten."

"What's that?"

"That desire is sacred. That pleasure is a form of worship." She turned to face him, her fingers slowly unbuttoning her blouse, letting it slip open to tease glimpses of her golden sun disks. "That the body is a temple, not something to hide away in shame. Oh, Marco, the Carmina Priapea? They're packed with the naughtiest bits—steamy sexual acts, wild games, and party antics all revolving around Priapus statues. Those poems are full of cheeky humor and filthy obscenities, showing how the Romans loved to play dirty in their social romps."

She shrugged off her blouse completely, her breasts bouncing free, the disks gleaming invitingly as she stepped closer, her voice dropping to a husky purr. "Imagine those Roman banquets or garden parties—guests getting frisky with the Priapus statue itself. One of my favorites is the ring-toss game, where they'd fling hoops right onto that massive stone cock, laughing and getting all hot and bothered. It was hilarious and downright horny, all about celebrating fertility and pure, unfiltered pleasure."

Her hands roamed down her body, slipping off her skirt as she continued, eyes locked on his with playful mischief. "And the poems? God, they're explicit—detailing every juicy act you can think of: hot, thrusting intercourse, sneaky anal adventures, sloppy oral delights, solo masturbation sessions, and all sorts of kinky sexual games. Sometimes as naughty threats, other times as joyful celebrations. It's a raunchy reminder of how open the Romans were about their lusts, weaving Priapus into every steamy moment of their daily and divine lives. Makes you want to try some of that ancient fun yourself, doesn't it?"

Marco watched, transfixed, as she revealed herself to him in the garden's natural cathedral. The golden sun disks caught the light, seeming to glow against her skin. When she was naked, she moved to him, her hands working at his clothes.

"Now," she said, when they were both bare under the olive trees, "show me how you worship. What do you want, Marco? Tell me your desires."

His cock twitched, already hard and throbbing as he gazed at her. "I want to fuck you in the ass," he growled, his voice thick with hunger.

Sahara's eyes lit with excitement, her dripping pussy clenching at the thought. "Yes," she agreed confidently, turning to face the Priapus statue, bending forward to brace her hands against its stone base, her ass presented to him. "Like this, facing the god, so you can see it and be inspired by his massive phallus while you take me."

Marco stepped behind her, his hands gripping her hips. He started by sliding his thick cock into her slick pussy first, thrusting deep and slow, coating his shaft in her juices to make it slick for what came next. She moaned, pushing back against him, her golden sun disks swaying with each pump, her wet folds gripping him tightly as he fucked her pussy harder, building the lubrication.

Pulling out, his cock glistening with her arousal, he pressed the head against her tight ass, easing in inch by inch. Sahara gasped, relaxing into it, her voice commanding yet laced with pleasure. "Deeper, Marco. Fuck my ass like the ancients celebrated—unashamed and primal." He groaned, burying himself fully, his hips slamming against her as he thrust rhythmically, inspired by the statue's watchful gaze, his balls slapping against her dripping pussy with each powerful stroke.

As his thrusts grew frantic, Sahara moaned louder, urging him on. "Cum in my ass, Marco—fill me up, just like the fertility god would demand!" With a primal roar, he obliged, his cock pulsing deep inside her as he erupted, flooding her bowels with hot ropes of cum, filling her completely until it溢ed slightly, marking their ancient-inspired union.

When they finally collapsed together on the soft grass, both were marked with earth and sweat and the kind of satisfaction that comes from complete surrender to desire.

They lay in comfortable silence for a while, listening to the garden's sounds and feeling the ancient stones watching over them.

The sound of a car in the driveway several hours later interrupted their lazy afternoon. Sahara pulled back with a rueful smile.

"That would be Layla. Are you ready for this?"

"As ready as I'll ever be."

They made their way to the front entrance, where a taxi was disgorging an impressive amount of luggage and equipment cases. From the midst of it all emerged Dr. Layla Hassan, looking as elegant and composed as if she'd just stepped out of a salon rather than off a long flight.

Layla was stunning in the way that made both men and women stop and stare. Her dark skin glowed with health, her black hair was pulled back in a sophisticated chignon, and her traveling clothes—a silk blouse and tailored trousers—looked like they belonged on a runway. But it was her eyes that truly captured attention: dark, intelligent, and filled with a warmth that drew people to her like moths to flame.

"Sahara, darling," she said, pulling her into a passionate kiss that left no doubt about the nature of their relationship. When they broke apart, both women were smiling, and Layla turned to Marco with an extended hand. "Mr. Benedetti. Thank you for hosting us. Your villa is absolutely gorgeous."

"Please, call me Marco. And thank you for coming so quickly."

"When Sahara calls about a discovery, I drop everything. She has the most remarkable instincts." Layla's gaze moved between them, taking in their body language, the way they stood close together, the subtle signs of intimacy. "I can see you've been taking good care of her."

Marco's slight flush was charming. "She's been taking care of herself quite well."

"She always does. Now, shall we see this manuscript that has her so excited?"

The next few hours passed in a blur of activity. Layla set up her photography equipment in Marco's study with professional efficiency, transforming the elegant room into a high-tech documentation center. She photographed every page of the manuscript from multiple angles, using different lighting techniques to reveal details invisible to the naked eye.

"This is extraordinary," she murmured, bent over the ancient parchment with a magnifying glass. "The ink composition, the parchment quality, the script style—everything is consistent with 2nd-century Roman manuscripts. But the content..."

"I know," Sahara said, looking over her shoulder. "Some of these poems are completely new."

"Not just new—they're more explicit than anything in the standard collections. Look at this passage here." Layla pointed to a section of Latin text. "It's describing a ritual that involves multiple participants, specific sexual positions, even what appears to be the use of ritual objects."

Marco, who had been watching their work with fascination, leaned closer. "Can you translate it?"

"Roughly," Layla said, her cheeks slightly pink. "It's quite graphic. The poet is describing a ceremony in honor of Priapus that involves... well, let's say it makes the Kama Sutra look conservative."

"Show me," Sahara said, her academic excitement overriding any embarrassment.

Layla began to translate, her voice taking on the rhythm of the Latin verse: "When Luna's light illuminates the sacred grove, and Priapus stands proud among the olive trees, let the faithful gather in celebration of life's greatest gift. Let the women come crowned with flowers, their bodies anointed with sacred oils, their hearts open to pleasure. Let the men come bearing wine and honey, their desire evident, their reverence true..."

She paused, glancing at Marco. "It gets more explicit from there."

"Don't stop on my account," he said, his voice slightly hoarse.

"The ritual involves the participants pairing off, then coming together in a group ceremony. There are specific instructions for positions, for the order of activities, even for the words to be spoken during climax."

Sahara felt the familiar heat building in her core, the sun disks seeming to pulse with the rhythm of her heartbeat. "It's not just poetry," she said. "It's a manual. A guide for actual religious practice."

"Which explains why it was hidden," Layla added. "This isn't just erotic literature—it's evidence of active pagan worship that would have been considered heretical by Christian authorities."

"And dangerous to anyone found possessing it," Marco concluded.

"Exactly. This manuscript represents a direct challenge to the official narrative about the transition from paganism to Christianity. It suggests that the old religions didn't just fade away—they went underground."

The implications were staggering, and all three of them felt the weight of the discovery. But there was something else in the air, a tension that had nothing to do with academic excitement and everything to do with the charged atmosphere that had been building since Layla's arrival.

"We should continue this tonight," Sahara said, noting the way Layla's eyes lingered on Marco, the way his gaze moved between both women. "When Elias arrives tomorrow, we'll need to have a complete preliminary analysis ready."

"Agreed," Layla said, beginning to pack up her equipment. "But first, I think we all need to eat something. And perhaps Marco could show me the rest of his collection?"

"I'd be delighted," Marco replied, and Sahara caught the subtle undercurrent in his voice.

As they made their way toward the dining room, Sahara reflected on the day's developments. The manuscript was everything she'd hoped and more—a discovery that could reshape their understanding of ancient religious practices. But equally intriguing was the dynamic developing between the three of them. Layla's interest in Marco was obvious, and his attraction to her was equally clear.

Tomorrow, when Elias arrived, the real complexity would begin. But for tonight, Sahara was content to let the evening unfold naturally, to see where the combination of intellectual excitement and physical attraction would lead them.

The dinner plates had been cleared away. Sahara sat in Marco's study, watching Layla work with the manuscript under carefully positioned lights. The past few hours had been productive—they'd identified several previously unknown poems and begun preliminary translations—but Sahara's mind kept drifting to other possibilities the evening might hold.

"You're distracted," Layla observed without looking up from the ancient parchment. "Thinking about our dear professor?"

"Among other things," Sahara replied, glancing at Marco, who was refilling their wine glasses with the attentiveness of a perfect host. "This is going to be complicated."

"It always is with Elias," Layla said, finally raising her eyes. "He'll be jealous, possessive, and probably insufferable for the first few hours. Then his academic curiosity will override his emotional response, and he'll throw himself into the work."

"You make it sound like a predictable pattern."

"Because it is. Remember Prague? Or that dig in Crete?" Layla's smile was fond but exasperated. "Our Elias is brilliant, but he's also wonderfully transparent when it comes to his feelings."

Marco looked up from his work. "Should I be concerned? I don't want to cause problems between you."

"You're not causing problems," Sahara said firmly. "You're part of the solution. Elias needs to learn that our relationship doesn't diminish when we include others—it expands."

"And if he doesn't see it that way?"

"Then he'll sulk, make cutting remarks about 'academic standards,' and generally be a pain in the arse until he realizes he's being ridiculous," Layla said cheerfully. "It's quite endearing, really."

Sahara set down her wine glass and looked at Layla with a wicked smile. "Speaking of expanding our experiences... Layla, darling, would you like to savor our host properly before Elias arrives tomorrow morning?"

Layla's eyes sparkled with mischief as she looked between Sahara and Marco. "I thought you'd never ask. Though I should point out that we've barely made a dent in this manuscript."

"The manuscript will still be here in the morning," Sahara said, standing and moving toward Marco. "But opportunities like this... well, they should be seized when they present themselves."

Marco's breath caught as both women approached him. "Are you suggesting...?"

"I'm suggesting," Sahara said, her hands finding the buttons of his shirt, "that we take a break from ancient Roman sexuality and explore some modern interpretations."

The three of them tumbled into Marco's bed, clothes shed in a frenzy of eager hands. Sahara positioned herself between them, her dripping pussy already slick with anticipation as Layla's fingers delved between her thighs, stroking her swollen clit while Marco's mouth latched onto one of her golden sun disks, sucking her erect nipple through the fused metal. "Mmm, you two are insatiable," Sahara purred, her hips grinding against Layla's hand as Marco's cock, thick and hard, pressed against her ass.

As Layla's tongue replaced her fingers, lapping at Sahara's wet folds and sucking on her clit, Marco slid his shaft between Sahara's ass cheeks, teasing her tight hole. "God, I want to fuck this ass again," he groaned, but Sahara laughed breathlessly, reaching back to guide him lower. "Not yet—fill my pussy first, make me cum around your cock while Layla eats me out."

He thrust into her dripping pussy from behind, pounding deep and hard, his balls slapping against her as Layla's mouth worked her clit relentlessly. Sahara moaned loudly, her body rocking between them, the sun disks bouncing with each powerful stroke. "This reminds me of Priapea 56," she gasped, her voice laced with playful mischief. "You know, the one where Priapus catches a young man fucking his girlfriend and decides to join in—penetrating the guy while he's buried in her, making a filthy chain of three. Scholars call it a series triplex, like that Pompeii painting of a man ass-fucking another man who's ass-fucking a woman. So explicit, so Roman—threatening and comic all at once."

Marco's thrusts faltered for a moment, his eyes wide. "You mean... Priapus in the middle?"

"Exactly," Sahara quipped, grinding back onto his cock. "Makes you wonder, Marco—which of us should strap on a dildo and penetrate you to complete the chain? Me or Layla?"

He froze, shocked, his cock twitching inside her pussy. "I... what?"

She laughed softly, clenching her walls around him. "Or we can continue the old-fashioned way: two women servicing one cock." With that, she pulled him out of her slick heat and pushed him onto his back. Sahara straddled his face, lowering her dripping pussy onto his mouth as Layla mounted his throbbing cock, riding him hard, her own pussy gripping him tightly. They kissed passionately above him, their breasts pressing together, sun disks clashing with Layla's soft skin.

Marco's tongue delved into Sahara's folds, lapping up her juices while Layla bounced on his shaft, their moans filling the room. Sahara reached down to rub Layla's clit, urging her on. "Cum on his cock, darling—then it's my turn." Layla shuddered, her pussy clenching as she orgasmed, flooding his cock with her release.

They switched, Sahara impaling herself on his slick cock, riding him reverse cowgirl so he could watch her ass bounce, while Layla straddled his face, grinding her wet pussy against his tongue. "Now fuck me hard," Sahara demanded, slamming down onto him. Marco thrust up, his hands gripping her hips, until he growled, "I'm going to cum." "In my pussy—fill me up!" she urged, and he exploded, pumping hot ropes of cum deep into her clenching walls.

Not done yet, they repositioned: Marco took Layla from behind, slamming into her ass as she buried her face in Sahara's pussy, licking up the cum leaking from her. Sahara came first, squirting onto Layla's tongue, followed by Layla's muffled screams as Marco pounded her tight ass. "Cum in her ass, Marco—hose her bowels like Priapus would!" Sahara encouraged. With a roar, he did, flooding Layla's ass with his seed until it dripped out.

What followed was a night of passion that would have made the ancient poets proud. The three of them moved together with a natural rhythm, exploring each other with the same careful attention they brought to their scholarly work. Sahara found herself at the center of their attention, Layla's skilled mouth and Marco's eager hands creating sensations that made the golden sun disks pulse with heat.

When they finally collapsed together in Marco's bed, sweat-slicked and satisfied, the moon was high above the villa's gardens.

The next morning found them sharing breakfast on the terrace, the awkwardness that might have existed between them dissolved by the intimacy they'd shared. Sahara felt relaxed and content, though she knew that would change soon enough.

The sound of a car in the driveway interrupted their conversation. Sahara felt her stomach tighten with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety. She loved Elias deeply, but his arrival would change the dynamic they'd established over the past day.

"That'll be him," she said, standing. "Marco, are you ready for this?"

"Define ready."

"Ready to meet a man who's going to spend the first hour trying to find reasons to dislike you, followed by the next three hours grudgingly admitting you might be useful, followed by a complete capitulation when he realizes how significant this discovery actually is."

"When you put it like that, it sounds almost manageable."

They made their way to the entrance, where a taxi was unloading what appeared to be half of Oxford's library. Professor Elias Kane emerged from the vehicle looking every inch the distinguished academic—silver-streaked hair perfectly styled despite the long journey, wire-rimmed glasses catching the villa's exterior lights, and a expression of polite wariness that Sahara knew masked deeper emotions.

At fifty-eight, Elias carried himself with the confidence of a man who had spent decades commanding lecture halls and excavation sites. His tall, lean frame was impeccably dressed in a tailored jacket and crisp shirt, though Sahara could see the subtle signs of travel fatigue around his piercing blue eyes.

"Elias," Sahara said, moving forward to embrace him. The kiss they shared was warm but restrained—a public acknowledgment of their relationship that didn't reveal its full complexity.

"Sahara. You look..." His eyes took in her appearance, noting the relaxed way she carried herself, the subtle glow that came from recent satisfaction. "Well. You look very well."

"I am well. Elias, I'd like you to meet Marco Benedetti. Marco, Professor Elias Kane."

The two men shook hands with the careful politeness of rivals sizing each other up. Elias's grip was firm, his gaze assessing. Marco met it steadily, neither deferential nor challenging.

"Professor Kane. Sahara speaks of you often. Thank you for coming so quickly."

"Mr. Benedetti. I understand you've made quite a discovery."

"We've made a discovery," Marco corrected gently. "I merely provided the artifacts. The real work is being done by your colleagues."

It was a diplomatic response, and Sahara saw Elias's expression soften slightly. Points to Marco for not claiming credit he hadn't earned.

"Elias, darling," Layla appeared in the doorway, moving to kiss him with the same passion she'd shown Sahara earlier. "How was the flight?"

"Tolerable. Though I see you've wasted no time in making yourself at home."

"When have I ever wasted time?" Layla linked her arm through his, leading him toward the study. "Wait until you see what we've found. It's going to revolutionize our understanding of the Priapic tradition."

"That's quite a claim."

"It's quite a discovery," Sahara said, falling into step beside them. "Elias, this manuscript contains poems that predate anything in the standard collections. We're talking about original Priapic liturgy—actual ritual instructions, not just literary exercises."

They entered the study, where the manuscript lay under its protective lighting. Elias's demeanor changed immediately, his academic instincts overriding his personal concerns. He moved to the table with the reverence of a man approaching a sacred relic.

"May I?"

"Of course," Marco said. "Though I should warn you—the content is quite explicit."

Elias's eyebrow arched. "Mr. Benedetti, I've spent my career studying the transition from pagan to Christian practices. I'm familiar with explicit content."

"Not like this," Layla said, moving to stand beside him. "Look at this passage here. It's not just describing sexual acts—it's prescribing them as religious observance."

Elias bent over the manuscript, his trained eye taking in the script, the ink, the parchment quality. Sahara watched his face as he read, seeing the moment when professional excitement overcame personal reservations.

"This is extraordinary," he murmured. "The linguistic patterns, the ritual structure... this isn't just poetry. This is a manual for active worship."

"That's what we thought," Sahara said, moving to his other side. "But look at this section here. Layla's translation suggests it's describing a specific ceremony—one that involves multiple participants in very particular arrangements."

"Multiple participants?"

"Group sex," Sahara said bluntly. "Ritualized, structured, but definitely group sex."

Elias's cheeks colored slightly, but his academic curiosity was clearly engaged. "And you believe this represents actual practice rather than literary fantasy?"

"The language is too specific, too instructional," Layla said. "This reads like a priest's manual, not a poet's imagination."

"Which raises fascinating questions about the survival of pagan practices into the Christian era," Sahara added. "If these rituals were still being performed when this manuscript was created..."

"Then the transition from paganism to Christianity was far more complex and gradual than we've assumed," Elias finished. "The implications for our understanding of late Roman religious practices are staggering."

"Exactly." Sahara felt the familiar thrill of shared intellectual excitement. This was what she loved about working with Elias and Layla—the way they could build on each other's insights, creating understanding that none of them could achieve alone.

"We need to establish provenance," Elias said, his mind already racing ahead to the practical considerations. "Dating, authentication, comparison with known manuscripts..."

"Already in progress," Layla said. "I've documented everything photographically, and Marco has provided what provenance information he has."

"Which is admittedly limited," Marco added. "The manuscript came from a private collection that's been in the same family for generations. No official documentation, but the family history suggests it's been in Italy since at least the 18th century."

Elias nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Not ideal, but not uncommon for manuscripts of this type. The Church's attitude toward pagan materials meant that many survived only in private hands."

"There's something else," Sahara said. "Marco mentioned rumors about a secret society—the Custodes Priapei. People dedicated to preserving Priapic traditions."

"Rumors?"

"More than rumors," Marco said carefully. "There are collectors who speak of them, dealers who claim to have connections. If they exist, they might have more manuscripts like this one."

"Or they might be a convenient fiction to justify questionable acquisitions," Elias said dryly.

"Perhaps. But if they're real..."

"If they're real, then we're looking at the survival of an ancient mystery religion into the modern era," Layla finished. "Which would be the discovery of the century."

The room fell silent as they contemplated the implications. Sahara felt the weight of possibility pressing down on them—the sense that they were standing at the threshold of something that could reshape their understanding of history.

"We need more information," Elias said finally. "More manuscripts, more evidence, more context."

"Agreed," Sahara said. "But first, we need to complete our analysis of what we have. Elias, I want you to focus on the historical context—dating, linguistic analysis, comparison with known texts. Layla, continue with the translations. Marco and I will work on provenance and try to trace any connections to this Custodes group."

"A sensible division of labor," Elias agreed. "Though I should point out that this level of analysis will take weeks, possibly months."

"Then we'd better get comfortable," Sahara said, glancing around the study. "Marco, I hope you're prepared for a long-term invasion."

"I can think of worse fates than being invaded by three brilliant academics," Marco replied, his eyes moving between them with an expression that was part admiration, part desire.

"Just three?" Layla asked, her tone playful. "I was hoping you might consider yourself part of the team by now."

"I'm honored by the suggestion, but I'm hardly qualified to⁠—"

"You're qualified to think," Sahara interrupted. "You're qualified to ask questions, to offer perspectives we might miss. Academic credentials aren't everything."

"Sahara's right," Elias said, surprising them all. "Some of the best insights come from outside the field. Fresh eyes, different perspectives."

It was a generous admission, and Sahara felt a surge of affection for him. This was Elias at his best—putting intellectual curiosity ahead of professional jealousy.

"In that case," Marco said, "I have a question. If these rituals were still being practiced when the manuscript was created, where were they being practiced? The text mentions specific locations—groves, temples, private villas. Some of those locations might still exist."

"An excellent point," Layla said. "If we could identify the actual sites..."

"We might find additional evidence," Sahara finished. "Archaeological remains, other manuscripts, even surviving traditions."

"It's worth investigating," Elias agreed. "Though we'd need to be careful. If this Custodes group does exist, they might not appreciate academic attention."

"Or they might welcome it," Marco suggested. "If their goal is preservation, they might see us as allies rather than threats."

"Only one way to find out," Sahara said. "But first, we work. We analyze what we have, we build our case, and we prepare for whatever comes next."

"Agreed," Elias said. "Though I suggest we also prepare for the possibility that we're dealing with something far more complex than a simple historical discovery."