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Kitten

Emperor Geta x Female reader

AN: With Geta I can explore themes I’ve never written before, like petplay (collars and leashes).

Warnings: Explicit Content, Smut, Dark Romance, Petplay, Unequal Power Dynamics, Breath Play, Rough Sex.

Word count 1500 Geta puts his favorite concubine on a leash to save her from his brother's fury, but in private, humiliation turns into something else.

You accompany Geta to a feast. The tables are full of eccentric food, the starters go, replaced by pheasants, fish and piglets roasted whole, it’s going on for hours before dessert is served. Several African birds squawk loudly.

Geta reclines on the central couch, You sit beside his feet, dressed in sheer, amber-hued silks, keeping your posture demure, his arm drapes possessively over your shoulders in between the courses . On your wrist, another present Geta has given you glistens in the flickering light of the oil lamps.

The guards announce Caracalla’s arrival. He’s not in good mood. His cheeks glow feverishly and powder can’t hide the blemishes on his face .Soon enough his sleep deprived eyes lock onto the flash of gold on your hand. He lets out a loud, mocking scoff that cuts through the music of the cithara players.

"My brother decorates his foreign filth with imperial gems now?" Caracalla sneers, gesturing aggressively toward your hand. "A bracelet fit for a patrician matron, wasted on a captive who barely knows Latin. Tell me, beast, do you even know the value of what you wear, or do you simply drool upon the gold?"

The insult hangs in the air. Geta’s jaw tightens, his grip on your shoulder growing heavy. The sheer arrogance in Caracalla’s voice snaps something wild inside you. Without being granted the right to speak, you lift your head and look directly at the senior Augustus.

“I merely wear the honor the Emperor Geta deems me worthy of,” you say with just slight accent and perfect grammar, before the gravity of your actions hits you. You bite your tongue, waiting in terror for what comes next as a cold shiver cuts down your spine.

A sharp, collective intake of breath ripples through the nearest tables. The audacity to talk back to an Augustus is a dangerous move. You feel Geta's fingers stroking your shoulder. A vicious spark of delight flashes in his eyes—he is secretly thrilled by your defiance.

"Insolent piece of scum!" Caracalla spits, rising from his couch as his Praetorians instantly reach for their hilts. "A slave opens her mouth to speak in my presence? Teach her some manners, brother, before I have her throat slit."

Geta glares at Caracalla, his massive ego flaring at the way you have defended his honor.

"She is my property, Caracalla, not yours to slaughter!" Geta barks back, his kohled eyes gleaming with a sudden, cruel inspiration to save you while saving his own pride. "She is a wild, untamed thing from the provinces—she speaks out of ignorance, like a feral cub that hasn't learned the whip."

Geta turns to his attendant, speaking very clearly in the terrified silence of the pavilion. “Fetch the imperial metalworkers. I want a leather collar and a chain forged before morning. If she wishes to growl at emperors, she will do so on a leash."

Hours later, the heavy oak doors of Geta’s private chambers click shut. There is no shortage of chains in Rome, and Geta stands by the table, holding a freshly crafted band of soft dark leather, lined with soft wool but studded with heavy gold rivets. A thick, polished chain is attached to the central ring.

"You have a dangerous mouth, pet," Geta murmurs as he walks toward you. He points his finger downward, and you kneel obediently. Geta wraps the leather around your throat and fastens the golden buckle. "It could cost you your life today. You must learn what you are."

The submissive game begins. Shifting onto your hands and knees on the thick Persian rug, you let the terrifying reality of Caracalla’s anger out of your mind. You tilt your head up, letting out a soft purr and nuzzle your cheek against his thigh under a short robe to soothe his lingering rage.

Geta lets out a sadistic chuckle and walks you by the leash over to the bed. His amusement deepens into a low growl as he watches you arch your back like a cat in heat and lick his hand, wiggling your hips invitingly on all fours . “Such a brazen little kitten,” his voice thick with lust. “Defying an Augustus… and now presenting yourself like this. You need to be reminded who owns you.”

He grabs the chain and gives it a firm pull, forcing your head up. The collar presses deliciously into your throat. Geta turns your chin and claims your mouth in a brutal kiss—biting your lower lip, invading with his tongue. When he finally pulls back, you are breathless and trembling.

“On all fours,” he orders, pushing you forward. He frees his heavy shaft and rubs the flushed head along your slick folds, teasing once, twice, and then slams into your weeping heat in one ruthless thrust.

You cry out, the sudden fullness stretching your core wide open as he buries himself to the hilt. He doesn’t hold himself. He drives hard and deep, his hips snapping against you with punishing force. Every thrust tugs the leash, tightening the leather band around your throat in rhythmic pulses that make your head spin and your vision blur with overwhelming pleasure.

You moan and pant shamelessly, nails digging into the rug, your back arched as he rails you. The light choking only heightens the feeling of being tamed, dominated by his power. He goes on and on, taken by his sick fantasy. His rigid staff reaches deeper than ever before, dragging over your sweet spot with every thrust, bumping in your cervix. You cry breathlessly as the heat builds fast and tight in your core. Geta’s free hand grips your hip hard, pulling you back onto him with every stroke.

“That’s it, kitten,” he snarls, his throat is dry from endless panting. “Surrender”

He yanks the chain again, forcing your head back further as he leans over you, his teeth grazing your shoulder. The pressure on your throat combined with the relentless pounding sends you spiraling. Your orgasm crashes over you hard, your entire wet center spasming tightly around his thick member. You gasp, choking and melt, dropping your chest into the carpet .

Geta groans loudly, his pace turns erratic. He releases the chain just enough to keep you floating on that hazy wave of pleasure and submission, until he buries his length completely and releases his seed inside you with a guttural roar. Hot pulses flood you as he grinds against your center, riding out every last throb.

Only then does he loosen the chain, letting you breathe while his flesh remains buried deep. He strokes your hair almost tenderly, scratching behind your ear as you tremble and lean back against him with soft, satisfied purrs.

Geta empties the goblet into his dry mouth. “You’re mine,” he rasps against your neck, his voice fiercely possessive. “Collar or no collar… no one else will ever have you like this.”

Next day the sun shines blindingly bright over the marble of the palace courtyard. The formal procession is fully assembled. The senators stand in pristine white togas, foreign ambassadors, and the elite guards.

The heavy bronze doors are thrown open, and Geta steps out in his crimson military cloak. In his right hand, wrapped tightly around his knuckles, he holds the shiny chain.

At the end of that chain, walking on hands and knees upon the hard marble, is you. The senators stare in a mixture of fascination and shock; whispers spread out like waves from a stone in the water.

Instead of lowering your eyes or showing the crushing humiliation they expect, your survival instinct takes over. You hold your chin high, keeping your movements fluid, graceful, and wildly feline. When a guard steps too close to your hand, you pause, narrowing your eyes and let out a sharp, warning hiss right at his boots, baring your teeth.

Caracalla sits upon a raised stone bench at the far side of the courtyard, surrounded by his personal bodyguards. When his eyes fall upon you on the leash, his lip curls into a cruel sneer. He watches your elegant, unbroken posture with a mix of disgust and dangerous intrigue. He can see that Geta hasn't actually broken you at all. Caracalla spits onto the marble as you pass, muttering a low insult about Geta's weakness for exotic theater, but his eyes linger on the tight grip his brother keeps on the chain.

Geta looks down at you, completely ignoring his brother's simmering hostility, with triumphant delight. He yanks the chain lightly, pulling you right against his shins as he stops before the crowd.

Across the courtyard, standing among the lower-tier officials, Senator M. stands perfectly still. His face is a cold mask, his attentive eyes locked onto the collar around your neck. He watches you play the part of the perfect, dangerous beast with such flawless wit that you have turned a public degradation into a display of absolute majesty.

The imperial reception hall is still buzzing later that afternoon when Caracalla leans over to his brother with a sharp scowl. “This is distracting, Geta. Your whore is practically writhing in your lap while we discuss matters of state. Send her away.”

Geta chuckles, unbothered. “As you wish, brother.” He tugs the leash, forcing you to look up at him. “Wait for me in my chambers, kitten.”

Geta Masterlist