Far from the dust and heat of Galea's journey to Knossos, Bobby moved through the crystalline chamber beneath the southern shore of Atlantea, his fingers dancing across surfaces that appeared to be natural rock formations but were actually sophisticated interfaces. Multiple translucent screens materialized in the air around him, each displaying different views—Galea's caravan moving along a coastal road, the struggling village of Kydonia, and a sprawling city-state far to the east where massive stone monuments were being erected.
His perfectly maintained face showed little emotion as he observed Galea's dejected posture atop the donkey provided for her journey. The pendant around her neck glowed faintly, transmitting data back to his systems about her physical state, emotional responses, and even the conversations occurring around her.
"Sleep cycle disrupted for the third consecutive night," he murmured to himself, noting the dark circles under her eyes. "Elevated cortisol levels. Experiencing stress response appropriate to perceived threat." He paused, then added with a hint of satisfaction, "But not fear. She's not showing fear."
Bobby gestured, and one of the screens expanded to show a mapping of Galea's neural patterns. The characteristic signatures of the island's influence remained, though somewhat diminished since her departure. Her exceptional affinity for plant life—the ability that had developed so unexpectedly and powerfully—showed signs of dormancy but not extinction.
"Maintaining baseline enhancements," he noted clinically. "Physical adaptations stable. Psionic potential... interesting. Still developing, even without direct exposure to the energy field."
With a flick of his wrist, Bobby dismissed the screens showing Galea and turned his attention to another display—this one showing a rugged man with eyes that gleamed with unnatural intensity, standing atop a hill overlooking an encampment of crude tents and makeshift fortifications. The man's dark hair whipped in the wind as he raised a weapon toward the sky, inciting roars from the gathered warriors below.
"Tartaros," Bobby said, his voice carrying a note of weary recognition. "Still playing conqueror, I see."
The young man had been one of Bobby's earliest subjects on this timeline—a sickly child brought to the island nearly thirty years earlier, transformed by its energies into something formidable. Unlike Galea, whose abilities had manifested as a connection to growing things, Tartaros had developed enhanced strength, accelerated healing, and an unfortunate capacity to inspire fanatical loyalty in others through subtle psionic influence.
He had left the island against Bobby's advice, driven by visions of glory and conquest. Now he commanded a growing army that swept across the northern territories, subjugating village after village.
What troubled Bobby most was not the bloodshed—he had witnessed enough across countless civilizations to become inured to it—but rather the mythology Tartaros was constructing around himself and, by extension, around Bobby.
In the crude religion taking shape among Tartaros's followers, Bobby was portrayed as an all-seeing god who had bestowed divine powers upon his chosen warrior. Temples were being built where supplicants would pray to this nameless deity, offering sacrifices in exchange for blessings.
"Fucking embarrassing," Bobby muttered, zooming in on a primitive shrine where his likeness had been crudely carved in stone, depicted with multiple eyes covering his body. "I told you not to mention me, you ambitious little shit."
A part of him recognized the irony in his annoyance. Throughout his incalculably long existence, Bobby had been worshipped as a deity more times than he could count—sometimes by design when it suited his purposes, more often by accident when primitive peoples encountered abilities they couldn't comprehend. He had learned to ignore these misplaced devotions, treating them as an inevitable consequence of his presence in less developed time periods.
But Tartaros knew better. Bobby had explained enough about his true nature—carefully edited, of course—for the young man to understand he was no god. That Tartaros deliberately perpetuated this fiction suggested a calculating mind using religion as a tool for control.
"Power corrupts," Bobby said to the empty chamber. "Always has, always will."
He gestured again, and the screens rearranged to show various locations across the region—cities, villages, trade routes, all under his constant surveillance through means no human of this era could possibly comprehend. The quantum-entangled particles embedded in the crystals he had distributed over the years provided him with a network of observation points that allowed him to monitor developments across a significant portion of the Mediterranean world.
Bobby's attention returned to Galea, now making camp for the night with her royal escort. The guards maintained a respectful distance, but their watchful eyes never left her. They feared her, Bobby noted, even as they coveted what they believed she could give them.
"You should have stayed on the island," he murmured, though there was no reproach in his tone. "But you wouldn't be human if you had."
The term 'human' caught in his mind, reminding him of something that had been percolating in his thoughts since Galea's departure. Her name—Galea—bore a striking similarity to Gaia, the Earth goddess whose mythology was just beginning to take form in this region and era.
Bobby had experienced these parallels before. In an earlier displacement, he had love... cared for a brilliant strategic girl named Art who would later be mythologized as Arthur, a king whose legendary exploits would shape the cultural imagination of an entire civilization and beyond. Bobby had watched that transformation occur, understanding that myths often began with kernels of truth before being elaborated through generations of retelling.
"Galea," he said thoughtfully. "The living earth. The nurturer." A smile touched his lips. "And what does that make me, I wonder? Ouranos? The sky that watches over all?"
The comparison was apt in more ways than one. In the mythology that would eventually solidify, Ouranos was the primordial sky deity who, with Gaia, produced the Titans—much as Bobby's experiments with the island's energies had produced enhanced humans who might, in their way, become the progenitors of new lineages.
But Ouranos had also been castrated by his offspring—a fate Bobby had metaphorically suffered through his transformation, rendered sterile by the very nanites that granted him immortality. The parallel was uncomfortable enough that he dismissed it from his thoughts.
Instead, he focused on the more immediate concern—Galea's impending presentation to the king of Knossos. Bobby had observed enough of human nature to predict the encounter would not go as Galea hoped. The king would demand access to the island's power, would covet the pendant she wore, would seek to control and exploit her abilities for his own glorification.
And when she refused, as she inevitably would...
Bobby closed the surveillance screens with a sharp gesture. He had promised himself he would not interfere. Galea had chosen to leave, to test herself against the world beyond the island. To intervene now would undermine her agency, would reduce her from participant to spectator in her own life.
And yet.
He moved to a crystalline formation at the center of the chamber, placing his palm against its cool surface. The crystal pulsed with energy, recognizing his touch, ready to amplify his considerable abilities if he chose to deploy them.
"No," he said firmly, withdrawing his hand. "She needs to learn this lesson herself."
But even as he spoke the words, Bobby knew he was lying to himself. He would intervene if necessary—not because Galea was his most successful experiment, but because somewhere along the way, she had become something more. Something he hadn't expected.
Something that made his cold, modified heart ache in a way he had thought impossible after so many years of detached observation.
The sensation was troubling enough that Bobby turned his attention back to Tartaros, whose conquests offered a more comfortable form of distraction. The screens reappeared, showing the warlord entering a captured village, his warriors seizing young women as tributes, elders kneeling in supplication before their new master.
"You think you're creating a better world through force," Bobby said to the image. "You think the bloodshed now will prevent greater suffering later." He shook his head. "Maybe you're right. But I've seen enough empires rise and fall to know that all those grand ambitions end the same way—with bones buried in sand and monuments crumbling to dust."
As night fell across the island, Bobby emerged from the underground chamber, sealing it behind him with a gesture that activated security measures no human intruder could circumvent. He walked along the shore, watching the perpetual storms that surrounded Atlantea churn in their endless cycle.
The island felt different without Galea—quieter, less vital somehow. The plants she had manipulated and experimented with continued to grow, but they lacked the conscious direction she had provided. In time, they would revert to more stable states, the evolutionary accelerations she had initiated slowing without her influence.
Bobby found himself at the western shore, standing in the exact spot where he had watched Galea depart. A faint impression of her footprints remained in the sand, preserved by some quirk of the weather or perhaps by the island itself, responding to the emotional weight of that moment.
He knelt, running his fingers over the indentations. The sand felt cool beneath his touch, reminding him of how Galea had once done the same thing while learning to sense the molecular structures of different materials. So eager to learn, so determined to master every skill he could teach her.
"She'll come back," he said aloud, though there was no one to hear him. "But not before the world shows her its true nature."
Rising to his feet, Bobby gazed out at the churning storms that protected Atlantea from casual discovery. He knew with the certainty of someone who had witnessed countless human lifetimes unfold that Galea's idealism would not survive her encounter with the king of Knossos. She would learn harsh lessons about power, greed, and the inevitable corruption that followed when humans glimpsed possibilities beyond their understanding.
Part of him took a cold satisfaction in this knowledge—the verification of patterns he had observed repeating throughout human history. Another part, one he tried to suppress, ached at the thought of her innocence being shattered.
"Enough," he muttered, turning away from the sea. "She made her choice."
The emptiness of the island pressed in around him. Without Galea's presence, Atlantea felt less vibrant, less purposeful. Even the luminescent plants seemed dimmer, as if responding to her absence. Or perhaps that was merely his perception, colored by emotions he preferred not to examine too closely.
Bobby needed a distraction—something to occupy his thoughts and quiet the uncharacteristic restlessness that had taken hold since Galea's departure. He considered checking on other subjects from previous experiments who had left the island, but dismissed the idea. Most had proven disappointing, failing to maintain the evolutionary advantages they had developed under his care once they returned to mainland society.
No, what he needed was something more immediate. Something visceral to remind himself of simpler, more primal drives that even his advanced physiology still responded to.
"It's been a while," he acknowledged to himself, feeling the stirring of an urge he had suppressed during Galea's adolescence out of some vestigial sense of propriety. Now, with her gone, there was no reason to deny himself this particular indulgence.
With a decision made, Bobby closed his eyes and focused his consciousness on a location he had visited several times over the past decade—a small but prosperous coastal settlement far to the west of Knossos, well beyond the territories where Tartaros currently waged his campaigns of conquest.
He felt the familiar sensation of reality folding around him as his psionic abilities manipulated the fabric of space. For a moment, he existed everywhere and nowhere, his consciousness stretched across the intervening distance before snapping back into cohesion at his destination.
Bobby materialized in a secluded grove just outside the settlement walls, the teleportation causing a momentary distortion in the air that manifested as a faint blue glow before dissipating. He had not used this particular ability in months, finding it unnecessarily showy for his regular activities on the island. But for journeys of significant distance, it remained the most efficient means of travel.
Taking a moment to orient himself, Bobby adjusted his appearance slightly. While his natural form would not appear out of place in this era—his physical features matched those of several Mediterranean populations—his usual island attire would attract unwanted attention. With a thought, he modified the simple garments he wore, transforming them into the style worn by wealthy merchants in this region—a fine linen tunic with embroidered edges, a woolen cloak fastened at one shoulder with a bronze pin, and leather sandals of superior craftsmanship.
From a small pouch at his waist, he produced several pieces of gold and silver, some shaped into crude coins, others simply measured by weight. Money was a meaningless concept to him—he could create any amount of precious metals using his nanite technology—but he understood its utility in human interactions.
The settlement, which the locals called Massilia, had grown considerably since his last visit. New structures had been erected along the harbor, and the marketplace seemed more crowded with traders from various regions. Bobby moved through the evening crowds with practiced ease, his posture and bearing conveying the confidence of a successful merchant.
He made his way toward a particular establishment near the harbor—a well-maintained two-story building with colored lanterns hanging from its eaves. Music and laughter spilled from its open doorway, along with the scent of wine and perfumed oils. A carved wooden sign depicted a woman pouring wine, the universal symbol for establishments of this nature across multiple civilizations and time periods.
The madam recognized him immediately as he stepped through the doorway, though it had been nearly a year since his last visit.
"The traveler returns!" she exclaimed, moving forward to greet him with the effusive welcome reserved for wealthy patrons. "We had begun to fear you had found more appealing harbors."
Bobby smiled, allowing himself to slip into the persona he adopted in these situations—that of a prosperous trader who visited the region infrequently but generously.
"Anthea," he greeted her, accepting the kiss she placed on each of his cheeks. "Your establishment remains unrivaled in my extensive travels."
The madam—a handsome woman in her forties who had, through shrewd business acumen, risen from courtesan to owner—preened at the compliment. "You flatter an old woman," she said, though they both knew she thrived on such praise.
"I speak only truth," Bobby replied, pressing several gold pieces into her palm. "The usual arrangement?"
Anthea's eyes widened slightly at the amount—significantly more than his previous visits had warranted. "Of course," she said, quickly tucking the gold away. "Though I must inform you that several of the girls you favored previously are no longer with us. Eudora married a wine merchant, and Thais accompanied a nobleman to Athens."
"I'm pleased for them," Bobby said, and meant it. He had always paid the women he spent time with far more than the standard rate, hoping to provide them with options beyond their current circumstances. That some had used this advantage to secure better situations satisfied the small part of him that still concerned itself with individual human outcomes.
"Perhaps you would care to make a new selection?" Anthea gestured toward the main room, where several young women lounged on cushions, entertaining the evening's clients with conversation, music, and the promise of more intimate activities.
Bobby surveyed the women with clinical detachment, noting their features, ages, and the subtle indicators of their health and temperaments. None particularly captured his interest until his gaze fell upon a figure partially hidden in a shadowed corner—a slender young woman with dark hair and a posture that suggested she was not entirely comfortable in these surroundings.
"The new one," he said, nodding in her direction. "In the blue tunic."
Anthea followed his gaze, her expression turning cautious. "Ah, Lysandra. She has only been with us for two weeks. Still rather... unpolished." She studied Bobby's face. "She lacks the sophisticated skills your previous selections possessed."
"Her inexperience is of no concern," Bobby replied, understanding the subtext of Anthea's warning. "In fact, I find it refreshing."
"As you wish." Anthea hesitated, then added in a lower voice, "She came to us from a village that was raided. Her family could not pay their tributes to the new warlord who claims their territory."
"Tartaros?" Bobby asked, though he already knew the answer.
"You've heard of him, then? They say he is blessed by the gods—invulnerable in battle and capable of inspiring absolute loyalty with merely a glance." Anthea shuddered. "His armies grow larger with each passing season."
"The gods have nothing to do with it," Bobby muttered, his gaze still fixed on the young woman. With a start, he realized what had drawn his attention—there was something in her demeanor, a quiet dignity despite her circumstances, that reminded him faintly of Galea.
The recognition unsettled him. He had come here specifically to distract himself from thoughts of his absent protégé, not to seek out reminders of her. Yet now that he had noticed the similarity, however superficial, he found himself even more determined to spend the evening with this particular woman.
"I'll take a private room," he informed Anthea. "And wine. The best you have."
"Of course." The madam moved toward the young woman, speaking quietly in her ear. The girl glanced up, meeting Bobby's gaze across the room with a mixture of apprehension and resignation.
While Anthea made the arrangements, Bobby moved to the bar area where a heavyset man was dispensing wine from large clay amphorae into smaller jugs and cups. He ordered a quantity that would have incapacitated an ordinary human, knowing that his nanite-enhanced metabolism would process the alcohol with minimal effect unless he consciously allowed himself to experience intoxication.
"Quite a thirst," the barkeeper commented as he filled a large jug.
"A long journey deserves a proper celebration," Bobby replied, placing several silver coins on the counter—far more than the wine was worth.
By the time Anthea returned, he had consumed two cups of the potent wine, deliberately slowing his body's automatic processing of the alcohol to allow a pleasant warmth to spread through his system.
"Lysandra awaits you in the cypress room," Anthea informed him, nodding toward a staircase at the rear of the establishment. "I've sent up the wine and some food as well."
Bobby inclined his head in thanks and made his way upstairs. The hallway was dimly lit by oil lamps placed in wall niches, casting flickering shadows that danced across the plastered surfaces. He found the designated room easily enough—its door decorated with a painted cypress tree.
Entering without knocking, Bobby found the young woman—Lysandra—standing nervously by a window that overlooked the harbor. The room was one of the establishment's better offerings, with a large bed covered in dyed linens, several cushioned chairs, a small table bearing a jug of wine and a platter of food, and a copper basin for washing.
"You may sit," Bobby said, closing the door behind him.
The girl turned at the sound of his voice, her dark eyes wide with unconcealed anxiety. "Thank you, master," she replied softly, perching on the edge of a chair.
"Not master," Bobby corrected, pouring wine into two cups. "Just a visitor passing through."
He studied her more carefully now that they were alone. She was younger than he had initially thought—perhaps seventeen or eighteen, close to Galea's age. Her features were delicate but showed signs of recent hardship—a certain thinness to her face, shadows beneath her eyes suggesting nights of insufficient sleep or excessive tears.
"You're afraid," he observed, handing her a cup of wine.
Lysandra accepted it with trembling fingers. "I... I am still learning what is expected," she admitted. "Anthea says I must improve quickly or be sold to a less reputable house."
Bobby felt a flicker of disgust—not at the girl, but at the system that had reduced her to this position. It was a familiar disgust, one he had experienced countless times across countless civilizations. Humans exploiting humans, the strong preying upon the weak, power corrupting those who wielded it. Always the same patterns repeating endlessly through time.
"Forget Anthea's instructions for tonight," he said, settling into a chair opposite her. "I didn't select you for practiced skills or rehearsed flattery."
Lysandra looked up, confusion evident in her expression. "Then... what do you wish of me?"
"Conversation, for a start," Bobby replied, gesturing for her to drink. "And honesty. I get enough deception in my regular dealings."
The answer seemed to puzzle the young woman further, but she took a cautious sip of the wine. "What would you have me speak of?" she asked.
"Your village," Bobby suggested. "The one Tartaros raided."
Lysandra's face clouded. "There is little to tell that isn't being repeated across dozens of settlements. His warriors came at dawn. They demanded tributes of grain, livestock, and gold." Her fingers tightened around the wine cup. "When the village elders explained we had barely enough to survive the coming winter, the warriors began taking people instead—young men for their army, young women for..." She did not finish the sentence.
"And your family couldn't protect you," Bobby concluded.
"My father tried," Lysandra said, a flash of defiance breaking through her submissive demeanor. "They killed him for it. My mother offered herself in my place, but they said she was too old." Her voice caught. "I don't know what became of her or my younger brothers after I was taken."
Bobby nodded, unsurprised by the account. It matched the pattern of Tartaros's conquests that he had observed—efficient, ruthless, and designed to eliminate resistance through exemplary violence while acquiring resources for his expanding army.
"Tartaros himself was there?" he asked, though he already knew the answer from his surveillance.
"Yes," Lysandra replied, her voice dropping to a whisper. "He watched it all from atop his horse. Never speaking, just... observing. But his eyes—" She shuddered. "They glowed, like coals in a forge. When he looked at you, it felt as if your will was being drained away."
Bobby suppressed a grimace. The psionic abilities Tartaros had developed on the island were clearly strengthening rather than diminishing with time—something that contradicted the pattern observed in most former inhabitants of Atlantea. It suggested an unusual adaptability in the young warlord's neurological structure, one that Bobby had suspected but had been unable to fully assess before Tartaros's departure.
"And from there, you were brought to Massilia? To this house?" Bobby prompted, refilling both their cups.
Lysandra nodded. "I was transported with other captives. Some were sold to landowners as field workers, others to wealthy households as servants. The... prettier ones were brought here." Her cheeks flushed with shame. "Anthea paid three silver pieces for me."
"Three pieces," Bobby repeated, unable to keep the edge from his voice. A human life valued at little more than the cost of a decent workhorse. "Pathetic."
Lysandra misinterpreted his disgust. "I'm sorry if I disappoint you," she said quickly. "Anthea says with proper training, I could command a higher price."
"I wasn't referring to you," Bobby clarified, softening his tone. "The disgust was for the traders, not their merchandise."
The young woman seemed slightly reassured, though still wary. She took another sip of wine, its effects beginning to show in the slight relaxation of her posture and the faint flush spreading across her olive skin.
"You speak strangely," she observed with newfound boldness. "Your accent... I cannot place it."
"I've traveled widely," Bobby replied, the standard explanation he offered when people noticed the subtle peculiarities in his speech. "One picks up various influences."
"Are you a merchant? Anthea said you trade in rare goods."
"Among other things," Bobby said vaguely, unwilling to elaborate on his fictional persona. He had already spent more time on preliminary conversation than he had intended. The wine and the girl's presence were reminders of his original purpose in coming to Massilia—physical distraction from thoughts that had begun to trouble him on the island.
Setting aside his cup, Bobby rose from his chair and moved toward Lysandra. She tensed visibly as he approached, her earlier ease evaporating.
"Stand up," he instructed, his voice neither harsh nor particularly gentle.
Lysandra obeyed immediately, setting her own cup on a small table beside her chair. She kept her eyes downcast, hands clasped before her in what she had likely been taught was an appropriately submissive posture.
"Look at me," Bobby said.
When she raised her eyes to his, he saw fear there, but also a flash of something else—a spark of defiance or perhaps resilience that had not been extinguished by her recent traumas. It was that spark, he realized, that had reminded him of Galea—that fundamental unwillingness to be broken by circumstance.
Pushing the comparison from his mind, Bobby reached out and touched her face, his fingers tracing the curve of her jaw with clinical detachment. Lysandra remained perfectly still, though he could feel the rapid acceleration of her pulse beneath his fingertips.
"I won't hurt you," he told her, recognizing the source of her fear. "I find pain unimaginative."
Some of the tension left her shoulders. "Anthea said you were different from the others."
"Did she?" Bobby raised an eyebrow, curious despite himself. "In what way?"
"She said you treat the girls well. Pay generously. Never leave marks." Lysandra paused, then added with a hint of wonder, "She said Thais cried when you didn't return for months."
The information was both amusing and vaguely disturbing. Bobby had never considered how his periodic visits might be perceived by the women he selected. He had always viewed these interactions as simple transactions—physical release in exchange for payment, with additional compensation provided out of his vestigial sense of fairness rather than any particular attachment.
That one of them might have developed emotional expectations had not occurred to him, though in retrospect, it seemed obvious. Humans formed attachments easily, particularly in situations involving physical intimacy.
"Anthea talks too much," he said dismissively, returning to the present moment. His hands moved from Lysandra's face to her shoulders, then down her arms in a light, assessing touch. "Are you uncomfortable with my proximity?"
The directness of the question seemed to surprise her. "I... no, not exactly," she answered cautiously. "It's what I'm here for, isn't it?"
"That doesn't answer my question," Bobby pointed out. "Being resigned to something isn't the same as being comfortable with it."
Lysandra appeared to consider this distinction carefully. "I don't know you," she finally said. "But you've been kind so far, which is more than I expected." She met his gaze directly, that spark of defiance flaring briefly. "And I have little choice, regardless of my comfort."
The blunt honesty pleased him more than any practiced seduction could have. "There's always choice," Bobby contradicted her. "Even in the most constrained circumstances." He stepped back slightly. "For instance, you could refuse me now, and I would respect that decision."
Lysandra's eyes widened with disbelief. "And lose the payment? Anthea would beat me senseless."
"Not if I paid anyway," Bobby countered. "Which I would."
This possibility seemed to genuinely startle the young woman. She stared at him with a mixture of confusion and growing curiosity. "Why would you do that?"
"Because I can," Bobby replied simply. "Because money means nothing to me, and coercion holds no appeal."
Lysandra studied his face, searching for deception and apparently finding none. "You are a very strange man," she finally said.
Bobby laughed, the sound rusty from disuse. "You have no idea."
A tentative smile curved Lysandra's lips—the first genuine expression he had seen from her. It transformed her features, hinting at the person she might have been before captivity and fear had become her constant companions.
"If it is truly my choice," she said slowly, "then I choose to fulfill our arrangement. But..." She hesitated. "Gently. Please."
Bobby nodded, acknowledging both her decision and the condition attached to it. "Remove your tunic," he instructed, his voice neutral.
Lysandra complied with less hesitation than before, unfastening the fibula brooch that held the blue garment at one shoulder and allowing it to slide down her body to pool at her feet. Beneath, she wore only a thin under-tunic of unbleached linen that did little to conceal her slender figure.
"That too," Bobby said, watching her reactions with detached interest.
After a brief moment of uncertainty, Lysandra pulled the under-tunic over her head, leaving herself completely nude before him. Her body showed signs of her recent hardships—ribs more prominent than they should have been, hip bones jutting sharply—but retained a youthful resilience that suggested she would recover quickly with proper nutrition.
Bobby allowed himself to respond physically to the sight, consciously releasing the control he typically maintained over his body's autonomic functions. Desire, like pain or intoxication, was a sensation he could choose to experience or suppress at will—one of the many modifications his nanite physiology permitted.
"You're not undressing," Lysandra observed, her arms crossed self-consciously over her breasts.
"Not yet," Bobby confirmed. He moved forward again, gently pulling her arms away from her body. "Don't hide yourself. There's no need for shame here."
His hands explored her body with methodical thoroughness, mapping the contours of her shoulders, the curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist, and the flare of her hips. Lysandra remained still under his touch, her breathing quickening but her expression guarded, as if uncertain how to interpret his clinical approach.
"Do you do this often?" she ventured when the silence had stretched uncomfortably long.
"Define 'often' for a being who perceives time differently than you do," Bobby thought but didn't say. Instead, he answered, "Occasionally. When the mood takes me."
His hands continued their exploration, one sliding around to the small of her back while the other traced the line of her collarbone. When his thumb brushed across her nipple, Lysandra gasped softly—a sound of genuine response rather than the practiced moans he suspected Anthea had instructed her to produce.
"Good," he murmured. "React honestly. I have no interest in theatrics."
He bent his head and replaced his thumb with his mouth, drawing the hardening bud between his lips. Lysandra's hands came up instinctively, hovering uncertainly before settling lightly on his shoulders. When he didn't object to the touch, her fingers tightened, clutching the fine linen of his tunic.
Bobby worked methodically, applying his extensive knowledge of human physiology to gradually dismantle Lysandra's nervous tension. He knew precisely how much pressure to apply, which nerve clusters would produce the most pleasure when stimulated, how to build arousal through carefully calibrated touch. It was a science to him, albeit one he found occasionally satisfying to practice.
When he felt the last of her rigidity dissolve under his ministrations, replaced by genuine responsiveness, he guided her backward toward the bed. Lysandra went willingly, her earlier fear now supplanted by curiosity and growing desire.
"Now you may undress me," Bobby permitted as they reached the edge of the bed.
Lysandra's hands moved to the clasp of his cloak, unfastening it with fingers that trembled slightly—from nervousness or arousal, he couldn't determine. She laid the woolen garment aside carefully, then reached for the belt that secured his tunic. Once loosened, she pulled the garment up and over his head, exposing his torso.
Her sharp intake of breath was expected—his body, maintained in perfect condition by the nanites that permeated every cell, appeared too flawless to be entirely natural. While he had considered introducing deliberate imperfections to make his human disguise more convincing, Bobby had ultimately decided against it. The minor attention his appearance sometimes attracted was insufficient to warrant the effort.
"You're beautiful," Lysandra whispered, her fingertips hovering just above his chest as if afraid to touch.
Bobby found the assessment mildly amusing—beauty being an entirely subjective and culturally determined concept—but accepted it as the compliment it was intended to be. "You may touch," he granted permission.
Her hands explored his chest and shoulders with tentative wonder, tracing the contours of muscles that had been designed for optimal efficiency rather than aesthetic appeal. When her fingers brushed across a nipple, mimicking his earlier touch, Bobby allowed himself to respond with a subtle intake of breath.
"Does that please you?" Lysandra asked, gaining confidence from his reaction.
"It does," Bobby confirmed, seeing no reason to dissemble. Physical pleasure was physical pleasure, regardless of who provided the stimulation. That was, after all, the point of this entire exercise—to experience the simple, uncomplicated sensations of the flesh as a respite from the more complex considerations that had been occupying his mind.
Encouraged, Lysandra grew bolder, her hands moving lower to the waistband of the simple linen undergarment that was his final covering. She hesitated there, glancing up at his face as if seeking permission to continue.
Bobby nodded once, and she drew the garment down, revealing his fully aroused cock. Again, that sharp intake of breath, though this time mingled with a hint of apprehension.
"It's so..." she began, then faltered.
"Proportional to my height," Bobby supplied dryly, aware that his physical dimensions exceeded the average for this time period and region. Another consequence of his designed physiology, which had been optimized in all respects.
Lysandra nodded, her eyes wide. "Will it... hurt?"
The question, asked with such genuine concern, sparked an unexpected thread of something almost like tenderness in Bobby's chest. This girl, despite everything that had been done to her, still retained enough self-preservation to ask such a practical question rather than simply submitting to whatever might come.
"No," he assured her. "I told you I find pain unimaginative. If something doesn't feel good, tell me to stop."
Relief washed over her features. "Thank you," she said simply.
Bobby guided her onto the bed, positioning her against the pillows before joining her. Rather than immediately mounting her, as she clearly expected, he stretched out beside her and resumed his methodical exploration of her body. His hands and mouth worked in concert, identifying and exploiting the areas that produced the strongest responses.
When his fingers trailed down her stomach and between her thighs, Lysandra tensed momentarily before relaxing into his touch. Bobby found her only slightly damp—aroused but not yet fully ready. He set about correcting this with deliberate skill, his fingers circling and stroking her clit with precisely calculated pressure.
"Oh!" Lysandra gasped, her hips lifting involuntarily toward his hand. "That's..."
"Pleasant?" Bobby suggested, maintaining the steady rhythm of his touch.
"Yes," she breathed, her eyes wide with surprise. "I didn't know it could feel..."
Bobby increased the pressure slightly, watching her reactions with clinical interest. "Previous clients were inconsiderate of your pleasure?"
Lysandra's face flushed. "There haven't been... many. But they didn't..." She gestured vaguely toward his hand between her legs. "Do this."
"Unfortunate for them," Bobby commented. "Mutual pleasure is more efficient."
He continued his ministrations, gradually introducing a finger inside her now-slick pussy, then a second, stretching her slowly while his thumb continued to work her clit. Lysandra's breathing grew increasingly ragged, her hands clutching at the bedlinens as unfamiliar sensations built within her.
When he felt her inner muscles beginning to contract around his fingers, Bobby withdrew his hand, ignoring her small sound of disappointment. He positioned himself between her thighs, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance.
"Look at me," he instructed.
Lysandra's eyes, dark with arousal and a hint of apprehension, met his.
"Remember what I said. If anything hurts, tell me to stop."
She nodded, biting her lower lip as he began to push forward. Despite his preparation, she was still tight, her body resisting the unfamiliar intrusion. Bobby moved with careful control, allowing her to adjust to each increment of penetration before continuing.
When he was fully seated within her, Bobby paused, giving her time to accommodate his size. Lysandra's face showed a mixture of discomfort and pleasure, her breathing shallow but not distressed.
"Alright?" he queried, maintaining his position without movement.
"Yes," she confirmed after a moment. "It's... strange. But not bad."
Bobby began to move then, establishing a slow, steady rhythm. He kept his thrusts measured, his control absolute, watching Lysandra's face for signs of pain or discomfort. Gradually, as her body adjusted to his presence, her expression shifted toward genuine pleasure, small gasps escaping her lips with each carefully angled thrust.
"That's it," Bobby encouraged, noting the flush spreading across her chest and throat—a physiological indicator of authentic arousal rather than performance. "Accept the sensation without judgment."
He increased his pace slightly, his cock filling her completely with each thrust. His hands moved to her hips, adjusting her position to deepen the penetration, ensuring contact with the internal structures that would heighten her pleasure.
Lysandra's responses grew more pronounced, her gasps becoming moans, her hands moving from the bedlinens to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as she sought something to anchor herself against the building sensations.
Bobby felt his own pleasure building—a straightforward biological response he could have suppressed had he chosen to, but saw no reason to deny. The friction of her tight pussy around his cock, the visual stimulus of her aroused body beneath his, the sounds of her pleasure—all combined to create a perfectly satisfactory physical experience.
When he sensed Lysandra approaching climax—her inner muscles beginning to contract irregularly, her breathing turning to short, sharp pants—Bobby increased both pace and force, driving into her with deliberate precision. His thumb found her clit again, adding direct stimulation to push her over the edge.
"Oh gods," Lysandra cried out, her back arching as orgasm washed through her. "Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods!"
Bobby continued thrusting through her climax, prolonging it with measured strokes while allowing his own release to approach. When Lysandra's contractions began to subside, he permitted himself to cum, his cock pulsing inside her as he emptied himself with a low grunt of satisfaction.
For a moment, they remained joined, Lysandra's eyes wide with the discovery of pleasure she had not known existed, Bobby's mind momentarily empty of everything except the simple biochemical satisfaction of release. Then he withdrew carefully and moved to lie beside her, his body cooling rapidly as his nanites processed the neurochemicals of orgasm and returned his systems to baseline function.
Lysandra turned to look at him, wonder and confusion mingling in her expression. "Is it always like that?" she asked softly.
"It can be," Bobby replied, knowing the reality was far more variable. "With the right approach."
A small frown creased her brow. "Anthea didn't teach us about... I mean, she said our purpose was to please men, not to..." She gestured vaguely at her own body.
"Anthea's perspective is limited," Bobby said flatly. "Pleasure is more sustainable when mutual. It's simple efficiency."
Lysandra seemed to consider this, her fingers idly tracing patterns on the sheet between them. "Will you visit me again, next time you're in Massilia?" she asked, a wistful note in her voice that suggested she already anticipated disappointment.
"Perhaps," Bobby said noncommittally, though he suspected he would not. He made it a practice never to select the same woman twice in this establishment, precisely to avoid creating expectations or attachments. Thais's reported tears at his absence had already confirmed the wisdom of this policy.
They lay in silence for a time, Lysandra gradually drifting into a light doze while Bobby stared at the ceiling, his mind already beginning to process the information he had gleaned from their conversation about Tartaros and his expanding territory.
Eventually, Bobby rose from the bed and dressed himself, movements deliberate and silent to avoid disturbing the sleeping girl. From his pouch, he extracted several more gold pieces than the evening's services warranted, placing them on the small table where they would be immediately visible when Lysandra awoke.
It was enough to purchase her freedom from Anthea's establishment, should she choose to use it that way. Whether she would make that choice was beyond his concern. Bobby had long ago learned the futility of trying to direct individual human destinies. He provided opportunities; how they were used was not his responsibility.
As he prepared to leave, Lysandra stirred, her eyes opening to find him fully dressed and clearly departing.
"You're leaving already?" she asked, voice thick with sleep.
"I've business elsewhere," Bobby replied, the standard excuse he offered in such situations.
Lysandra sat up, the sheet falling away to expose her bare breasts. She made no move to cover herself, instead regarding him with a directness that suggested their brief intimacy had dispelled much of her earlier fear.
"Will you really not return?" she asked, having apparently sensed the evasion in his earlier response.
Bobby considered lying—it would be simpler, cleaner—but something in her expression demanded honesty. "No," he admitted. "I won't."
Her face fell slightly, but she nodded in acceptance. "I thought not." Her gaze moved to the table where he had placed the gold. "That's too much," she observed.
"Use it well," was all Bobby said in response. Then, moved by an impulse he didn't bother to analyze, he added, "Anthea doesn't own you. Remember that."
He left without further farewell, making his way downstairs where the evening's revelries continued unabated. Anthea spotted him from across the room and hurried over, her expression a mixture of concern and calculation.
"Leaving so soon?" she inquired. "Was the girl not satisfactory? I warned you she was still unpolished—"
"She was fine," Bobby cut her off. "More than adequate."
Anthea studied his face, clearly trying to determine whether he was merely being polite or genuinely satisfied. Whatever she saw apparently reassured her, for she smiled broadly.
"Excellent! And when might we expect you to grace us with your presence again? Perhaps in a month or two, when you return from your trading voyage?"
"Not for some time," Bobby replied vaguely. "My travels take me far afield."
Anthea's smile dimmed slightly, but her professional demeanor remained intact. "We shall eagerly anticipate your eventual return, then."
Bobby nodded and moved toward the exit, suddenly impatient to be away from the crowded establishment with its din of human voices and the mingled scents of wine, perfume, and sweat. What had seemed a welcome distraction earlier now felt claustrophobic, the press of ordinary human concerns and desires oppressive after the relative peace of Atlantea.
Outside, the night air was cool and damp with sea mist rolling in from the harbor. Bobby strode through nearly empty streets, avoiding the few late revelers who staggered between taverns. He had no particular destination in mind—merely the desire to put distance between himself and the brothel.
Eventually, he found himself at the outskirts of the settlement, near the same secluded grove where he had materialized hours earlier. It would be a simple matter to teleport back to the island now, to return to his surveillance and experiments, to the quiet solitude that had been his primary state for so long before Galea's arrival had disrupted it.
Yet Bobby found himself reluctant to depart just yet. The physical release he had sought had been achieved, but it had failed to provide the distraction he had hoped for. If anything, his thoughts were more focused on Galea than before, drawn by the unconscious comparison his mind had made between her and Lysandra.
He settled on a fallen log at the edge of the grove, staring up at the night sky where unfamiliar constellations wheeled slowly overhead. Unfamiliar to humans of this era, at least—Bobby recognized them easily, having observed their gradual shifts over countless millennia.
"Not like you. Difference," he said aloud, though there was no one to hear. "But shine all the same, shimmering in the darkness."