Take Me Home

Part 11

Paris was seated on the floor at the corner, his knees drew up to his chest and his head rested on the side wall. He didn’t care if the hard surface was bad on his tail bone; it was the coldness of the flagstone that he welcomed – it took away his pain and numbed his disgrace. Utterly miserable looking with eyeballs red and glassy from unshed tears and body hunched in defeat, he resembled a man waiting to be condemned to death.

So deeply engrossed in dark brooding that he jumped in fright when the loud click of the door being unlocked pierce the silence in the room. He had been extremely on the edge ever since Neoptolemus left him three days ago; always afraid of who might come through that portal next.

In a flash, he was on his feet. The futility of putting up any form of defense or getting out of this room unharmed caused his pulse to race. There was not a chance.

A muffled exchange of words was overheard before the door opened. Paris felt his heart pounded so hard behind his ribcage that he trembled as he waited for the person to walk in.

“Paris?” came a cheerful tone. It was Achilles wearing a happy smile on his face as if he found the favourite item that he had lost.

For a moment, the Trojan youth couldn’t recognize his master as he had shaven all his stubbles, oiled and scraped and his hair brushed to shine. Gone were the swords and armours, replaced by a ceremonial dagger hung on his belt and fine clothes and jewelries. He carried himself with kingly posture – a man not only commanded one of the greatest armies, but also a nation.

And Paris thought, perhaps Aphrodite had, at last, sent one of the gods to save him.

“Paris…” Achilles trailed off when he noticed that as he took a step towards the youth, the other backed away from him.

The smile on his face dropped when he realized something was wrong with his lover. Paris was blatantly avoiding his eyes, always looking down at his bare feet. However, he caught the youth watching him uneasily from the corner of his brown eyes.

This new attitude confused Achilles. He couldn’t imagine what could have occurred that could change this youth so drastically. He had hoped that once on land, Paris would fare better. Before coming over, he was expecting a very angry young lover especially after being neglected for so long. He had even rehearsed many times in his mind how he was going to cajole and spoil his prince-of-heart.

Perhaps Paris was angry with him. On the ship, the youth had proved to be a stubborn child and avoided him a lot. Taking this into consideration, Achilles started blaming himself for not coming to see his lover sooner and putting him in a better room than this shabby prison. He should have attended to his needs earlier and by making sure that he was comfortably settled in this foreign land that was his first time coming. He had not been a good host.

“I’m so sorry, Paris. Please forgive me for not coming to find you sooner. It is my fault for abandoning you all alone. There were so many things to attend to that I had completely forgotten. Oh Mighty Zeus, I am horrible. How could I have forgotten you,” Achilles babbled and he had never babbled in his life. He smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. What happened to the speech of apology he had been rehearsing all morning?

“It is all right, master,” Paris stopped him. His voice was soft and timid. “I was a prince once and I knew the duties one must attend to.”

It never occurred to him that Achilles would ever come back for him. He had been wretchedly dreading these past days that Patroclus and Neoptolemus would turn him into a common courtesan of the household, forced to serve anyone they sent to his room as punishment and revenge for stealing Achilles. (1)

“Please, Paris. You should start calling me Achilles. Am I not your lover?”

The master and slave terms did not sit well with the man especially when he had fallen in love with this ‘slave’. However, it was not wrong for Paris to think himself as one since he had whisked him away as his war prize and that established the youth as part of his possession without any conditions tied to him as a hostage would require. Despite the freedom given to Paris to roam about Phythia as he wished, he could not leave its shore. Therefore, he could not argue he was not Paris’ master because Paris had no freedom.

Paris mistrusted the man now. He couldn’t believe he was anything else besides a slave to satisfy everyone’s whim. Those words were spoken only to sweeten the fantasy they were playing, a dream that would crumble when the hot, morning sun burned it to ashes.

After so long of not seeing each other Achilles missed Paris terribly. He took a step forward and noticed that Paris shifted away again. Undaunted, because he wanted so much to hold Paris that he grabbed the youth into his arms and embraced him tightly. He felt all his true feelings of love – pure and raw – poured out from him and he conveyed them through their physical contact.

He had half-expected Paris to struggle in his arms like all angry lovers would in a fight, yet strangely enough, the youth stood stiff as a marble statue.

“Paris, are you all right?” Achilles asked with concern. He was unwilling to let go of him, enjoying this close encounter too much. Instead, he stroked the curly, silk in a soothing manner.

“Yes, master,” the youth finally answered in a small voice. That made Achilles frown – stubborn as a mule.

Letting the matter go for now, Achilles wound his arm around Paris’ small waist and drew him out of the room with him.

“Come. I want to show you to our new chamber. You will like it,” Achilles hinted at their future prospect.

This was the first time Paris had the chance to leave the room, but there was no interest in him to admire Achilles’ home. He let his head fall forward and followed his master obediently. It didn’t matter which chamber he would be moved to – bigger or smaller, luxurious or bare – they were all the same. He was the main attraction, the only piece of ‘furniture’ that would be thoroughly used.

Achilles felt really bad now and made up his mind to spend more time with Paris from now on since his duties as a prince and husband had been attended to. Perhaps with a change of scenery and some cuddling later, Paris would cheer up.

While winding through the palace, the couple received many stares, particularly targeting the young slave. Achilles felt himself puffed up in self-conceit in knowing that the others were envious of the beauty beside him. Instinctively, his hand around Paris’ waist tightened in show of possession.

“Here it is. This wing is quieter,” Achilles announced when they finally came to a stop in front of a door richly covered with carvings. He opened it and stepped aside to let Paris pass.

Skittish as a kitten, Paris squeezed through and stood in the middle of the huge chamber. As he did not know what to do next, he stayed straight as a statue, his hands to his side and his head still bowed.

It didn’t hurt so much that Paris never took the effort to look at the chamber that he had used a lot of time preparing, but the way the youth’s brown eyes flitted about as if looking for a way to escape. He closed the door gently and went straight to his lover to comfort him.

Paris jerked a little when Achilles wrapped his arms around him.

“Sshh... Paris, it’s me. Don’t be frightened,” the blond prince soothed his lover. He rubbed the youth’s thin upper arms rigorously to loosen him up. They stood like that for almost half an hour.

“You’re very nervous. I wish you would tell me.” Silence was his only answer.

“The sun must have passed our head by now. How about we have some lunch here?” Achilles changed the subject. The Trojan remained stubbornly quiet, not even move a muscle.

A frustrated sigh escaped Achilles lips unintentionally. Even in a battle field it was easier to deal with one’s opponent – how best to strike him down with a single blow. Letting go of Paris, he went out to look for a servant to carry out his instructions. When he returned a few minutes later, he found Paris sitting cross-legged on the floor.

“Paris, it’s cold on the floor. Come,” Achilles began pulling the youth from the white marble flagstones and guided him towards the two animal fur pelts that dominated the floor in front of the never-been-used fireplace. They were a pair of ferocious cats – a black jaguar and a white Siberian tiger – with their jaws agape, flashing their fangs.

Achilles settled on one of the pelts, leaning back on a stack of big cushions and pulled Paris to sit in front of him. With his arms fondly around his young lover, they enjoyed each other’s company in silence. Achilles didn’t want to push Parnymonymore in telling him his troubles. He would try to put the youth at ease first before he questioned him again. Of course, it would be quicker if he got Paris drunk, but that would worsen the matter afterwards because Paris would never trust him again.

More than half an hour later, the servants began arriving, bearing trays. A low, lion’s paw table with travertine top had to be carried by two strong men because it was heavy.

The servants were well trained and efficient, setting up the table swiftly and with perfect presentation. The center piece was a huge basket filled with colourful fruits, recently plucked from the ard.ard. Two chalices in rare indigo and gold rimmed, a gift by a neighbouring kingdom as part of a peace pact, were also set out for them.

When done, they made a bow and left, except one who stayed to serve them. However, Achilles wished to be alone with Paris so before sending the boy away, he told him to pour out the red wine.

Despite the feast spread out for them, Paris did not feel hungry. He had survived on dried bread for so many days and half the time consuming nothing that his body did not crave food any longer. Of course, Achilles did not know about this.

“Eat, my love,” Achilles used the endearment for the first time. It was nice to hear, but it made Paris even sadder. He wished it were true.

Seeing the lack of will in Paris to start, Achilles picked up an apple and placed it in his hand. Then he started to eat himself. After a while, realizing that Paris did not attempt any movements, Achilles stopped eating. He let out another frustrated sigh.

Time for a more aggressive approach.

“Drink this,” he ordered and tipped his own chalice on Paris’ mouth. The youth submitted like a good boy.

However, it wasn’t a sip. Achilles had made him drink every drop.

Paris was beginning to wonder if Achilles was purposely getting him drunk before taking him. A stab of sorrow hit his heart at this pathetic conclusion. It gave him now an excuse to consume the potent drink despite that it had been watered down half by half. At least when he was drunk, he wouldn’t notice the pain of his rape and he could be a better lover, in a clumsy way. He grabbed the other glass that Achilles was holding and swallowed as fast as he could.

“Slow down, Paris.” Achilles was surprised by the sudden changes in the youth. He had only wanted the Trojan to start with a drink before forcing him to eat.

“More,” Paris proffered the empty glass. He licked his wet lips that were stained with red. Achilles looked at him skeptically, but filled the glass anyway.

Once Paris had emptied the third glass with the blink of an eye, Achilles snatched the glass away and set it down on the table. Paris pouted that he was denied the escape to this numbing existence.

The Greek warrior was totally baffled and frustrated to the point of vexing him. He was not used to dealing with the complexity of the heart. In chagrin, he pulled his lover roughly to him and rested Paris against his chest.
Petrified Paris waited to be assaulted, but after sometime, the only touches he received were Achilles stroking his forehead. The older man had seemed to calm down again.

Even though the wine was not potent, bonsuonsumed on an empty stomach it gave the same result. Paris felt sluggish. Naturally, he snuggled against his master, burying his face into the crook of Achilles’ neck. He breathed out at length as if letting go of all his troubles.

“What do I have to do to make you happy, Paris?” Achilles’ whispered to himself.

“Love me,” came a mumbled reply.

Achilles was startled and he looked down, but found Paris had already closed his eyes to sleep. The apple rolled off from his slack fingers. Did he hear right?

The youth was in dreamland and had spoken his true heart’s desire unknowingly.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

Paris woke up with a start. Above him, he saw the white, gauzy linen canopy swayed lazily in the gentle breeze. He wasn’t in the tent in Troy. He didn’t hear the voices of men laughing or conversing in different tongues, nor the clattering of metals and smell of smokes.

He tilted his head up a bit to look around the chamber and was immediately thrown into confusion when he didn’t recognize the room he was in.

The discovery of a person sleeping right next to him jolted him into fear. Dread flooded him. It couldn’t be ‘him’.

With utmost cautiousness, Paris turned to look at his bed partner. He could almost hear his sigh of relief when it was Achilles who lying beside him, lending his bicep as a pillow for his young lover. The Greek warrior had carried Paris to this bed last night when he wouldn’t wake up hours later. The poor youth hadn’t been able to have a good sleep for days so the wine had worked wonders for a frazzled bundle of nerves.

He recalled now why he was in this room. Achilles had painstakingly prepared this bedchamber for their residence.

THEIR residence. It sounded strange for two men to share the same bedchamber like a married couple, but then again, Paris wasn’t sharing the same status.

Staying in Achilles’ bedchamber would be out of the question because the warrior still had to fulfill his duty as a husband and besides, it wouldn’t be fair for Paris to be reminded that he was sharing his lover with another. The concubines’ wing would not do too as Paris was not merely a love slave. Thus, this chamber was specifically renovated for Paris’ purpose.

The morning sun was already bright in the sky, but the harshness was blocked out by the sheer curtains that draped across the balcony opening. Paris couldn’t help notice that in the soft light, Achilles’ peaceful features gave off a god-like aura, presenting him more gentle and beautiful.

Paris was fascinated by the blond eyelashes – so long and curved upwards. Small wrinkles at the end and below his eyes were signs of experience and leading the harsh life under the sun while heading his men into battle.

It was those lips that drew Paris’ attention the most. The shape and the colour were unlike any woman’s; but then again, he hadn’t noticed other men’s being too occupied with the throngs of delicate beauties wriggling their behind shamelessly to him.

Suddenly, he realized that they had never kissed. What a shame. He began imagining the taste and feel of those lips, gradually building an urge to touch them.

As if aware that he was being watched, Achilles stirred awake.

Paris was startled that the object of his fascination widened into a sleepy grin. He hadn’t realized that he had stared for so long.

Achilles was overjoyed when he found his lover watching him while he slept. It was the very vision he had seen in his mind while they were in the trireme. This was the day he had been looking forward to and hoped to wake up to everyday.

Spurred by the moment of overwhelming love, Achilles rolled on top of Paris and locked lips with him. Using one hand to cradle the back of Paris’ head and the other to cup the side of his face, the blond prince sucked gently and probed tentatively the soft, rosy flesh.

It would have been a proper thing to do to push Achilles away, but Paris didn’t. Laying pliant yet unresponsive, he surrendered to the gentle licks until his mind drifted into a field of hazy, pink daze and the tenseness in his body melted under the heavy weight of his inamorato.

Soon, Paris opened up like a shy mimosa, willingly yield to Achilles’ unspoken permission to adventure deeper. Both their hearts beat so hard that they felt each other’s through their bosoms – Paris from his unsure anticipations and Achilles thought he was only dreaming that this was really happening.

Instead of plundering and staking claims, Achilles took his time to taste and explore. The feel of the shared warmth where their tongues touched to the saliva exchanged caused young Paris to moan aloud. He had never in his entire life felt so overwhelmed from a simple kiss. He felt his whole body tingled with unnamed delight. But was this only a simple kiss?

It didn’t matter because there was no word to describe the Greek warrior’s happiness.

Paris blushed at his cry of rapture and shy at the same. He pulled away immediately and tried to hide his face.

“Don’t hide from me, Paris. This is nothing to be ashamed of. It only makes me very happy that you enjoy it,” Achilles whispered, his voice laced with lust. Unlike the numerous times he experienced where his cock would start to fill, uncannily he felt fully satisfied just to be able to kiss Paris.GentGently, he clutched Paris’ chin with his fingers and pushed it to face him. There was no mistaking now that those wide brown eyes were filled with innocent love.

“Our first kiss,” he whispered with adoration, reading Paris’ mind.

From that moment onwards, Achilles felt that he was the luckiest man alive. He had done the right decision to come home to Phythia.


(1) You can find a little story to this (side-tracked with the possibility of ‘what if?’), something that my muse badgered me about. It’s call ‘A Slave’.