Favorite Son

I have not forgotten that he promised to punish me.

But perhaps he has.

Even so, I have been avoiding him since we returned to the mountain. It is not so difficult. I spend much time with Agelaus and with my foster-sisters. Hector appears to be off somewhere with Tolemus, looking to the lie of the land or the possibility of fortification or something else of an arcane military nature.

I have recounted to my foster-sisters several times the key points of the rescue story, leaving out the parts that are more shameful to me and to Hector as well. For the most part they believe he managed the entire rescue single-handedly. The farmer’s wife believed much the same; she had not been mistreated badly, I am glad to say, but she was greatly astounded to learn she had been saved from a dreadful fate by the first prince in all the land. On our way back to the home of my foster-father, we left her in the open arms of her own happy family. The entire nearby village turned out to greet us, care for our wounds, bathe us, feed us, feed our horses, and offer us all their possessions to show their gratitude. We did not accept this last, of course. Instead we divided the horses and the possessions of the dead marauders amongst the villagers. Hector and Tolemus disappeared for a long while in the village’s humble temple to Apollo, while I stayed in the open court and told the tale of the rescue as often as people would listen. Which was very often.

Yet Hector spoke to me not at all on the journey back, and now we are returned in my old home on Mount Ida, I have not spoken more than two words to him in as many days. And that is a pity for these days have been beautiful and I want to be with Hector. I want him to look out over the Aegean with me, and feel the fresh mountain breeze in his hair, and the sun on his shoulders. There are many lonely places where no one goes, where we could be alone. For, wondrous and beautiful as Troy is, I prefer these open places where it is more likely one will smell fresh grass rather than sewage or hearth fires.

But I am not looking forward to punishment, so here I sit behind the stables, making myself busy in fletching new arrows. I lost several in the night raid to rescue Hector. I wish he could have seen, for I seem to fare better when commanded by Tolemus. Tolemus expects less of me, or perhaps it is that he understands my level of skill and does not delude himself that I must needs possess god-like courage simply because I am a Trojan prince. I stayed in the back and eliminated the outside guards with two swiftly released arrows, piercing the throat of the second guard before he even had time to react to the strangled cry of the first. And that allowed Tolemus and his three fellow-warriors to storm the hut and kill the remainder of the kidnappers or drive them outside where I took them down with more arrows.

I want so dearly to do well in front of Hector that it makes me weak. My fear of failing in his eyes haunts me. Not out of fear of his anger, although sometimes he does frighten me, but because he deserves a better brother. Truly the best, indeed the only thing of value that I can offer him is love, and he remains reluctant to accept that in any but the most grudging way. He is deeply ashamed of our love. Perhaps he thinks I do not know. But I do. And even I find it strange, that I should love my own brother in this way. Yet we were not raised together, and if I were still Alexandros the shepherd, and Prince Hector came to visit Ida, I would have fallen in love with him all the same. It is not my fault that I turned out to be his brother. It is not I who left a defenseless babe in the wilderness to die.

My thoughts are turning in an uncomfortable direction, so I do my best to think instead about the warm, bright sun and the drowsy sound that the bees are making in the flowers. I imagine myself once again only Alexandros, though I am dressed rather finely for a shepherd. I smile wryly to myself at the notion.

A shadow blocks the sun and I look up, squinting.

It is Hector. Strangely, he appears no less menacing in a simple wrap of royal blue around his hips than he does in full armor.

I would like to flee, but that is not possible. I try to remember that Hector would not hurt me, that he has told me as much time and again. I shade my eyes, for there seems to be a golden aura around him. “Have you come to beat me?” I ask carefully.

“Do you mock me, Paris?” he returns.

I shake my head vigorously.

“We must talk,” he continues, not moving.

I hold up a newly finished arrow as some sort of explanation, or tactic of delay. “See, I am busy.”

He takes the arrow from my hand and holds it at eye level and sights along it. “Very well made,” he says. “You are a skilled archer in every way.” He returns it to me. “Come, I require privacy for our talk.”

I do not move from my comfortable place on the ground. “I like it here,” I say.

“Paris.”

It is his warning voice. I fidget with the arrow. He will only be angrier if I vacillate longer. I thrust the arrow into the dirt point-first and rise.

Seeming satisfied, Hector turns and walks away, and I follow. Were I not worried about his intentions – and I am glad to see he is not holding anything with which he might beat me – I would enjoy walking behind him. His back is very beautiful, his shoulders wide and muscled. He is substantial from every angle: even his buttocks, I think, and have to stifle a giggle. Somehow I feel Hector is not in the mood to know that I am ogling his backside.

We walk through a rock-strewn valley and into a grove of widely spaced olive trees, and finally he stops, no doubt when he feels we are well out of earshot of the farmyard. The trees are not bearing fruit yet, and the land here is of no use for grazing, so this spot is not frequented in the spring. It is a place I have often visited and loved for its tranquility. I wish Hector had picked some other place, for the memory will never be the same.

He halts so abruptly that I collide with his back and catch myself by grabbing his waist. As he does not protest, I leave my hands where they are and lean against him, pressing my cheek to the warm skin of his shoulders and closing my eyes. His smell is comforting and intoxicating.

When at last he speaks, his voice is very sad.

“I have failed you,” he begins, and pauses.

“No, Hector,” I protest softly.

“Let me speak. I have failed to teach you what is right and wrong. I have indulged you when I should have been firmer. I have failed, somehow, to make you know how a prince must behave. It did not matter so much in the safety of the city, but when we were fighting against – “ His voice breaks a little. “My failure has endangered you.”

“It was I who endangered you,” I say. It is only the truth, but it hurts a little to admit it aloud.

“The fault was not yours, it was mine. You were not taught from the day you could walk by the best warriors of Troy. You were not told from the day of your birth that you must defend a city from its enemies. I expected far too much of you, and far too soon.”

I tighten my arms around his waist. “How can you blame yourself? I am a coward, I wanted to live, that was all it was. I looked into that man’s eyes and I saw that he wanted to kill me. I wanted to live, Hector, I only wanted to live.” Tears are threatening and I try hard to hold them back. That will only make things worse – it is bad enough I am a coward and such a burden, but to cry…. No wonder Hector is ashamed of me.

“I also want you to live,” he says in a low, deep voice. “If you are ever harmed, it will be my fault. It is I who should be beaten for my failings.”

This is too much. “No, Hector, I am the one who deserves punishment. You must punish me.”

“I intend to,” he says.

In complete shock I drop my arms and back away from him. “Hector?” I squeak. He wants to punish me? After all that?

He turns and gazes at me sorrowfully. “There is no one who can punish me,” he says. “So I will never find release from my own guilt. But as I have been too lenient with you until now, if I do not change that, you will never truly learn.”

He intends to punish me? I am still reeling from the thought. Hector rails at me constantly, it is true, yet always he softens when I touch him and speak softly to him. In my presence, he is rather like a sheep in wolf’s clothing.

But Hector is not through speaking. “And since you behave like a child, Paris, you shall be punished like a child.”

I can barely believe my ears. “Do you mean to spank me?” I ask, not bothering to keep the incredulity from my voice.

“If you behave as a child, expect to be treated as one.” And with that, as I stand there bewildered, he lifts me over his shoulder as though I were a sack of grain and carries me to a boulder that is large enough for him to sit on, and then he arranges me on his lap to his liking.

My face surely must be flaming red. I am draped over his thighs, my head hanging down, my hair brushing against the boulder, and my feet dangling absurdly. The indignity makes me glad he made us walk so far. Then he shifts aside the fabric of my tunic to expose my naked buttocks to the air.

When the first blow falls it hurts so little that I snicker. The next is much harder.

“That hurt!” I blurt out.

“You will live,” Hector says calmly, spanking me several more times while I submit meekly.

It does hurt, but not over much. By the time he stops I am hiccoughing with suppressed giggles.

Hector sighs deeply and I feel his large hand caress me. My skin feels very hot where he struck me, but the hand is soothing. Should that have aroused me? How strange.

“Hector, the blood has rushed to my head,” I say aloud.

He lifts and turns me until I am sitting in his lap, although I must squirm a little because it still stings. He draws me close and looks into my eyes.

“I am sorry that I had to punish you,” he says.

This time I cannot suppress anything and the giggles erupt. “Hector, it did not hurt, you cannot think that was much of a punishment.”

“You know I am incapable of hurting you, and yet you laugh at my attempts at discipline.”

“Oh, Hector, surely this is not your notion of discipline? If you used this sort of discipline on the warriors of Troy, I wonder how they ever became so fierce.”

“You do mock me,” he says wearily.

“I do not mock you,” I correct him, pushing a stray lock from his forehead. “I love you.” I bring our mouths together and kiss him, and after a moment’s hesitation he kisses me back. I nibble gently on his lower lip and his tongue licks my upper lip, so I open my mouth and let him slide his tongue inside. He likes to put various parts of his body in various parts of mine, and that makes me think of something I have not done yet.

I draw back and Hector makes a whimpering sound, which is very unlike him. I push back and slip from his lap.

“No,” he protests, trying to hold onto me, “we cannot; there is no oil here.”

Kneeling at his feet, I push his legs apart. “This is not what I had in mind.”

He seems doubtful, but I unfasten his long skirt and it slithers from his thighs to reveal his aroused cock. At first I lick the insides of his thighs, and I am pleased to hear Hector gasp. Then I nuzzle the velvet-soft balls with my cheek. He makes more noise. When I run my tongue up the underside of his cock he groans deeply, and I realize this is the first time I have heard him make any sound louder than a whisper when we couple. I glance up through my lashes; Hector is now leaning back on his elbows, watching me with a stunned expression. Satisfied, I close my eyes and take as much of him in my mouth as I can, trying to imitate what he does with me – rubbing with my tongue, and suckling, and sometimes biting very gently with my teeth.

I take my own arousal in my hand and begin to stroke myself as I suck him harder. My other hand squeezes the base of his cock, since it is far too big to fit into my mouth. And all the while Hector is getting louder until suddenly he grabs me by the hair and pulls my head away. I moan in distress for I meant to let him come in my mouth, but it seems Hector thinks that is wrong.

I fall back on the ground and in another moment Hector is lying on me with one hand on the back of my head, the other hand on my cock, rutting himself against me and moaning into my hair. My release happens quickly under the onslaught, and immediately thereafter Hector stills, and falls silent, and shudders hard against me, and I feel his warm moist release against my hip.

“Alexandros, my love,” he breathes, holding me so tightly that I fear my ribs may crack.

And then I do cry.

*** *** ***

As the sun begins to dip to the west, we lay together on our clothing under the olive trees. Hector teasingly calls me his little shepherd boy, and although it is wrong of him to do so, I permit it. I take a great deal of time kissing him everywhere, kissing each healed scar and the bruises from our recent adventures, and when I reach his groin I take his soft cock in my mouth and suck gently.

“I am not ready,” he laughs. “It is too soon.”

I raise my head and let his cock slip out. “But I like it this way,” I tell him.

“Why?” he asks, puzzled.

“Because,” I answer, “it fits in my mouth.”

Hector groans loudly. It seems he was wrong, for very soon he is ready again.