One Little Mistake

CONQUEST
Disclaimer: I'm just a poor, slightly psychotic scriptwriter. I don't know or own them, so don't sue me. All you'll get is pocket lint.
Beta: Melanie


I should have expected the storm of chaos that sweeps though the camp at the news of Paris' capture and my leaving. Although I should have, I did not. Not that it mattered. My prize is waiting for me in my tent. That damned prince who has been haunting my dreams; awake or asleep he reigns over my thoughts, but now it's my turn to dominate.

He sits in my chair, the massive carved oak that my father gifted me with when I left on this voyage. He is still bound and gagged, but his matchless brown eyes h wih with fire. The fear I saw in his eyes earlier is gone, replaced by an unspoken challenge. One that I cannot refuse, nor do I want to. His very presence, the scent of him burns in my blood and I want nothing more than my hands on his flesh - to taste, to devour what is now rightfully mine, that which I have claimed.

The noise outside my tent distracts me, and I turn away with a feral snarl. It is Agamemnon and Menelaus - those two again. Did I not make myself plain enough? Let them play at their games of honor and revenge; it means nothing to me. It never did. I hear Agamemnon bellowing my name, his rage puny compared to mine. I want to ignore him but I know from long experience that I will get no peace until he is silenced. If he is smart - not something to count on - the silence will not be for eternity. I will brook no other delays.

"What is it that you want, Agamemnon?" I thunder, exiting my tent with a rushed flurry of fabric and golden hair, " I thought my words were clear enough for even a simpleton to understand."

"You fool!" Agamemnon bellows in my face, "You cannot just leave. We have a war to fight. This changes nothing."

"For you," I counter, "Not for me. Go home, Agamemnon. Go home before your wife forgets that she has a husband and replaces you in more ways than her bed."

Now he is really furious. Rumors arrive every day concerning Klytemnestra and her young lover Aegisthos. Agamemnon tries to insist they are no more than rumors but everyone knows the truth. I cannot resist throwing it in his face, which is now turning purple with rage. Odysseus watches us from a distance, a subtle smile on his weathered face. That old fox. Perhaps he has planned this from the beginning. He knows my desire for Paris, has known since that meeting in Priam's throne room. I cannot fathom that someone as smart as Odysseus could confuse a blonde woman with a dark haired prince.

Menelaus chimes in from his brother’s right, "I have a claim on Paris. By rights he belongs to me for what he's stolen from me."

There is truth to logic; Menelaus is a fool. How dare he lay claim to what is mine! Now he wastes my time with his incompetence. I see Odysseus in the distance shaking his head and sighing. This is going to take a lot of fast talking on his part at this point to save Menelaus' life. I wonder why he bothers.

I bend my best glare in Menelaus' direction and he quails, shrinking back behind his brother. Odysseus has a hand on both brothers' arms. He speaks softly, averting their attention from me. This is fine by me, as my own awareness steers toward my generals while they approach; confusion is set on their faces.

"Have the men make ready to break camp at daybreak,” I order, ”I would be ready to leave these shores by midday. We are going home."

"Yes, my lord," they answer without further concern for the state of unrest in the camp. Others wish to question me but their obedience is too deep. They will do what I order without hesitation.

I turn to the guards posted outside my tent door. "See that I am not disturbed. Let no one save Patroclus past you without my permission."

They nod, pressing their fists to their chests and I am satisfied. I throw aside the flap to the tent and let it fall behind me. He is still there, his head held high with a trace of arrogance on his flawless face. I feared that he would be gone, that this is a dream sent by the gods to torment me. As if I am not tormented enough. Strange to think I fear anything; I never have before.

The sight of him is all I need; a frenzy of lust rages through my body and my brain is on fire with it. No more delays. I stride over to him and grasp his biceps in my large hands, pulling him roughly from the chair. In one smooth motion I rip the gag from his mouth and press my lips to his in a bruising kiss, one hand wraps around his slender waist, the other tangles in his dark curls. Paris tries to pull back, his head shaking. I tighten my grip in his hair and swallow his whispered protest. My tongue demands entrance and with reluctanis mis mouth opens in order to give me what he cannot deny. It is sweeter than the ambrosia of the gods, more tender than a mother's bosom. Desire burns deep within me and I grip him tighter, devouring him, forcing myself deeper into him and I explore every inch of that luscious mouth.

Paris makes no sound, allowing me to do what I will. He knows it is futile for him to struggle; my hold on him is too tight. Greed is a powerful emotion; one that I cannot hide from and I refuse to let go. For seven long years I have waited for this moment, to control the young prince in my arms and bend him to my will. As I pull away slowly I savor his sweetness, roaming my eyes over every curve and contour of his body. The valley of flesh that wanders from his strong jaw line down to the delicate expanse of his neck, but the dark blue tunic hampers my ability to see past that which I long for. Quickly, I release his head and grasp the front of his tunic. I jerk downward and the sheer fabric tears easily, granting me the full sight of his beauty. He flinches and a small gasp escapes his lips, but I ignore his sounds of protest as my eyes continue their journey down his naked chest. It glistens in the light of the lamps, rising and falling with the rhythm of his rapid breathing. I run my calloused hands down his flawless skin, caressing him gently.

"My father will come for me,” Paris says softly and lifts his chin in a show of pride.

Those are his first words to me. His voice is deep, with a soft lilt and as bewitching as the rest of him. I smile at the arrogance and defiance behind his words, as if I have anything to fear from Priam.

“Let him come.” With those words hanging in the air, again I claim his mouth in a violent kiss. A small sound of astonished anger escapes his throat, but it is muffled against my lips pressed firmly to his own.

He struggles futilely in my arms but I will not be denied, as I urge him backwards. I roughly thrust him onto the bed, his face pressed against the blankets. There is a moment of resistance, as he twists away seeking to avoid what he knows is coming. I strip away the rags of his ruined tunic and rove my hands down his back until they stop at his bound hands; his skin is as fine as porcelain and more exquisite than the rarest of Egyptian silk. My mouth immediately follows my hands and assaults his back; absorbing the taste of him, and the intoxicating scent of his splendor.

Unable to hold back the urge to sate my lust, I position myself over him. He cries out once, a muffled gasp of pain forced out between gritted teeth as I penetrate the protective ring of muscle. I know at once that a man has never loved him. He is hot and tight around me, firing my passion to new heights. I watch as his bound hands flex with each thrust and the muscles in his back ripple. The movement maddens me. I pull up his head by a hand tangled in his silken curls and bite into his neck, marking him as mine. He writhes beneath me, whether in pain or yearning I don’t care.

I pound into him, battering his body with my fury. My breathing is harsh and loud in the quiet tent with the force of my effort. Other than that first cry, he is silent. He takes the punishment I inflict on his helpless body with an unflinching courage that I cannot help but admire. The steady flow of blood down his thighs created by my violent entrance touches my legs with each drive into his body. I clench his hips, my fingernails making deep furrows in the tender flesh as I near climax, and I attack his vulnerable neck again. I savor the salty sweet taste of him on my tongue and I shudder with ecstasy. One final time, I slam into him and explode with the rapture of my climax; white stars detonate in my brain. I shout his name, harsh with triumph and pleasure fulfilled. Spent, I collapse on top of him. Paris takes my full weight without a murmur of protest while my hands drift over his moistened body, exploring what is now mine.

I pull out of him and roll to the side with a soft grunt. As my breathing slows, I hold him to me and relish in the caress of his raven curls upon my flushed skin. The thunder of his heartbeat and erratic breathing cools me to the core and I press a kiss to his ear. He trembles in my arms. I feel his fingers against my stomach and realize he is still tied. The coarse rope digs into the fair and delicate skin of his wrists. I will not give Paris the opportunity to escape, I have waited too long to have him, but there is no reason he has to spend his last night in Troy bound so uncomfortably. I roll him onto his stomach and untie the rough rope wrapped tightly around his wrists. The small sigh of relief that escapes his lips does not go unnoticed and I smile as I get from the bed to search through a chest in the corner of my tent. I feel his eyes on me as I throw things without regard for their value.

Paris is lying on his back, his hands at his side. I find him watching me with those fathomless pools of brown as I turn back to him after I find what I am looking for. They are laden with exhaustion and I sense a spark of pain, but it is easily forgotten as I take both of his hands and tie them together with a priceless scarf of Egyptian silk. He makes no move to fight me, merely watches. I lift his bound hands over his head and tie the end of the fabric to the bed frame. He tugs gently and his wrists twist with effort, but it is futile to think that he can escape. Paris is mine; I have placed my claim upon him, upon his body and his soul.

The scent of him is intoxicating and his taste lingers in my mouth as I curl up next to the young prince. His body tenses underneath mine. I cling to him; the only light in the vast darkness that is at the heart of my being. The fire of rage that has driven me with such savagery is banked to a low spark and allows me to sleep without dreams for the first time in seven years.

"Sleep well, my prince. In the morning, we leave for home," I murmur into his ear, tracing the shell with my weary tongue.

"Your home," Paris replies through gritted teeth, "not mine."

My soul thrills at the sound of his voice, ethereal and perfect. Like him.

"It will be," I promise before sleep claims me.