A new life for Paris

He complained out loud as they both aimed their dicks towards his puckered entrance. Still, Paris angled his rear, allowing them both to adjust. Having the first one come inside, was all right. It was nothing. But he needed a little more motivation for the other one. Paris drank steadily from the honey wine, hoping it was a bottomless flask. This was seriously going to hurt in the morning. In both ends. He smirked at the double meaning, and praised himself for managing to hold on to humour in the midst of the bizarre happening.
Paris shut his eyes hard, fighting to maintain control as a jab of pain shot through his rectum as he was being stretched twice the size of a normal cock. He did not want to look at the filthy soldier beneath him, didn’t want to see the sleazy smile he knew was plastered all over the soldier’s face. This was someone outside the regular group which Paris had come to serve. It was someone new, and so was his friend which now also had found his way into Paris. He could refuse them just as little as he could refuse his regular Spartan masters. Cause that was exactly it; They were Spartans too. And that was justification enough.
Paris held on to the flask, keeping the top of the flask glued to his mouth, taking in as much wine as he could, drowning out the fear which had wrapped itself around his heart. Those within the group he belonged to, was all right. He was used to them, and knew their minds as well as bodies in and out. He hated anyone new. He hated having to adjust to new touches, not knowing what to expect. Every whore of the Spartan army belonged to a given group of soldiers. They all had specific clients. But hospitality was still the order of the day, for a various number of reasons. After two years, Paris had learned as much, and he grudgingly obeyed. His mind was on survival, stability and food. Not hospitality. Especially not when he was a whore to a foreign army in his own land. A land he was destined to inherit as king.

They’d been pumping away at his rear for a good while, when Paris finally realized the bottle was going empty. The sensation, the next to unbearable feeling in his rectum was making him crazy. There was no pleasure to be found, and Paris clung to his drunkenness and his memories, comforting himself with the thoughts of it ending soon. He longed for darkness to come and claim him – a merciful, numb darkness where he didn’t have to feel, think or do anything. Paris dug his fingernails into the ground, and steadied his arms against the pressure the two bodies – below and on top – provided as they thrust relentlessly into him. He felt rebellion blossom in his chest, every cell in his body was resenting this onslaught. The point came, when he snapped. Without thinking, he wrung himself sideways, kicking and screaming, shouting to let go of him. He could not – had no ability to stop himself – though he knew where it would end. They’d overpower him and start again, they’d beat him into unconsciousness and then rape him some more. Still, Paris had passed the point of no return. Containing his emotions which told him he did not want to do this – was impossible. He realized his legs wouldn’t carry him. He was too drunk for that, and he couldn’t see straight. The ground was swirling beneath his feet and he felt nauseous. He crawled away on hands and knees as fast as he could, but was quickly apprehended by rough hands. They grabbed him by his hair and pulled him backwards. It felt like someone had impaled his skull with metal claws, but it didn’t stop Paris from kicking and squirming. Panic had him in its grip, and he was desperate to escape what he knew now would come. He’d pissed them off, and through already treated roughly, Paris knew the companions now were about to remove their silk gloves. The wine made Paris slow, so every move he attempted to make, was parried. It made him angry, and he snarled at them like an animal.
They dragged him over to a long pole which was horizontally placed on top of wooden debris. It served as a makeshift bench. Paris was hauled on top of the pole so he had to hang across it with his buttocks exposed. He felt their greedy hands on his cheeks, and soon enough, they parted them, exposing his swollen and sore entrance. Paris could barely touch the ground with his toes. He was impossibly immobilized, and he squirmed to get away, but was held firmly in place.
“Too bad we can’t cut out your tongue a second time, whore-boy!” the eldest looking soldier growled at Paris, smacking his buttocks hard. The jolt of pain made Paris scream. He was then grabbed by the hair again, and his head was painfully pulled backwards until Paris felt the foul breath of the soldier on his ear.

“You’re a bad whore, you know, little boy. I was told to have great expectations from you, but I must say, what I have seen of your ‘skills’ so far makes me wonder if I shouldn’t just have picked any other wench instead!”

The touch of the soldier’s dagger against Paris throat was, to his surprise, something he much missed. How often did they not use their knives to torture him, pour cuts into his flesh in places where it truly would hurt but inflict no real damage? They would toy with him with their knives, yes, even cut out his tongue too, but no one had really ever offered to kill him so he could finally feel his life ebbing out from his veins. Paris longed for Tartaros, to walk the path of the underworld, to be away from his tormentors. He would never sit by the feet of the gods – he knew as much for having wreaked havoc upon his own city, his father’s kingdom –yet, it would at least be a different kind of life, a different kind of torture.
The midnight chill was beginning to feel like a trillion of tiny razor blades, and he felt the soldier find his way into Paris’ entrance, all the while holding the blade against the boy’s throat.
Why didn’t he just lean forward onto the blade and end it all? Paris told himself. Before he knew it, he had looked to the left, bent a little forward and swung his neck to the right. The Aegean sea lay before him as far as the eye could see, and high above the horizon shone the crescent moon of Apollo. He felt the searing pain, then something warm trickling down on his chest.

As darkness closed in on him, he registered a commotion around him. He couldn’t help but to smile though. Soon, he could go looking for Helen. She was bound to be somewhere in Tartaros as well. Oh, what happy times they would have.