Take Me Home

A big, special thank you to Megan for helping me with the betaing.

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Part 3

Paris woke up blearily the next day. His eyes were quite swollen and dry from crying last night and two particular spots throbbeth vth vengeance - a pounding headache where his captor had hit to succumb him and his anus that seemed to spread up to his lower belly.

He didn’t feel like getting up; there was no where to go any way. So he stared at the ceiling of the tent and tried not to think about his present predicament. In the gentle sea wind, the soft material flapped as if it was a wing and trying to fly away.

A soft rustle made him aware that someone had entered the tent. Instinctively, he pulled the sheet that had pooled around his waist further up to his neck, to cover his body from unwanted stares.

A blond young man he had never seen before stood just inside the entrance, staring at him. Paris was self-conscious and aware that he was looking at him not with contempt or anger but something unreadable.

“I’m Patroclus. Achilles sent me,” the young man spoke crisply, as if he was not happy with the duty.

“I’m not dead yet and yes, I’m suffering,” Paris answered just as saucily. He was not in the best of mood anyway. Patroclus seemed rather taken aback by the response.

With obvious hurt and tremendous effort, Paris sat up; one hand was still holding the sheet against his chest to hide his body. He tensed suddenly when he felt something slippery dribbled from his sore hole.

“You should not try to get up yet. I will come back soon with your food,” the blond replied finally and left the tent in a hurry.

Patroclus had come grudgingly and was ready to attack the young Trojan whore if he tried to be a snotty prince just because he had shared Achilles’ bed for the night, but he certainly didn’t anticipate to be rebuked in hatred.

The young cousin of Achilles was quite hurt when the warrior had issued orders not to be disturbed for the night after acquiring the captured prince into the tent. However, seeing the obvious agony in the prince’s movements as well as his sulking features had pacified him; at least it was not mutual enjoyment.

Alone again, Paris took the advantage to wipe himself clean. He crinkled his nose, disgusted by the smell of sex on him. He fumed silently.

As Patroclus had promised, he returned fairly swiftly, holding a bowl of steaming gruel in one hand and a skin bag in the other. Paris was still seated on the bed, though in an awkward manner with one hand on the bed to support his leaning body; he could not sit on his buttocks.

Nearing him, Patroclus thrust the bowl to him and threw the skin bag onto the bed beside him. Paris looked at the bowl and then at Patroclus, in displeasure. That was when he noticed that the blond looked almost the same age as him.

“In your present condition, I would advise you to eat something soft until you get used to your position.” That comment made Paris blush evidently. He was unused to being addressed like some uncouth peasant girl.

“Just leave the bowl on the floor when you are done. Keep the water bag with you. That is your ration for today,” Patroclus added and stalked away. He was angry at Achilles for making him serve the Trojan whore and an ungrateful one at that. Worst of all, he heard his cousin discussing with Eudoras that they were going home with that ‘brat’ in tow.

Sighing dejectedly, Paris looked at the bowl on his hand. It didn’t smell too bad. He wondered if his delicate stomach could handle such food but a loud growl threw all caution away. He sat straight gingerly and picked up the silver spoon.

He dug into the gruel. It didn’t taste too bad but perhaps he was so hungry he would eat anything. Still he didn’t want to know what was inside.

Paris finished his meal quickly and set the bowl down on the sand. He then took a long drink from the water skin, quenching his thirst after the much too salty meal.

With a full stomach and quenched thirst, Paris settled himself comfortably on the bed and gradually fell asleep again. He felt contented as a cat except for the aches. However, with the way Patroclus was acting just now, he doubted he would receive any pity from him.

~*~

It was sundown when Patroclus woke him by shaking his shoulder. He cracked open an eye sleepily and annoyed to be disturbed from his comfortable slumber.

When Patroclus offered the steaming bowl of gruel that smelled almost like the same stuff he had for lunch, he wanted to decline it but Patroclus arched an eyebrow, a silent warning evoking no arguments from the prince.

Sighing irritably, Paris sat up and took the bowl. Achilles’ cousin left without another word.

Taking a closer sniff at the food in his hand, Paris decided that he was probably going to be eating the same stuff for quite a ltimetime. Wohe ahe actually have to eat that for the rest of his life too? Or was Patroclus purposely serving him the same dung just to spite him?

His temper rose again. He was a prince by birthright, not a slave, although he was suspecting that that term did not even apply to him. He was in Achilles’ bed and the man had used his body to sate his desire.

Paris hated to admit it but the word ‘whore’ entered his mind. Yes, the son of a greang -ng - Priam of Troy - was a coward, a wife stealer and now a common harlot, to warm the bed of one of their greatest enemy.

Another thought struck him - Achilles had told him that he did not want Agamemnon or Menelaus to know that he was among them. Would they hate him enough to kill him instantly? At that moment, it seemed like a better prospect than going to Phythia with Achilles serving ‘under’ him forever.

Right when the Trojan youth swallowed the last of the sticky gruel, Achilles entered the tent and he did not look happy.

For a moment, the immortal warrior seemed to have forgotten about him, going about cleaning himself of sweat and dust and ridding off his armour. Unashamed of his complete nakedness, Achilles went about his business.

Mostly, Paris was not impressed by the physique of men except Hector’s. In his childhood years when his mother had brought him with her to Apollo’s temple, he loved to stare at the total state of undress of the golden statue of Apollo. While he grew up, he would compare Hector’s to that statue just as he was doing the same right now with Achilles.

The strong, solid body, evenly tanned under the hot Mediterranean sun was drawing too much of his attention that he found himself unable to tear his eyes from. It was only when the brief flashes of images of the Greek warrior hovering above him with lust-filled eyes that appalled him enough to look away with a mixture of sadness and anger.

He wished the circumstances were different and that they had met under friendlier terms. Who knows if they would ever get together but certainly, Paris would have been able to admire the warrior without guilt.

The guest in the tent was never acknowledged until Achilles had wrapped a shawl-like linen cloth around his trim waist. Paris thought he glimpsed a deadly gleam in the grey orbs of the man and that made him shift uneasily.

With catlike gracefulness, Achilles approached the bed; his gaze never wavering. Unconsciously, Paris backed away - slowly - and trying to guess what the older man had in mind him.him. Whatever it was, he was not looking forward to it.

“Hector is moving heaven and earth, looking for you. He really believed that Agamemnon had somehow managed to kidnap you from under his nose.” His tone was stern.

Paris knew that his family would start looking for him the moment they couldn’t find him in the palace but he was unsure why Achilles was unhappy about it.

“He didn’t know you were with him yesterday, did he?” Achilles planted his right knee on the bed and bent forward to place both palms on the mattress on either side of Paris’ thighs.

Again, the youth was confused. He didn’t see the connection that was upsetting the warrior.

Revealing Paris’ presence too soon would spoil Achilles’ plan to secretly transport the prince back to Phythia. Now, the obnoxious King of Kings would breathe down his neck, pestering him to hand over the youth to them so that he could be used against Priam to surrender Troy but it would not end there because the cuckold Menelaus would still seek for reinstatement of his honour.

This boy was his war prize, his possession, and while he still lived, no one can take him away from him.

Prince Paris opened his mouth, about to ask Achilles why he was upset over the fact that his brother was looking for him but the other cut in.

“Right now, Agamemnon is turning up every rock under his feet, looking for you. He knew that someone was hiding you from him. He will not dare come into my tent because my men will not allow it but he will know that you are here. Do you know what the Mycenae King would do when he gets his hands on you?”

Paris remained silent but his face had paled slightly. He was squirming with unease.

“Good that you know. Now I think I don’t have to remind you to stay in here if you wish to continue enjoying my good hospitality.”

Achilles closed the gap to kiss Paris but the youth pulled away. Not deterred by the uncooperativeness, the older man pushed Paris roughly onto the bed and pinned him with his body. He was also quick to latch his lips on the pink pouts.

The youth put up a good struggle but he just couldn’t release his captured wrists. Knowing it was a futile effort, he lay pliant, letting Achilles touch and grope him. It sickened Paris by the way Achilles was molesting his nakedness.

Couldn’t the handsome warrior do it with morre are and affection? Paris would have relented more easily to him. Then again, may be it was better to be forced upon because it wouldn’t get into his conscience that he was ‘sleeping’ with the enemy.

“I do not enjoy a one-sided copulation. I need more participation from you,” Achilles spoke huskily.

Saying so, he yanked away the covers that separated their bodies and grabbed his limp penis. Before the young Prince could protest, he moved his grasp in rapidness, bringing Paris’ cock to full arousal.

It was a new experience to be handled by a man; Achilles’ tugs were firm and persistent, rendering him almost quite incoherent.

“St…,” Paris gasped but unable to finish his sentence; his grip on Achilles’ forearm loosened.

“What? More?” Achilles taunted and doubled his effort.

The blond smiled mischievously to witness Paris’ first arousal under his ministration. He loved watching every restraint the youth tried to use his body from enjoying the building lust. It was quite an erotic scene Paris put on when his long and well-toned legs pushed feebly against the mattress below him.

It did not take long for the young prince to achieve his completion and he slumped bonelessly on the bed, breathing heavily to fill his lungs.

Achilles continued to stroke idly his lover’s member, using his spent to lubricate the entire organ. Paris shuddered occasionally, still feeling some sensitiveness coursing through his body.

Yesterday, when Prince Hector had left the temple alone without making a fuss of looking for his younger brother, Achilles had thought it was strange. Today he found out that this spoilt, impatient youth had actually snuck out of the safety of the impenetrable fort without telling anyone. It was a show of juvenile bravado, treating war as just an adventure.

Although Achilles was glad that he had found Paris first but it was a great risk the young prince was playing. If Patroclus had done the same, he would have been worried sick too because he loved the boy too much. The mere thought of loosing someone so precious had made him angry.

Punishment was in order and Achilles would administer it on behalf of Hector. The method he had in mind was unconventional but this was his ‘lover’ and thus allowed him to do so.

The prince had no idea what was coming. He felt Achilles slipped his fingers down between his scrotum and without warning, thrust two fingers inside his tight heat. The young man hissed audibly because he had not recovered fully from the sore he received last night.

Going straight to the point, Achilles curled his fingers and rubbed on the sweet spot that he knew will make Paris see stars. The result was exactly as he wanted. The youth arched his back while his fingers clenched the sheets tightly. As a double assault, Achilles took the rapidly hardening cock into his mouth.

He sucked and nudged on Paris’ sweet spot until the youth exploded in his mouth. The warrior did not swallow the cum; instead spitting into his palm and used it to lubricate his long-neglected aching cock.

Paris panted harshly and he felt drained. He just wanted to close his eyes to fall asleep but Achilles wouldn’t let him.

“No!” he exclaimed when the man turned him around and clambered on top.

“Hurts!” Paris cried as he felt the broad sword of Achilles sheathed inside him.

Burying his face into the pillow, he wept without restrain. He didn’t want anyone outside the tent to listen to his shame, knowing that the pitiless Greek dogs would make fun of his ‘girlish’ behaviour.

Unlike last night, Achilles thrust was slower this time, enjoying the silky heat surrounding his engorged cock. He was in no hurry to achieve completion and also unwilling to hurt his lover more than he already was.

Instead of struggling to get away, the Trojan youth lay motionless. Only the grips of his fingers on the pillow and his tensed muscles around the shoulders indicated that he was trying hard to accept Achilles’ invasion.

Reaching back, the Greek lifted the pert buttocks and with his legs against the back of the slender thighs, kept him in that position. He then snaked a hand to the front and started stroking Paris’ member again.

“No. Can’t take anymore,” Paris whispered above his pillow. His voice was hoarse from crying.

In the prime of his youth, Paris was able to come despite what he protested. However, he didn’t have the energy left to stay upright and started to slump onto the bed.

What the prince didn’t realized was that when he achieved orgasm, the walls around his shaft contracted and that undid the mighty Greek warrior. He shot his load deep inside the velveteen wall before crushing his sweat-slick body on top of another.

When the wave of pleasure finally ebbed away, only then he realized that Paris had fallen asleep.

“Sleep well, my beautiful prince,” Achilles whispered softly. He rolled off his lover and pulled the thin blanket over them.