A new life for Paris

The landscape billowed underneath their legs as they ran as fast as they could. The rolling heights of the foot of the mighty Mount Ida provided plenty of shelter for flight during broad daylight. As the heavy vegetation grew scarce, the land surrounding them gave way to rolling heights, thorny bushes and steep cliffs ending abruptly. It was a minefield, and for every time they had to backtrack away from a cliffy ledge, arrows from their persecutors whipped past their shoulders.

Huge boulders provided plenty with shelter. Looking across the green landscape rolling downwards toward the beach, it looked as if the gods had been playing some game and then forgotten about their pieces. The boulders were taller than Broethevs, and given the advantage of being in the heights, the enemy was easily spotted. They looked like black sheep swarming the hillside, armed with bow and arrow and swords.
It was in these hills that Paris had discovered that he was a lover and not a fighter. Many a maiden had met with him here in the gloom of the evenings, to enjoy a short but sweet embrace in his arms. The hills were swamped with memories of such moments. Now, he tasted his own blood on his lips, his thighs shook from the effort of a sudden mountain hike, and he was short of breath, dizzy from the strain and the lack of food. Not a single word had been spoken by Broethevs so far. But Paris could not conceive why Broethevs kept dragging Paris with him by the wrist. It had to be Broethevs they wanted, not him! Whatever did he need Paris for?! Two years on the beach serving his arse to Spartan soldiers on his hands and knees, had deprived him of stamina, speed and agility. He kept tripping and falling, and Broethevs hoisted him back up on his feet time and again, feverishly holding on to Paris' wrist. Rushing up the rocky hillside was killing Paris' knees and thighs, and he was seriously out of breath. He tumbled along behind Broethevs like a rag doll with spaghetti for legs . Broethevs on the other hand was like a raging bull, paying no heed to the forty kilo heavy backpack he was wearing on his back.

The sun came to stand high on the cloudless sky at noon, and it weighed mercilessly down upon men, animals and nature. Broethevs realized that Paris' vaning strength would not do. He could always carry the boy on the top of his backpack, but then he would only make a bigger target. There were at least twelve men following them, and Broethevs concluded that if he were to elope with the dog and stay in one piece, he would have to take out the enemy before they took him.

Far beneath them, the two year old Spartan camp on the Trojan beach slowly dissolved during the morning hours. Slaves were disposed of, tents were demolished, fireplaces extinguished for the last time and the ships filled with Spartans eager to return to their homeland. Little did Paris know, that in one of the ships was Agamemnon making the final preparations for his guest which was currently hunted up a hillside. In his sleeping chamber he'd made a secret compartment which measured one point fifty meters high and two meters wide. The room was concealed with a trapdoor, and the floorboards inside were covered with the softest of bear pelts. At the far end was a solid iron ring attached to the pole which extended from the deck below. it would ensure extra security so his little Trojan pet wouldn't be able to escape. Two small steps led down from the trap door to the pelt-covered floor. The trap door could be replaced with an iron barred door should the king want to behold his pet at all times. It would be Agamemnon's secret, and his Trojan secret would bestow upon him much pleasure, he was sure of it!

Paris seemed half dead. The young man had lost his footing and was currently sprawled halfway down a crack between two rocks. Broethevs hauled the prince into shelter behind a large boulder, and fed him some water. Paris came around. His head was pounding from dehydration and he gazed just long enough into Broethevs' face to understand that something was about to happen. The prince's eyes went wide as Broethevs produced a large knife, and his confusion grew bigger as Broethevs instead of stabbing Paris' put a finger to his lips, silently telling him to be quiet. Paris turned his head away, understanding what Broethevs was up to. He watched the Giant crouch down next to Paris, waiting like a lion waits for its prey. He must have fallen asleep, for Paris woke to the sound of metal against metal. He watched as one of the king's men was dragged forcibly to where they were hiding, before Broethevs spun around holding the man's left arm in a crushing grip. Paris heard the sickening sound of a bone snap, and the man let out a scream. It was immediately silenced as Broethevs slit the man's throat. Broethevs ducked fast, and an arrow whizzed past where his torso had been just a second earlier. He hopped like a rabbit past Paris, out from the shelter of the boulder and out of sight. Seconds later, another cry pierced the hot midday air. Peering out from behind the boulder, Paris watched as Broethevs left a trail of dead men behind him. He practically toyed with them, swift as he was, ducking and dodging, strangling the men with the threads of their own bows or slicing them open. Then it occurred to Paris that he ought to be running as well. Broethevs was busy. The king's men were indeed busy. No body was paying attention to Paris, a sordid Trojan slave. So he began to move along side the hillside. With a little luck an arrow might just hit him.

Twilight cast its blanket across the world, shrouding the boulders and cliffs of Mount Ida. Paris found that his legs would carry him no more, and he had no idea where he was. He faltered again, and could not get up. Not knowing he had fallen asleep, he awoke in terror as a pair of calloused big hands wrapped themselves around his throat. Gasping, Paris looked up, and found to somewhat his relief that it was Broethevs who'd caught up with him. Broethevs hesitated, and gazed about.

"Not bad, little dog. This spot might just do for the night" Broethevs whispered. He pulled a dagger, and pointed it at Paris' throat. "But run away from me again, and I'll rip open that scar of yours!" he growled, refering to the wound on Paris' throat. Paris laughed hollowly. It was about all he could do. Talking without a tongue was no good. Instead he looked daringly into Broethevs eyes which glinted in the twilight air, and he put his hand on the one holding the dagger, daring Broethevs to push it closer into the soft flesh just below Paris' chin. 'Go on' Paris wanted to say, 'do it!' The resolved look in Paris' twinkling eyes spurred something in the loins of the giant. He'd had a long and trying day. He was worn and tired from walking swiftly and from fighting. But he'd achieved his goal: He was on his way, and Paris was still with him. He'd actually been quite relieved and happy to find the slave again. Broethevs put the dagger away, and instead he grabbed Paris by the arms and hoisted the young man up to a sitting position. Broethevs undid his loincloth, revealing an erection at half mast. Paris eyed it through the half dark. He was too weak to resist, knowing what was about to happen to his body. Broethevs pulled him close with big strong hands, and for a moment, their lips nearly met. Paris looked away, avoiding what could have been a kiss, and gravity forced him to straddle Broethevs who was kneeling. Paris had been with Broethevs in the past. But it had never been anything relevant between them. Broethevs had treated him like an object, fucked him in an impersonal manner and then left him alone once he'd finished. He'd never beaten him or tortured him in any other way, and that fact worked to his advantage now that he was alone with Paris. The flipside for Paris was that Broethevs was big. Everywhere. The man was one giant lump of muscles, and that made him fairly heavy and he had a crushing grip which made it impossible for anyone, even as narrow-framed as Paris, to wriggle away from. Paris was uncomfortably sober, wishing himself far away from the pain which would ensue. He started as Broethevs suddenly planted a kiss on the side of his neck, just at the intersection between the neck and the shoulder on right hand side. Then Broethevs took Paris' left hand, and brought it up to rest on the right side of his broad chest. Was the gesture supposed to make Paris feel anything? The prince was too tired to know, wishing it only to be over. He quickly realized that Broethevs seemed annoyed by the lack of response from Paris. Paris cringed under the scrutinizing gaze from the giant he was straddling, and he fought the impulse to get up and run. He felt Broethevs place his rough hands around his buttocks, and he was gently but firmly lifted closer. Not wishing to anger the brute any further, Paris wrapped his right hand around Broethevs' growing erection and positioned himself on top of it. Broethevs was breathing heavier, clearly anticipating Paris' next move. But inching down on the erect cock which was growing exceedingly firm, was not easy. It was big, and Paris had not been prepared. But he had to see it through! If he could get Broethevs to relax and fall asleep, chances would be that Paris could elope in the darkness, or maybe find a dagger and do away with himself. As the different alternatives settled in his mind, Paris mustered the motivation to please Broethevs. All though the pain seared through his entrance, Paris gritted his teeth. He had gotten a permanent wound around the taut muscle in his entrance which kept being reopened every time he needed to use the bathroom or whenever he was servicing someone. Broethevs reached behind him and grabbed a handful of brown curls on the back of Paris head. He pulled gently until he could see Paris' face. Paris was focused, his eyes shut and he his breathing was forced, his face covered in pain. He arched his back, following as Broethevs tugged at his head, and he came to a point where he had to struggle, and it forced him to reach for Broethev's enormous biceps so he could counter the pull and the increasing pain in his back. He gasped. The position was uncomfortable, and he started and shivered as he felt Broethev's hot mouth ghost his skin, closing over Paris' left nipple. He tried not to move. He had been impaled on Broethev's erection down to the very hilt. But he hadn't anticipated an onslaught to his nipples! He shut his eyes and sighed at the unexpected pleasure which was being bestowed upon him, and he immediately grasped the opportunity to run away from the pain which still bloomed from his puckered entrance, simply by focusing on the bursts of lust which fanned out from beneath Broethev's ministrations. In his career as slave to the spartan army, he'd encountered some soldiers who wanted it differently, like Broethevs. They were of the rare kind, but they did exist but never stuck around for long. They wanted a lover, and expected real lovemaking. But Paris could not make love without thinking of Helen. And sleeping with men never sparked the same emotions as when he'd been a guest in Helen's bed. If there had ever been a breeding ground for those kinds of sparks, Agamemnon and Menelaus had thoroughly drowned them all during their onslaught on Paris after his capture and the fall of Troy. He felt Broethevs move beneath him. It took time before the pain began to fade, but it never ceased completely. still holding Paris' head stuck in the same pull, he shifted to Paris' right nipple, adding a little more force to his thrusts. Night's first chills were setting in, but Paris hardly noticed. His body was beginning to heat up, and he kept his eyes shut hoping Broethevs would be satisfied. His neck ached from the awkward position he was in, but all things considered, Broethevs was treating him with care. He pumped Paris for what seemed like ages, his thighs bulging from the effort. He hardly broke a sweat, while Paris' taut frame glistened in the moon's pale light. For Broethevs would ease the tempo once in a while to shower Paris with kisses on his neck and his chest, and the giant tugged gently at his nipples with his teeth, playing around them with his tounge, sucking hard, blowing gently on them and tweak them ferociously between his fingers. Paris was trembling, dissolved in lust. The stars above twinkled, but he could not hear the silence of the mountain. The pounding of his own heart was so loud he could hear nothing else, and for quite some time he forgot he was in pain, and it felt good to have his mind on something else but guilt and fear for once. He tightened his grip around Broethevs' shoulders, sensing his own climax on the rise. It seemed as if Broethevs was closing in on his peak. He was getting less attentive to Paris, and he suddenly let go of Paris head, halting to shift his position, straightening out his legs beneath Paris. He lowered his torso so he came to lay beneath Paris who straddled him like a horse. The shift of position caused the pain in his rectum to flare, but Paris took no notice. He hoisted his ass up into the air a little, arching his back in a desire to heighten Broethevs' experience. Or perhaps it was his own experience, but he had no desire to stop the pleasure and find out. It had been too long since he'd felt so good. Too long! Just as he kept his eyes closed, Broethevs groaned and came hard. The giant's body stiffened beneath him for second before he relaxed. Having forgotten all propriety which became a slave, Paris gazed down at Broethevs, breathing hard. Broethevs was staring back at him, his expression unreadable. Paris' mind soon returned to him, and he became aware of his surroundings. He unmounted Broethevs in a hurry, understanding that the hulk beneath him no longer wanted his company. Paris remembered his plan. All he had to do now, was wait for Broethevs to fall asleep.