A new life for Paris

Waiting for Broethevs to fall asleep was extremely difficult. Paris awoke to his own snoring several times, and each time he found Broethevs to still be awake. Broethevs was watching. He was anticipating an assault in the darkness. Paris peered at his silhouette against the midnight sky. The Spartan was a colossus, a god of the mountains come alive.

«You ought to be sleeping» Broethevs told him him softly. The words through the nocturnal air was like soft velvet on his skin, and Paris had to look twice at him to see if the kindness was for real. Just as Paris was laying down again, Broethevs said: «There was a man on the beach two days ago, asking questions about you. I recognized him. He pretends to be a friend to the soldiers of Sparta, but he is nothing more than a spy for king Agamemnon. The king wants you for some reason. Now, I was going to— !» Broethevs continued, but he was cut short by Paris' abrupt reaction. Something he'd said had upset Paris to such a degree that he was shaking all over, shaking his head and whimpering. He had a pleading expression on his face, as if he was a lost little child. Paris couldn't sit still. He began to remove himself from Broethevs, still looking quite pale as if he'd seen a ghost. The young Trojan seemed terrified, crawling on hands and knees to get away from Broethevs.

Paris couldn't see where he was crawling. Horrid images of memories he'd suppressed during these years while just staying alive, surfaced like bubbles in a tar pit. As they burst open, they splattered his vision with forgotten emotions; Pain. Shock. Grief. Fright. Lust. Hate. The loss of freedom and the agony of being transferred from royalty into slavery. It all came back to him. Agamemnon on top of him, thrusting away into Paris' bleeding virgin hole, grinning from ear to ear. The memory was clear as crystal and it filled his vision like a film strip being played over and over again. Paris' hands began searching along the ground until they found a good-sized rock. Picking it up, Paris immediately hit himself with it, bashing it against his forehead while he sobbed uncontrollably. The rock had sharp edges, but Paris took no notice as something wet trickled down, blurring his eyesight. It took a moment before he realized that Broethevs had seized his arm and was forcing his fingers open, prying the stone away from him. He watched as Paris turned his back at him and continued to crawl on hands and knees aimlessly away from him. Paris was desperate to avoid the events of the past which now unfolded in his mind. He did not want to relive the shame of being tied up in the comprimising position the kings had put him in, he did not want to be thinking about the abuse and the terror they'd imposed on him. Anger welled up just by thinking of how frightened he'd been, how they'd laughed at him and by the sight of their cocks at full mast.

By chance, Paris crawled into a thorny bush. He stopped, lay down into it and grabbed branches of it, putting it to his face and rubbing hard, thinking he might scrub the memories clean off his brains. But he was not allowed such self infliction for long, and soon he felt Broethevs' strong arm detach him from the thorny bush. He kicked and bucked to get loose, being close to panic. He had been carried off like this many times, and it was usually the prelude to a rape, a power demonstration by some Spartan soldier twice his size. Broethevs found a spot next to the backpack, and sat down with Paris on top of him. Paris was sobbing violently, desperately working to get a hold of his emotions. He was extremely upset, understanding that being manhandled only meant one thing. He was used to it this way, and if he didn't assume a passive attitude pretty soon, then the Spartan would become violent. And the intercourse he was being forced into would get harder to endure. It was plain and simple self preservation. Paris was so used to being suppressed and neglected it almost felt good to be shaken out of the horrible turmoil of memories.

«Come, settle down now, dog. Let's have no more of that» Broethevs spoke, gently rubbing Paris' shoulders. He felt the boy relax a little under his ministrations. He could feel the delicate bone structure of the young man beneath his strong fingers, sensing the muscles give way to the rubbing .

«Give me your ass now, and I'll reward you with some food» Broethevs told him. Paris' sobbing had subsided into whimpers, and Broethevs watched the dog arrange himself to stand on knees and hands. There was something hopeless over the boy. He was shaking from the effort of keeping himself off the ground. The rag he wore around his hips was something gray and shapeless, and the boy's legs were skin and bone. He was scratched, bruised and scarred all over, more dead than alive. A dead man walking, and for some reason, king Agamemnon was looking for this piece of live carcass. Looking at the boy's rear was making him hard. The outline of his rounded cheeks against the blue velvet of the midnight sky was fuel on the fire benath his loincloth. Broethevs rose to kneel behind those inviting cheeks. He undid his loincloth all the while his gaze traveled up and down Paris' backside. He rested his right hand on Paris' right cheek while taking his cock in his left hand, masturbating himself to a full erection. Parting the cheeks, he then used his thumb to massage Paris' puckered entrance. It was a prelude he'd often undergone with his wife during lovemaking. The memory made him hesitate, and a subconscious glimpse made him realize why he'd taken the dog with him in the first place; The slave had in many ways great similarities to his dead wife. The dark curls, the frail frame. He posed no real threat to Broethevs. It was , her which had been in the back of his mind when he'd been packing that backpack. He would cross the mountain and find himself a new wife. In the meanwhile, the dog would do as a substitute. Broethevs looked down at his cock. It was limp. The memory of his wife had done away with his erection. He shifted his gaze to the slave who no longer managed to stay on hands and knees. The boy toppled over and fell to the rocky ground where he remained motionless. Just as well, Broethevs decided. They both needed some sleep.