Pan to Fire

Disclaimer: Troy, the Iliad, et al belong to other people and not myself, so no money made from this story.

Possibly disturbing content, be forewarned.

::Pan to Fire::


The hands sliding up the back his thighs to cup his ass are smooth and soft, with long, slim fingers that delve teasingly into his cleft and ghost delicately over the suddenly clenched entrance hidden there. Lush lips, sweet with honey and bitter with wine, conquer his in a slick, wet battle that steals his thoughts, his resistance, and the strength of his legs.

They tumble to the fur-covered ground, slave upon prince, sweaty, sharing humid breaths, limbs entwined. Paris shudders against the prickle of hairs with exquisite tension as the pleasure slave's middle finger slips inside to the second joint. Gods, it feels wrong, feels dirty and wrong, but cannot escape the wine-daze clouding his senses and the skillful manipulation of the older boy. So he lets the slave press that dry, burning finger deeper and then out a little, then all the way in to the knuckle—and all the while some hysterical part of his mind gibbers that the slave's master has engineered this encounter, and even now watches them beyond the helpless prince's unfocused gaze.

He mewls—body moving with the motions of the digit stroking in and out, arching to offer those decadent lips anything they want to take, gasping when the other hand sets to work on his sensitive nipples—and digs his nails into the slave's strong back. Hot, implacable blood throbs along the length of his erect cock, and the older boy takes special pains to deny him stimulation there. Only the finger, and now there is another, working him, the thumbnail pressing into one nipple and the moist mouth offer release. Paris whines and writhes and begs, eyes rolling wildly, body caught in one long, unceasing tremor.

Then the wicked slave's hands move, fingers abandoning him cruelly, to lift Paris' legs and push them back, and the young prince gasps a desperate, "Yes!" and grabs his own thighs. "Oh gods, yes!"

Even though he never wanted this to begin with, he now holds himself obscenely open to his ravisher. The slave laughs ecstatically, brazenly, drunk on his power, and smirks at someone—the master? How many are here to witness this?—whom Paris cannot see.

A harsh, gasping scream pulls from his throat as the older boy's ripe hardness, slick with barely enough oil, pops in after a quick jab of slim hips.

"Ah!"

Stop. Oh, it hurts.

Shallow thrust.

"Ah!"

Stop!

But the pleasure slave does not stop, does not care. With tricky, malicious hands he keeps Paris from giving into the burning, aching discomfort of penetration.

Oh gods, a slave is taking him, a slave is using him, forcing him, and he's twisting and trying to force the older boy in farther, clamping down with his inner muscles, grunting like a thing, an animal.

In, in, deeper, deeper the slave pushes his cock, and Paris opens up for it, his untried body welcoming it. Then—"Ah!"—the heavy shaft reverses, dragging along every surface, every sensitive spot, of the prince's sheath. The slave begins a slow, hypnotic pace, undulating his hips in a smooth, rolling motion that has Paris squirming frantically in need, digging his nails deeply into his own spread thighs. The slave's hands are braced against the hard floor, adding the earth's power to the merciless dance of his hips—and he keeps smirking, now down at his victim.

Erection slicking his own stomach in warm pre-come, nose filled with the earthy musk of this forced-willing intercourse, Paris begins to keen. He can feel blood racing to his groin, balls heavy and aching with imminent release. He just needs—gods!—just needs…

Hot seed boils out of him, draining all sensation from the tip of his cock. Oh. Oh. Oh.

Without warning the weight of the slave disappears from the prince's still shuddering form. Angry voices bleed into the smothering lethargy of his orgasm, forms move violently just beyond his focus, and he wishes only for respite. The world tilts dizzyingly as strong arms sweep him up, up against a familiar body and its familiar, safe scent. He cuddles closer, eyes no longer able to stay open, and sighs faintly. He still aches, he still feels sick, but he is now in the keeping of his beloved protector. Safe.

The cacophony, angry words tossed back and forth, the barrel chest pressed against him reverberating with each volley, continues without a pause for him being picked up. Paris wants to bury himself in silence, to forget the pleasure slave and his own surrender to molten lust, but now they are moving, the rocking gate of furious strides bearing him away from the wicked, wicked slave and his licentious master. He loses track of their progress back to the guest wing and their opulent apartments therein; however, he does know his beloved protector has brought some portion of their guard as the men are dismissed with grave words at their destination. Inside, past the outer receiving chambers, and into one of the bedrooms, his beloved protector carries him, still tightly pressed against the other's solid form.

Paris moans weakly, the many aches of his body singing through the haze of inebriated satiation, as strong arms lower him upon the soft bed. Calloused fingers dance briefly across his brow and cheek and then the presence of his beloved protector withdraws. Warm and secure in the knowledge of his rescue, he turns his face into the pillow beneath his head and comes to realize that this is not his bed: it does not smell like him. With every slight shift of his head he stirs up the comforting fragrance of familiar safety, of his beloved protector.

Eyes closed, though he is not sure they were ever open in the first place, he releases the mooring of his thoughts and drifts off without a care to the sweat drying upon his body or the semen flaking upon his taut belly. Briefly, he surfaces when a damp cloth carefully swipes up the mess and strong hands urge him onto his stomach. Yes, he is being thoroughly, completely cleaned of the slave's presence. Inside and out, all clean now.

Although… he does not think it requires this much time to remove the bold slave's seed. He grunts softly, indelicately, as those cloth-wrapped fingers surge deep within his anus, curling and dragging. It is becoming uncomfortable…

"Hush."

The fingers withdraw, leaving a greater ache than the slave's cock, and he is rolled onto his side—limbs incapable of protesting or moving so he may choose his own position. The bed shifts and a warm, implacable body presses up against his back. The broad chest rises and falls erratically, and, as the pelvis comes flush with his ass, a big, hard length makes itself known.

"Wha…?" Paris slurs, attempting, in vain, to shift away.

"Hush."

A strong arm pushes under him and wraps firmly about his chest, wedging him inescapably back against his… his beloved… Paris' breath hitches and then returns in frantic bursts, while confusion and exhaustion fling his human understanding from his head in a nauseating rush.

This isn't happening. It isn't!

A remorseless hand slides across his thigh, rough fingers caressing in purposeful strokes, and then lifts his leg so the heavy, throbbing fullness of the other can glide between, nudging Paris' soft testicles and flaccid penis. The hand lets his leg fall, trapping the cock intimately between his thighs, and moves to hold the young prince's genitals in a reassuring grip. Paris is not reassured. Paris is on the verge of tears.

The slave and the watching, masturbating master were horrible. This—this is beyond words…

The cock, wet with its own fluids, pumps powerfully between his panic-clenched thighs with the rocking of the other's hips. Harsh, hot breaths scald his ear as bearded lips score it red. The tears do not fall.

"You're dirty now," his brother groans, driving roughly against him, sweaty and hot along Paris' vulnerable back. "I can do this because now you're dirty."

~End~