The 300

byPaolo Labico©

Xanthippos felt the firm, muscular shoulder of the man on his right against his own. Timocrates' sweat-slick flesh held reassurance. Their shields were large and round, but their position, strapped to the left arm, meant they could only cover half of the body. Timocrates' shield overlapped the exposed right half of his body in this position, just as his would cover Cleon to his left. In other armies, the whole line would gradually slide to the right as each man sought to cower behind his mate's shield, but these men bore the Lambda on their shields, they were Lacedaemonians, Spartans. They held their place.

For two days they had fought, denying the Persian horde entrance into the bosom of Greece. Their blood and the flesh of friends clogged the narrow pass of Thermopylae. But now it was over, their king dead, their position encircled there was no hope now. Nothing left to do but sell their lives dearly and join their king at the breakfast in Hades he promised them. For Xanthippos this was the worst part of combat. The "Hymn to Castor" had been sung, in a moment they would charge the Persians with no regard for defense, seeking only to take as many lives as possible. In this moment time stretched, thoughts raced. He knew fear: Spartans were not barbarians to charge drunkenly, fearlessly. Fear of the enemy could be mastered. His true fear was of failure. What if he should fall before his friends? His shield would not defend them.

He felt the men next to him tense and move before he realized that he had as well. Hours of drill allowed them to anticipate the pipe's call to charge. He wanted to turn to them...to these men whom he had known all his life...these brothers...to say goodbye. But he knew no words were needed, they knew his heart as well as he did. He shifted his heavy shield, flexed his thighs like a sprinter as he moved to charge. White-hot agony rippled from the poorly bound wound in his thigh as the still-embedded Persian arrowhead bit into his flexing muscle. He bled anew, but he caught his lips between his teeth...they would charge in silence, but for the pipes...

Xanthippos awoke in a grove of olive and vine. Fruit hung heavy on each, luscious and ripe. The air was cool from the freshness of the sputtering spring beside him. He looked into its waters; the gently rippling surface reflected a face he hardly recognized. His fingers slid across his cheek, feeling for the long scar from temple to chin. That scar had marred his face from his youth, a badge of honor, a wound received in combat. Now it was gone. Suddenly he realized that the pain was gone, he looked to his thigh. The skin was clean and unmarred. His rough hands ran over his chest, over the soft, fresh linen tunic. The tunic was scarlet like his own, but no Spartan would wear a woman's tunic: only a woman would wear soft linen instead of coarse homespun wool. His body too was slick, anointed with oil...perfumed like a Corinthian whore. Had the Persians captured him? He had heard of some of their more perverse ways. He almost laughed at the thought of a soft, white Persian noble "taking advantage" of him.

He was startled as the water in the middle of the pool bubbled and churned. Instantly he assumed the fighting stance he had learned as a boxer. Slowly he watched as raven tresses broke the surface of the pool. Then the dark blue doe eyes, blinking away droplets. The eyes...they were the color of the pool's tepid water. He somehow sensed that a man could drown in either; he suspected that the eyes were far deeper. His attention was so wholly focused that he didn't realize that she had risen completely from the water until she stepped forward, toes rippling the surface.

"Bye the Twins..." Xanthippos stood slack-jawed.

A broad smile blossomed across her face, which he noticed for the first time was beautiful beyond compare. He realized suddenly that he couldn't really see her, not all of her, each of her features demanded so much of his attention. It was as if his human eyes could not take all of her in at once.

"I am for you, Xanthippos." His eyes focused solely on her slick red lips, teeth like perfectly matched pearls.

His head swam as her lips rushed to meet his. At their touch he found himself taking her lips eagerly, like a babe to mother's breast. Drinking passion from them like none he had ever known.

She stood back. His eyes took her whole form in now. Something had changed with that kiss. She appeared human, but the most perfect woman he had ever seen. His gaze sliding up her alabaster thighs, the swelling of her hips, her tight, slim waist. His eyes lingered at her breasts; they were magnificent. Her nipples were taut and pink. Her clavicle perched above in the flowing curves of a Skythian bow.

"You may call me Daphnae." At her voice his eyes leapt to meet hers, his face reddened rapidly.

"Daphnae..." The name flowed like honey from his tongue

She smiled again. Her hands moved swiftly. Xanthippos had boxed since early youth, his reflexes were tuned to a pitch few men could match, but before he could move to block her, hands had slipped his tunic from his shoulders. It bundled about his waist, binding his arms as he sought to raise them.

Her laughter was like the shepherd's bells tinkling as the sheep come in from pasture. "Child of man, know that I am what your kind calls a Nymph. This is my glade." She indicated the expanse of greenery around the pool with a casual wave of her hand. "I am for you, you must take me...lay with me for a time as you would a mortal woman."

Seeing the look of shock on his face, she knelt before him. "I will explain more later." She said, smiling up at him as her hands crept up his strong thighs. His manhood had been hard since her headfirst broke the surface of the pool. Her eyes held his as she gently brought her mouth to the tip. She forced his cock to spread her rich red lips apart as he entered.

Xanthippos felt his cock slipping into the tight, virgin sex of the first girl he had ever lain with. It settled deep in the warm wet grip of her tight sheath. His mind fought to brake away from this illusion. He knew he had entered the mouth of the Nymph. The feeling was incongruent, but amazing. His hands settled themselves around her soft face; fingers tangled in her still wet hair. He felt the warmth drawing him in, her mouth sucking gently. He felt her tongue torturing him with ecstasy, lashing his cock with broad strokes. He felt...
"No", he pushed at her head, she knelt unmoved, but his cock sprang free as he fell backwards. He looked up, no boy to cum so soon, but now sprawled on his ass like a fool.

She smiled at his self-control, far beyond what she expected. Daphnae, who remembered the time when Titans still roamed the earth, who had loved and been loved by great heroes, Demi-Gods whose names were now but myth, crept slowly over his supine form; a panther claiming her prey, a force of nature.

"This way will suffice just as well." She said as she settled her body over his, straddling his hips. She forced his eyes to meet hers, her slim white fingers tilting his broad cleft chin. She dipped her lips to meet his, feeding him another taste of ambrosia, making him temporarily something more than human. She slid her splayed sex slowly along the length of his shaft, taking her pleasure from him as he writhed beneath her. Raising up slightly, she settled down upon him, letting him barely penetrate her.

Fighting the urge to surrender to his pleasure completely, he rose up on his elbows, bringing his lips to her fever-hot flesh. He trailed kisses across her flawless flesh, his tongue slowly circling her lush buxom. His mouth closed over her breast, tongue dancing over her turgid nipple. She tasted of wine and honey. He feasted on each nipple in turn; teeth grazed her smooth skin. His strong fingers dimpled her buttocks and thighs as they pressed into the soft flesh. He battled within as he sought either to thrust deep with in her and slake his lust, or to hold her still and prolong the delicious torment he now felt.

She lowered herself slowly onto his jutting manhood, letting him triumph over his passion. She was careful in her movements so as not to try his mortal will too severely, he was trying so hard to please her. She lost herself in the feel of a man's mouth wetly suckling. How long had it been? She shuddered as she felt herself impaled on his entire length. Slowly she ground her hips, savoring the feel of him inside her.

His mind clouded with excitement, he was only conscious of flickering images: the sweet firm flesh of her breast in his mouth, the throbbing in his loins, the tightening of his scrotum.

Not since flames had consumed Troy and the Sea Kings became legends had she known such passion. She thrust her chest to meet his eager mouth and swiveled her hips upon him as her control slackened. Sex with him was her Destiny, but she hadn't imagined that he would waken her dormant lusts so fully. In her excitement, she forgot about his mortal frame, her fingers dug cruelly into his flesh. Her nails raked his soft flesh like talons. She slammed her hungry sex down upon him again and again. Her tightness gripped him, dripping her nectar along his butter-slick shaft. She would have him. She would make him hers. She would...

The raw gashes that lined his body bled freely. He looked more like an unsuccessful lion hunter than a lover, but he was beyond mere physical pain. Sensations merged within him, her claws on his flesh, her clutching sex, urging him to cum, and more than cum. Daphnae thrashed wildly upon him, her head thrown back. Her howl was that of a wolf pack, of the whipping northern wind. She quaked upon his loins, her juices thick on him. He felt himself cum deep within her; some inner part of him lost forever. More than just his seed, a portion of his spirit entered her, merged with her.

She collapsed upon his chest, panting. As her consuming passion faded, she slipped his body from hers, noticing his torn, abused flesh. As he fought to catch his heaving breath, the searing pain hit him at last. He stoically set his face as his eyes met hers, the memory of moments before worth his suffering. A tear slipped from her eye. Her palm slowly passed over the rough, raw wounds, and it was as if they had never been.

"Xanthippos, I am pleased to have been yours. In another age you would bedeck the night sky with your flame, as do the heroes of old." She looked up to the heavens, eyes tracing the shapes of the constellations, heroes she had loved.

"Why?" Xanthippos gasped. His strength sorely sapped, he sought a thousand answers with that one question. He felt the effect of her kisses wearing thin. The wound in his leg appeared again, the blood, the fatigue.

"Two hundred and ninety seven of my sisters are with you Spartans now." She took his head in her lap, her hands gently cradled his face, and her fingers traced the long scar that creased his cheek again. "You will die today. It is not in my power to alter Fate. You and all the rest." Her voice trembled with the timbre of a falling tree. Her tears flowed over her ivory cheeks like quicksilver. "Even your name will be lost in time, but your sacrifice will be remembered. Men of your race will rule all Greece." She slowly slid her palm across the soft flesh of her belly. Already she knew his seed had sparked new life. "And your daughter will live forever..."

Xanthippos lay tangled in death with his companions. Gore-ridden piles of Persians formed a wall around the site of their last stand. In the end, they could only be defeated from afar, slaughtered by a hail of arrows that darkened the sun.

The Great King of Persia himself surveyed the carnage. Stepping down from his chariot, he turned to his chancellor Hydarnes. "What kind of men are these?" He spit upon them. "Do they love battle so much? Not only do they decimate my finest troops, but see how they greet death?" The Great King pointed with a fat, jeweled finger.

Every blood-spattered Spartan corpse was smiling...

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byPaolo Labico© 0 comments/ 20179 views/ 7 favorites

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