Hard as Rock

Everyone tells me my life lacks commitment. "Patleus," my father says when I visit home. "I have been praying to Zeus that you will find your courage. You have reached your twentieth year. It is time you took a wife. Time you took your career in hand and made a name for yourself."

I know he saw my future that way when he apprenticed me to the master sculptor in our village, but although my skill has grown, my enthusiasm for the work has not: silk-draped maidens and goddesses may set his chisel flying, but they do little for me; and when the statue is unveiled, it's his name attached to it, not the names of us apprentices who do most of the carving. So perhaps my father is correct and it's time after all for me to start my own workshop, yet the passion is not there--not for this, nor for taking a wife.

Yes, it is my twentieth year. But those twenty years have made me increasingly confused, not clear in mind and purpose.

Today, on this early morning in the heat of late summer, the first thing the master sculptor informs me when I enter the studio is, "We have received a new commission: Heracles Wrestling the Nemean Lion. For a local merchant."

This is a new subject-matter for us. "I've never worked on such a topic," I say, unable even to picture it.

"Yes. I prefer to avoid such... masculine images," the master sniffs. "But we can get over our scruples for the price he's paying. Besides, there will be no need to work from scratch. The buyer was able to procure a model for us."

For a moment, I picture a lion in the midst of our studio and my gut clenches. Then the truth of the matter occurs to me and my gut clenches even harder.

"Quite a nuisance," the master is still babbling as he plunks a block of clay onto a table. There are just the two of us today: the master always personally sculpts a clay model first to determine the correct proportions and pose; the actual chiseling of the marble will occur over many months and will be left to us apprentices. "We've had to wait for this precious model to come all the way from Athens. 'Only he will be suitable,' I was told. And I must confess, he IS impressive. Obscene--but impressive."

"The model is here now?" Though I live in my own room at the workshop, I had not heard a guest arrive. He must be lodging on the opposite side of the compound.

"Yes, yes. This has all been long in the works. He arrived late last night. Like a minotaur in the dusk. But come on, help me with this. There is no time to delay: we only have him for today (and my hope is that he will leave before dinnertime), so we must do the best we can. First, we'll--ah, there he is now. Sthenelus, at last!"

It is like Heracles himself comes striding into our cluttered workshop, a god among chunks of marble and clay, his feet scattering chips of white plaster and rock. I've seen farmers as brawny as their oxen, masons thickened by hefting slabs of granite, but this....

I did not know men came in such sizes.

His body is impossible to ignore, constantly displaying its finesse, rippling with the beauty of sheer manly excess. I did not know muscle could be mounded onto a man's frame like this, the round, bulging fullness of every part of his body--not just the intimidating swells of his arms and chest, but the equally rounded deltoids of his shoulders, the mounting hills of his trapezoid muscles broadening his bull-like neck. Like me, he is wearing a "chiton" tunic, but while the fabric is loose on most men, it's stretched tightly over him, looking so inadequate over the expanse of his shoulders, then belted close around his surprisingly trim waist; and the short hem exposes his broad thighs, the roundness of his calves. But despite how impressive he is, he has a relaxed, unconcerned air, a cordial grin within the black beard on his handsome, bold face. He must be in his early thirties and in the prime of his virile strength.

"Sthenelus comes to us from one of those 'gymnasia' in Athens where athletes train," the master drawls. His disdain for the word "gymnasium" may be partly due to the fact that it comes from "gymnos" [naked]; clearly he feels no thrill at the notion of athletes training in the nude.

"But only men from our gymnasium look as I do." It is a free and easy boast: the confidence of an obvious fact. "We have a unique philosophy. Few can handle our training. While others prepare for competition or combat, at my gymnasium we train to maximize size and conditioning, to stretch the limits of man's musculature with diet and lifting weights."

It is true that muscles such as these would be ill-suited to the battlefield: it seems he can't even lower his arms fully due to the wide wings of muscle under them. "Lifting weights?" I can't help blurting out. I can't imagine what feats of strength would produce a body like his.

"Stones of various sizes. We have devised many moves to train muscle groups, and--"

"Yes, yes, this is all fascinating I'm sure, but we really must be moving along. We have much to do--starting with taking a few measurements." The master sculptor isn't even looking at the model who has come all this way; he's already tearing chunks off his mound of clay as he plans. "Accurate proportions are essential, as they will be the basis of the final sculpture. You can put your garments over there. Come now, hurry up!"

I feel my face flush as Sthenelus removes his belt--the motion making his arm muscles jump and twitch--then unclasps his tunic and strips it off. I should not be embarrassed: among men, nudity is as natural as clothing to us Greeks; and yet his nudity is a sensory overload, a revelation that makes my stomach drop and my head spin. He has removed the hair from his torso, so we can fully appreciate the definition of his chest and stomach: the broad sweeps of his pectorals, tipped by his dark nipples; the deep grooves of his abdominals, already collecting light sweat on this hot morning; the veins in his thin skin exposed everywhere, but particularly over the hard shelf of muscle above his manhood, which dangles heavily beneath a small thatch of pubic hair, exactly like the men in statues.

He does, however, differ from the men in statues in one very noticeable way. We Greeks say that small penises are more beautiful, that they prevent one's vital fluid from cooling before it exits the organ. By that standard, this man's penis is garishly large: thickly veined, the head bulging under the foreskin, propped up by the twin orbs of his testicles with their tempting round fullness. Immensely manly and impossible to ignore, just like the rest of this godly man.

"Patleus!" I realize the master has been calling me. "Begin the measurements at once!"

In awe, I had completely forgotten my role in this task. I'm trembling as I approach him, feeling like I'm bouncing as I walk, lightheaded and numb. Up close, he's even more impressive. I am average height and come up only to his shoulders; moreover, there is no comparison between my body and the sheer width of his chest and arms. And it's my task to measure those incredible proportions exactly.

Our measuring system is physical, made of fingers and palms, hands-breadths and feet. I must lay my hand on his skin and count, adding up the immensity of him. I start with his height, moving up from his feet. However, I realize how intimate this process is when I'm halfway up, when I'm pressing my palm to the side of his buttocks, fuller and rounder than any I've ever seen, when I'm aware how close I am to touching his genitals. Heat is rushing to my own manhood and, as I am wearing no undergarments, I am in danger of embarrassing myself. Normally I would think of other things to try to stay soft, but I must concentrate on the numbers--and those numbers themselves are forcing me to focus on the massive size of him.

I measure his back. I measure his legs. My blood pounds harder and my underarms are soaked with sweat; and my cock continues to grow. I keep myself turned towards him, hoping no one will notice. But then I measure his chest, lay my hands across those wide smooth slabs, feel the hard nubs of his nipples against my fingers, the dominant pound of his heartbeat, standing so close to him, taking in his scent and his heat, and looking up as I count, meeting his gaze; he grins and my heart all but stops. And when I measure his arms, when he bends his elbow and his bicep expands and tightens against my trembling hands, I can't keep my cock from stiffening to its full length, filled with demanding pressure and heat.

It's now impossible not to see the grotesque tent in the front of my tunic, and I hear the master's outraged cry as he finally notices. But Sthenelus saves me. "Yes, looks like your assistant has gotten out his measuring stick," he jokes. "Not sure how useful it will be, though. Seems to be bent!"

It's true--I'm so hard my member's curving sharply upward so the head's practically level with my navel. I stammer out a humiliated apology, but he just gives a deep, booming laugh and adds, "Nothing more natural than a firm, healthy cock! We do not fear such things at the gymnasium. When we work our muscles, we say if you aren't hard by the end of the session, you did not work hard enough! Speaking of which--I've got the size of you, but you still don't have the size of me. Do not neglect your duty."

For a moment I can only gape at him, at his confident smirk. Then I glance down at his fat snake between his thighs. "You mean I should--?"

"You look at my manhood like you're facing down a cyclops. Don't worry, this one-eyed monster won't eat you. In fact, it prefers to be eaten!" His laughter booms again, and his grin is a fierce gleam in his thick black beard. "Isn't the human body your art's medium? One would think you've never touched another man's cock." (In fact, I have not.) "Should I measure it for you? I don't mind grabbing my own snake, I can assure you."

"Someone just hurry up and get on with it if you must!" the master calls from behind us. "This disgusting display is taking long enough as it is."

I hesitate and am instantly astonished by the force of my regret when Sthenelus takes the initiative, lays his flaccid cock across his own fingers, and after a moment's study calls, "Eight daktyloi [six inches]."

The master scowls. "Eight daktyloi? We're not sculpting Priapus here. I'll have to cut it in half. At least."

"Ouch!" Sthenelus quickly covers his manhood, then winks at me in good humor, making my face burn.

"Enough foolishness." The master has finished taking notes and returned to his block of clay. "It is time for the pose: Heracles grappling with the lion. Sthenelus, I want you on one knee. Yes, like that. And as for the lion--Patleus, you shall stand in for him. No one would mistake you for a lion, of course, and your body shape is all wrong. I just need you to guide Sthenelus into the right position so his body is posed correctly. The lion's body will be to Heracles' right, rearing up, its head trapped in his arm. So why don't you--ah, straddle his leg for me."

My face burns even hotter at this, but the sculptor's impatience and the model's good humour remove my doubts. I feel foolish, taking a seat on his upraised thigh, so broad and ridged with muscle, like straddling a fallen oak. I'm very aware of his manhood hanging right next to my leg and the ridiculousness of my erection, even more unrelenting now that I'm so surrounded by him, by the scent of his sweat, the heat of his breath.

"Now, Sthenelus, act like you are putting the lion in a chokehold with your right arm."

At once, he wraps his arm loosely around me so I can breathe freely and there's no pressure on my neck. My chin is pressed into the damp crook of his elbow, while the massive bulge of his bicep presses against my check and mouth. He turns his wrist, and just that small movement makes his muscle swell even bigger: I can feel it push against my lips, the hard sinews and the lumpy veins beneath his rough-soft skin, can taste and smell the salt of his sweat. He draws me back into his chest and holds me close, his enveloping warmth and the hard swells of his chest so distinct against my back.

"Now as for your left--what shall we do with it? Just put it somewhere. What feels natural?"

And he presses his left hand against my lower stomach, which happens to be where my rigid cock is. He casually presses my sensitive organ against my stomach, his huge meaty hand splayed flat over it, trapping it in place, with the folds of my tunic concealing exactly what he's gotten hold of. I don't know if it was an accident, but he doesn't change his position, and he whispers deep and low in my ear, "All right? Do not worry. I've got you," and I nod against that swelled bicep right in my face.

"Perfect. Now hold it. This will take a while." The master begins to work at his clay and I try to relax in my Heracles' arms. But my heart is pounding and the pressure of his hand on my cock is impossible to ignore, the insistent strength in those fingers and--at first I'm not even sure it's there, but I swear there's a whisper of movement from his thumb, which rests at the base of the underside of my cock's head, right where a thin strand of skin connects to my withdrawn foreskin: I can feel the edge of his thumb moving back and forth, so gently I can barely feel it, so slowly an observer could never tell.

Is he doing it unconsciously? But then there's a rush of hot breath on the back of my neck, a deep, guttural whisper: "Relax. Just relax." But how can I relax? It's maddening, that subtle movement against my desperate cock--so teasing and distant, yet somehow it's forcing even more blood into my swollen pecker, making it even firmer while I feel the skin of my scrotum tightening, drawing in close like I've entered a frigid river. I can't help squirming on that vast brawny thigh, causing my cock to move against his thumb and getting the barest amount of extra friction--but it only makes it worse. I want nothing more than to arch my back, force myself up against his hand over and over, but how can I do that before the master?

"Just breathe. Relax." But I can feel his heart hammering in his mighty chest behind me, and now I'm aware of his own cock stiffening next to my thigh, can feel his pulse jerking it up against my skin, for it's long enough to be past the hem of my tunic, which has ridden up as I adjust my position on his leg. I can even feel his foreskin start to retract, the silky texture of his glans being exposed. I can't see how big his cock is now, but it feels gigantic, continuing to lengthen as he gets more and more erect; I know the master can't see it from his position either, where he's so totally absorbed in his sculpting.

My heart is pounding and my entire body is tense, wrapped in his brawn, feeling his desire--and still that feather of movement teases my cockhead, which is starting to buzz and tingle, a distant, rising flutter unlike when I normally stroke myself off quickly: it's like the stimulation's coming from inside my cock itself, building deep within so slowly but unavoidably. My organ gives a first tentative twitch, but he doesn't stop, doesn't even increase his pace.

"Hold on. Just relax and hold on." But the pleasure's building. My entire body is tense right down to my curling toes. There's another jerk from my manhood. Another--stronger and more insistent. He adjusts his grip around my neck; his arm flexes against my face; his cock flexes against my leg--I'd give anything to grab it, to smell it, lick it, taste it. I'm going mad with lust, with the need to finish this, to let my seed spurt out of my agonising red cock. It's twitching again all on its own, like an orgasm in reverse, those last few tiny jerks coming now rather than at the end, sending fine trembles through me. The pressure's unbelievable. Building and building. Twitching and tensing. My balls aching. My entire body wound tight, held close to his bulging, beefy physique.

I could easily tell him to stop; the master would hardly blame me if he overheard. But that's the last thing I want to do. No--I want to beg him to make me cum, to stroke me harder, faster, let me feel the full force of his powerful grip. But there's no way I can do that. All I can do is whisper, "Please. Please," but it's buried in his arm, into that mighty bicep. I can't take it, can't take it anymore. I need to cum, need to cum right now. Please do it for me. Please! The pressure's going to burst, my cock's going to explode. It can't take anymore of this! I feel myself flex, and flex, the trembles building, building, coming faster and harder and harder and then--

My entire cock squeezes hard against his hand. I feel the seed blast out of my cock, instantly soaking my tunic, feel myself tense and jerk and spray again and again, feel his heavy fingers still pressing my organ flat against my stomach, absorbing the impact of its bucking throes, not moving even as the cum seeps through the thin cotton and begins to ooze down onto his guilty hand, pleasure washing over me so I can't hold back my groan, feeling myself both falling into his manly embrace and soaring away--

I've never felt an orgasm last this long, ridden such waves of ecstasy on and on, shaking and panting. I hear his deep chuckle of amazement as I continue to pour out my vital force, as he finally openly gives my cock a few strokes to wring every last drop out of me, making me arch my back and grit my teeth, the front of my tunic drenched and clinging to my gooey cock, the surface of his leg slicked up beneath me.

"So, my lion," his lips brush against my ear, "which of us is the victor?"

***

What a colossal mess. I'm overwhelmed with shame as the master sculptor yells and sends me out of the studio. But back in my private room, cleaning myself up, I find my cock stiffening again at the thought of what happened, at the feel of that musclegod holding me. I'm sure the master will cast me out, and yet I surprisingly feel no regret. It was the most exciting moment of my life, and I wish I could experience it again now--and tomorrow, and tomorrow, for the rest of my life.

But remarkably, the master doesn't send me away. Instead, he assigns me the task of sculpting the statue of Heracles himself, while another apprentice takes on the lion. I'm not sure how exactly I end up this fortunate, but I get the impression it is thanks to Sthenelus (who is sent back to Athens before I can see him again). Evidently he argued this only proved I was truly the man for the job, the one who could fully appreciate and bring out the strength of Heracles--which is nothing but the truth: I intend to bring that godly man to life as well as I'm able.

I work all winter long, using the clay model and my own memories to guide me. The work's an obsession, both painful and pleasurable. But as the months pass, I begin to doubt myself, to wonder if I'm exaggerating the sheer manly massiveness I witnessed. I read those measurements we took and find myself skeptical, wondering if such a man could truly exist. And even my statue starts to seem garish, unrealistic, nothing more than my own pathetic desires.

In late spring, with my Heracles almost complete, I confess these doubts to the master. "We can hardly expect the client to cover a second viewing of the model!" he chides me, and I realize at this moment that this is exactly what I'd been hoping for, though I hadn't admitted it to myself. "Besides, after that disgraceful display, not to mention consuming the entire larder...." But he eyes my statue and says, "If you must have him, let it be at your own expense. You must take responsibility. Do not trouble me with the matter any further. I do not even want to see him."

My heart leaps. My palms sweat as I write to him; he accepts, and two weeks later he's at our workshop's door in the heat of the afternoon. Immediately I realize that no, I was not exaggerating. If anything, he's bigger and more overwhelming than I had pictured. This is a body that can't be overstated, one that surpasses my boldest fantasies. And this time he is here to see me alone, grinning at the sight of me, his face so open and masculine and warm, that bold laugh booming, the easy swagger of his powerful build.