The Spoils

Dawn was coming. The sounds of the camp slowly entered Prokles' consciousness, reaching into his wine-addled brain, and dragged him back to wakefulness. His head ached, his stomach lurching.

The night was a blur. He'd stumbled, campfire to campfire, drinking everything he could lay hands on, wishing to drive all the thoughts from his head, until he'd succeeded, blacking out.

He wondered where he was, and cracked open an eye. He was in a tent, he saw, on a pallet. That was something, though neither were his own.

His stomach heaved, so he lay still again.

Memories came, washing into his consciousness like corpses on the shore.

Lysandros. He'd watched along with a hundred others as his commanding officer had shamelessly fucked a Spartan captive right there in front of them, making an example of him...

He'd felt like it was he who was being tortured.

He wished he had been on the floor, bound, a rough hand grabbing at his hair to gain greater purchase; he wanted to be ridden by the giant polemarkhos, wanted to be possessed by him.

How many nights had he released his sorry lust into his own hand, biting his lip until it bled to prevent himself from crying his commanding officer's name aloud?

The drunken memories kept coming...

He'd watched the men visiting Lysandros' tent that night, where the Spartan was held captive, where he'd been turned over to the men for their use...

Prokles was drawn to the scene of the crime like a blowfly to something rotten; watching through a gap in the leather as the Spartan had been used by everyone... he had been ashamed, enthralled and disgusted in equal measure, his loins afire, his mind a whirling mess of jealousy and hatred.

In that pre-dawn morning, three soldiers were gathered at the entrance to the tent, huddled near the dying embers of a fire. They were talking in low voices.

One chuckled in a ribald way, drawing Prokles' attention.

'Our Polemarkhos was very pleased with himself last night.'

'Drunk as an eastern King,' another agreed. 'Did you hear him joke, "The Spartan has finer hair than my wife, and a tighter arse.'"

They all laughed, but Prokles rolled to his knees and vomited, retching the pitiful contents of his stomach onto the floor of the tent, before staggering to his feet. He ran into the nearest of the three men as he emerged outside. The soldier laughed and shoved him away with good humour.

'Go wash. You stink, blondie.'

In an unfocused rage, he groped at his waist, clumsily unsheathing his knife, waving it at him - the soldier shook his head, and said dismissively, 'Piss off!'

I should kill him, he thought wildly - but then he had another idea. A better idea.

He turned, and unsteadily wove his way towards Lysandros' tent, and the Spartan.

Prokles stormed into the space that smelt strongly of his commanding officer - his musk - but overlaid with new, filthy smells - sex and sweat...

What happened next was a blur:

He grabbed the muscular Spartan from behind;

his cock grew hard against his arse even as he said he wouldn't give him the satisfaction of fucking him;

he held the knife to his neck, his face in his hair - the hair that Lysandros had called fine - it was soft, unbraided, long... and to his surprise, smelt faintly of lavender.

He took the knife from the Spartan's throat and began cutting at it. He'd expected the knife to slice through it easily, but it didn't. He hacked clumsily, scraping at the skin of the Spartan's nape, blood beginning to flow from a series of accidental cuts.

He saw the hair float to the floor with satisfaction.

He didn't know why, but he took a thick lock of it, and shoved it into the pouch at his waist.

He leered at the jagged haircut, scoffed at the Spartan's anger, and spat in the face of the pretty boy who now looked like exactly what he was - a filthy slave.

Drunkenly proud of what he'd done, he'd whispered hotly in his ear, 'If anyone asks you who did this, tell them my name. Tell them it was Prokles,' before shoving him away, leaving the tent, the feeling of power coursing through him.

Satisfied - more, delighted with himself - he went back towards his own tent, and the amphora he had there.

He was woken rudely, his head being repeatedly dunked into a fountain, the water shockingly cold.

He gasped and spluttered. 'What are you doing?'

The guards who held him dunked him again, then stood him up once more.

'You're ordered into Lysandros' tent. Now.'

The other guard said with a sinister smile, 'And you better brace yourself to be disciplined.'

'What?' Prokles asked as he was hustled across the camp, his aching head failing to take in anything.

'The polemarkhos doesn't like what you did to his slave. You're to be punished for it.'

Prokles began to sweat, whether with fear or something else he didn't have time to decide before he was thrown onto the floor at Lysandros feet.

He rolled over and looked up - sandals, the greaves above... up long muscular thighs, up into the chiton to where the large member hung. His breath hitched; he licked his lips, before dragging his eyes away, looking further up, across pteruges and breastplate and at last, to the helmeted head that looked down on him, a frown resting between his brows.

Lysandros asked curtly, 'You're the one who cut the Spartan's hair?'

'Yes, sir,'

'He wasn't your slave to deface.'

Prokles just looked at him, not bothering to argue. It was a fact.

The polemarkhos leant over him then, looking him up and down, one eyebrow cocked. When he spoke again, his tone had changed. He sounded thoughtful. 'Now he's escaped and I'm sorry to say, I never took my fill. So - you'll have to take his place, as punishment for damaging my spoils.'

Prokles' mouth was dry. He could only blink up at him.

He ordered crisply, 'Get up, and prepare yourself. Bend over the table.'

He swallowed heavily, and hurried to do as he was ordered, Lysandros watching his every move.

As he bent over, pulling his wet chiton up eagerly, his arousal was evident, and Lysandros raised an amused eyebrow.

'Interesting.'

Prokles flushed, daring to look back just in time to see him lift his own chiton, revealing his large cock, already growing hard.

His eyes widened. It was bigger than any he had experienced before...

He faced forwards again, gripping the far edge of the table, forehead pressed to the surface and waited. His heart was pounding, he could hardly believe this was really happening. Lysandros grasped one of Prokles' hips with his large, rough-skinned hand. He heard the stopper being removed from a lekythos, a small exclamation of surprise escaping him.

Lysandros grunted in amusement. 'You are a citizen.'

Then he positioned himself, and Prokles forced himself to relax, breathing carefully, as he'd learnt to do with previous lovers... but it wasn't enough. With a less than gentle shove, Lysandros entered him, gripping his hips tight enough to leave bruises... He dived deeper, not brutally, but not gently.

Prokles cried out once, half with pleasure, half with pain, his back arching, his cock so hard he ached...

He almost sobbed, he was so pleased to hear Lysandros grunt with pleasure as he took him to the deepest extent possible. Hot against his ear, the Polemarkhos murmured approvingly, 'Good.'

He was overwhelmed. Lysandros was so big in every way; he surrounded him, filled him. He was everywhere at once, his breath on Prokles' neck as he drove into him, as he tangled his hand in his hair, jerking him up from the tables surface so that his back arched further, so he could bite savagely at his neck and shoulder.

Prokles gritted his teeth, and lost all sense of time and place as he tipped into buzzing pleasure... at last he grunted as he spilled. The polemarkhos chuckled and released his hold so that Prokles fell onto the table again. Lysandros gave several final thrusts before he too grunted his satisfaction, spilling deep inside him.

Prokles expected him to immediately withdraw, but still inside, he rested his forehead against his back as he caught his breath; then, his fingers still tangled in Prokles' hair, he pulled his head to one side, and bit his shoulder again, harder this time, just below the place where it joined his neck, hard enough to leave teeth marks. Prokles grunted with the pain of it, but his cock stirred afresh.

Lysandros' voice was rough, demanding, his breath hot against his ear. 'No one touches you but me until your debt is paid, do you hear?'

Prokles said shakily, panting, 'Yes sir.'

He withdrew then and turned away, stretching his arms above his head, casually walking across the space until he reached the doorway, and turned back for a moment.

'I'll send for you when I want you again.'

He left the tent then, leaving Prokles, face down on the table, struggling to gather himself.

He left the tent, the guards eyeing him with amused interest.

'You took that well,' one of them said. 'Hardly a peep out of you.' He held out a hand to the other guard. 'Pay up.'

The other said, 'Malakas,' and handed over a handful of coins.

Prokles rushed away, his face burning with shame... but guiltily filled with anticipation for the next time.