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Alkidas was sitting in the gymnasium on a winter afternoon, watery sunlight entering through the oculus, strapping one hand in an absentminded way, preparing for boxing training. He wasn’t thinking about boxing though; he was thinking about how truly fucked he was, in more ways than one. He could no longer pretend he didn’t want it, couldn’t deny he’d brought it upon himself willingly, and now – well…
It’d started earlier in the year. He’d discovered he couldn’t stop himself watching the wrestling champion, Deokles, in training. Though he was nude like everyone else, he was somehow different in Alkidas’ eyes. He was older than him, strong, very muscular; broad shouldered and slim waisted; his handsome, scarred face often split in an arrogant grin… and Alkidas found his mind had become an increasingly filthy mess of hopeless desires.
During hot summer nights, sleeping in the barracks amongst his Spartan brothers, he couldn’t stop the heated dreams from coming; of what Deokles might do to him with those rough hands and his girthy cock; how his sheer bulk, his size, his strength, might be used against him. Alkidas would wake with aching loins, and desperately stroke himself to completion.
Still; the first time, he’d tried to fight it. Deokles had caught him alone in a corner of the gymnasium on a steamy hot day at high-summer, while Alkidas’ group were still at their training nearby.
He shoved Alkidas behind an open-work screen, face first into the wall, the scent of their sweat and musk thick in the air.
Alkidas fought it only because he knew he should; knew that the desire which ran hot and fast through him should be denied; but Deokles had him in a grip, an arm around his shoulders, pressing himself to his back; his cock hard against Alkidas’ arse. He stopped struggling as the wrestler’s other hand ran down, over his tight stomach, cartwheeling with desire, and took him in hand. He began stroking him, immediately quick and a little rough, but the right kind of rough, with just the right amount of pressure. With his other hand, he pushed Alkidas’ head aside so that he could kiss and bristle at his nape, before nipping his shoulder.
Alkidas, delirious, could only thrust into the giant hand, eyes closed, pleasure rippling through him as he’d never known it, valiantly holding in every sound… aware of the group, close enough to hear them, and they mustn’t be heard.
Yet, Deokles was a master, and Alkidas could feel his grip on things slipping, enough for a ragged moan of pleasure to escape him.
Deokles placed a careful hand over his mouth, never breaking ankara travesti his rhythm, as he whispered hotly into his ear, ‘Quiet.’
Alkidas barely heard him as he tipped blissfully into release, arching back against the wide muscular chest as he came, spilling across Deokles’ fingers, grunting into his hard-skinned hand, warm against his mouth.
Deokles chuckled quietly as he released him, Alkidas leaning forward to prop himself against the wall, head on his crossed forearms, panting heavily.
The wrestler’s voice was like warm honey as he murmured, ‘Let’s do this again.’
Then he walked away towards the cistern, leaving Alkidas a jangling mess behind him, struggling to believe it had even happened, but for the buzz in his blood, and the small mark on his shoulder.
The second time, Alkidas had become separated from his hunting party in the pursuit of a deer, and was trekking through the forest, back towards the hunting camp. He heard the other man’s steps behind him a moment too late, and found himself pinned to the forest floor, hot breath against his neck, and that voice, warm and low, a chuckle in it, saying only one word, ‘Again.’
With feverish hands, he pushed up Alkidas’ chiton, hauled his hips upwards and spread his cheeks.
Alkidas made a small sound of surprise at the unexpected heat of Deokles’ tongue on his opening; hot, sloppy licks. He gasped his pleasure into the ground, the scent of dirt and decay filling his senses.
Deokles gave no warning before entering him with a finger. He had big fingers, like the rest of him and Alkidas moaned, dirt under his nails as he clawed at the earth, as though he needed to get some purchase on the world around him as reality blurred.
The wrestler rumbled, ‘What do you want?’
It was more a gasp than a word. ‘More.’
Deokles began to stroke him in time then, and Alkidas abandoned all restraint, crying out his pleasure into the woods, his desperation for release palpable as he drove himself backwards onto Deokles’ fat finger, then forwards into the sweat-slick hand.
He stuttered something inarticulate as he tipped into oblivion, reality lost entirely for a moment as he slumped to the ground, his breathing ragged, grinning because he couldn’t help himself.
He was surprised when Deokles, leaning over him, kissed his shoulder, saying with real warmth in his voice, ‘You’re trouble.’ He trailed his fingers down Alkidas’ spine, gently, almost tenderly, as he moved backwards and away.
Alkidas looked over his shoulder just in time to see him disappearing between the trees, shoulders squared. He let his head drop into the leaves again, cursing quietly ankara travestileri to himself.
The last time had been different though.
Winter had arrived by then, heralded by heavy showers sweeping across the Hellos Plain, drenching Sparta and driving everyone indoors, though the inexorable round went on: training, eating at the mess, more training, an occasional festival, more training, ad infinitum.
Since events in the forest during the autumn, Deokles had made a point of coming to watch Alkidas train, and often, he gave advice. That wasn’t so strange; men, especially masters in their field like Deokles, giving advice to those in younger grades was perfectly normal – but in this case, Deokles’ advice always required the wrestler, frowning sternly, to manually correct some point of form: grasping Alkidas’ hips to correct his posture; slipping a knee between his legs from behind to make him widen his stance; splaying out his large hand across the small of his back, the heat of his palm like a brand as he moved him here or there…
Each time was only a moment, but those moments were without a doubt meaningful. Sometimes when their eyes met afterwards, there was desire in Deokles’ expression, but mostly, Alkidas just thought he was watchful, waiting…
At first, he didn’t understand what he was waiting for; but then he finally realised: he was waiting for him.
To act, to speak, to give some sign.
He had to do something.
His chance came much sooner than he’d expected. After training late one afternoon, a few days after this realisation, when everyone else was streaming out of the gymnasium on their way to the mess for the evening meal, Alkidas noticed Deokles slipping away alone towards the baths.
He bit his lip a moment. Missing the evening meal was a misdemeanour, punished by a fine; but Alkidas decided it was worth the risk, since he didn’t know when he’d have the chance to get Deokles alone again. He followed him, making sure he wasn’t seen, silently approaching along the colonnade.
He paused in the doorway, growing immediately hard as he observed Deokles seated inside, his chiton thrown up, a lekythos beside him, his large cock gleaming with oil as he slowly worked himself. He looked up as Alkidas stepped within, their eyes meeting in a hot, open invitation of a look.
Alkidas crossed the room, coming to stand between the wrestler’s knees, and captured his wrist, stopping him mid-stroke. Deokles allowed it, eyes brightly observing Alkidas as he leant in, lips hovering before his own for a moment, searching his face for any sign of resistance. When he saw none, Alkidas kissed him, long and deep, before travesti ankara saying quietly, ‘My turn.’
Deokles’ look was molten as he grabbed the back of Alkidas’ head, kissing him with depthless wanting before he laid back on the bench.
Alkidas took up the lekythos and readied himself with the oil; then coming to position himself, he crooked up Deokles’ knees towards his shoulders. They shared another heated look as he entered him for the first time, the big man’s head then falling back onto the bench, relaxing, allowing Alkidas in.
They had no time of course, and the chance of being caught was ever-present, so Alkidas wasted none, diving into him in quick stages until he was buried to his fullest extent. The pleasure was almost unbearable. He threw his head back in deep satisfaction, before withdrawing some, then diving in again, and again, and again…
Seeing Deokles stretched out, giving himself wholly to him… his head thrown back as he grunted his pleasure, throat exposed… the wide contours of his powerful build, taut and reddened by exertion… his muscular arms as he gripped the edges of the bench, knuckles white…
It was everything.
The moment of climax came quickly for Deokles, his hips bucking jerkily as he spilled onto his own belly, gasping for breath, covering his face for a moment with both hands.
Alkidas smiled, buzzing with pleasure, satisfied that he’d made his desires more than known. Still inside Deokles, still hard, he leant forward, kissing him once, teasingly, ending with a nip to his lip.
‘Until next time?’ he suggested archly.
Deokles had his own ideas. Capturing Alkidas’ face between his hands, he kissed him again before demanding, deep and low, ‘Finish.’
There was something very warm in his tone, and even warmer in his expression. ‘I want you to finish, too.’
‘Why?’ he asked cheekily.
Deokles almost smiled, but softly he rumbled, ‘Just do it.’
Alkidas began again. He was already close anyway; it’d been difficult to stop when he did; and now, eye to eye with Deokles, the moment arrived quickly. He thrust a few final times, tilting over the edge with a guttural groan as he spilled deep inside his arse.
He fell onto Deokles’ chest. The wrestler wiped the sweat from his forehead with remarkably gentle fingers, before kissing him once, very sweetly.
When he spoke though, he was entirely pragmatic. ‘We’d better hurry.’
As they untangled themselves and went together towards the cistern to wash, before hurrying on to the mess, Alkidas was aware of a new quality in his feelings, aware that something had shifted. Aware that he had made it so.
Which was how he came to be sitting the next day in the gymnasium, strapping his hand ready for boxing training, aware he wanted it, badly; unable to deny he’d brought it upon himself, willingly; and now… now he was fucked. In more ways than one.
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