Characters: Cicero, Tiro, Atticus
Tiro peered into his masters study, hidden in the darkness, he was to all intent and purpose, invisible. Cicero sat with his back to the door, slumped over the desk reading by candlelight.
Tiro saw him unroll the scroll that had come fresh this morning and knew intrinsically who it was from.
His master made a small shocked noise, and his breath had a slight hitch to it. Cicero deftly lifted up his toga and Tiro could see his hand moving, up and down, to a constant rhythm. Soft moans permeated in the air and Tiro instantly became hard. He looked around checking to see if he was well hidden, and let his hand drift under his tunic. He slid his hand round his hard cock and began a slow and steady rhythm without ever taking his eyes off his master. He kept his mouth firmly shut to prevent him answering back to those moans. Jolts of pleasure ran through his body, and he wished for the strong hands of his master to be running over his body, to scratch down his back, to own him in more ways than he already did.
One last stroke and Tiro came, shaking quietly. He calmly collected his breath whilst Cicero neared completion. With a gasp and a cry of a name, Cicero came. Tiro allowed himself one last hungry look at the man he adored and then left to the slaves quarters.
Years later, whilst mourning the death of his master, Tiro came across those letters. He burned each and everyone of them.
The world would never know what Atticus had to say to Cicero, and Tiro had his quiet revenge upon the man who had stolen the heart that should have belonged to him.
You had no consideration for my pure reverence of your thighs, ungrateful after all our frequent kisses*
Achilles sat in his tent brooding like a spoilt child who had finally been reprimanded. His men, sat outside, bored, with nothing to do but polish their unused armour, share a few crude jokes and bask in the heat. The noise of the battle was loud, and could not fail to reach their ear. Every so often, one of them would idly remark about it, and then settle back into the silence, the some what taboo subject not quite laid to rest. They where thousands of miles from home, which they hadn’t seen in ten years. Ten years could do a lot to a man so far away from his homeland, and each and everyone of them dreamed about the day that they would return to their loved ones.
However, every time they dreamed their dream of home, the vicious sound of battle would bring their dream crashing back down to earth.
This was the scene that confronted Patroclus as he exited his own tent en route to Achilles’. He nodded to some of the men, held brief conversations with others and laughed at their jokes as if he hadn’t heard them a thousand times before.
Patroclus was restless. He wanted to do something, to help the war, to move things on, so that the men could go home. That’s all they talked about nowadays; home. It was the topic of every conversation, whether spoken out loud or hidden. Patroclus personally didn’t care about home, ever since his father had fled with him to Phthia and he had been purified of his crime and been given to Achilles, wherever his great friend was that was home to him. However, he saw the unrest the men had and he was determined to do something for them.
He entered Achilles’ tent and saw his friend bent over the beautiful silver lyre which he had captured from the city of Eëtion, gently plucking the strings. The melody was erratic and had no semblance of completion, and yet it held a strange sense of beauty and harmony for Patroclus who could only stand there and watch.
After awhile Achilles stopped, put down his lyre and turned to Patroclus;
“You shouldn’t sneak in like a viper, my friend. One day your pretty head will be on the wrong end of a sword doing that.”
“Ah, but you knew I was here all along.” Patroclus smiled back.
“True, true. You’re footing always sounded like the mighty Zeus’ to me.” Achilles laughed and stood, flexing his bronzed muscles. “Now come here, and we’ll see how divine you really are.”
Patroclus laughed outright, and went over to the hero, unbuckling his tunic as he went, allowing it to drop to the floor.
Achilles disrobed, and they met each other, their mouths kissing hungrily. They where both greedy, biting at each others mouths, necks, chests. Sweat dribbled down their muscled chests, the light produced via candle made their bronze skin look almost golden, divine. Achilles pushed Patroclus down onto the bunk and sat with each great thigh on ether side of the other mans body. He bent down for another hungry kiss, and ground his throbbing erection into his companions.
“Technically, I should be on top, I’m the oldest!” Gasped Patroclus.
“Yeah, but who’s army is that outside? Mine! Now shut up whilst I fuck you into the ground.”
With that pronouncement, Achilles growled, and guided Patroclus onto his hands and knees. He dipped his hand into some nearby oil, and quickly began to finger fuck the tender entrance. He then liberally covered his own dick in the oil and slammed in, causing Patroclus to moan. He moved, quickly, his oil covered hands, slipping, against the sweat of the other man. He thrust in and out, not lasting very long, but long enough to curl his none lubricated hand round and deftly bring Patroclus to completion.
They lay there, hot and sticky for awhile, just listening to each other breathe, until Patroclus began to stir.
“Come, play your lyre,” Patroclus said, “the men are restless and you should sing for them.”
“What shall I sing for them, my friend?”
“Sing tales of celebrated men, for someday we will have songs sung about us.”
Achilles smiled at this.
“Only if you sit facing me, so I can sing to you.” He said.
* Quote from Aeschylus, Myrmidones, (5th/6th century BC), Achilles mourning over the dead Patroclus.
** This is how Phoenix, Ajax, Odysseus, Odius and Eurybates find Achilles in the middle of Book 9 of The Iliad.
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