War Wound
 by Thamiris

"He's arrived."

Iphicles nodded at the messenger, hiding his eagerness. "Bring him here."

Two guards, armor rusted and gore-covered, dragged the chained prisoner into the tent, throwing him to the floor.

"Leave us," Iphicles commanded.  The guards bowed and departed, closing the heavy flap of the tent behind them.  Dropping his scroll with a clatter on the table, the king walked toward the man, who'd clambered awkwardly to his feet, hampered by the manacles binding his wrists behind his back and his ankles together.

"My soldiers will decimate your pathetic army," Caesar said calmly.  Only the dark eyes revealed his fury.  "They'll decapitate every Corinthian warrior and deliver the bloody heads to their grieving widows--right before they rape them."

Iphicles leaned back against a sturdy table, gripping the hard edges for balance.  Before replying, he studied his enemy.  Dimitrius, the general responsible for this triumph, had wisely allowed the emperor to keep his imperial cloak.  It announced the prisoner's exalted status as the Corinthians marched him through the towns to the king's encampment.  The ends were dusty and tattered, but from a distance the glowing red garment would leave a vivid impression in the minds of villagers.

Caesar bore other marks of his journey, notably the long, bloody wound running down his thigh from the end of his short, greying tunic, almost to his knee.  The emperor followed the king's gaze.  "One of your men didn't appreciate my attitude," he noted ironically.

"It should be cleaned," Iphicles murmured, almost to himself.  "You're worth nothing to us if you die of infection."

The emperor raised his arched brows.  "So you don't intend to kill me? That's not wise, you know.  I'm notorious for my love of revenge, for my gameplaying.  If you let me go, I'll slaughter you personally.  Maybe rape you first.  I had no idea you were so handsome."

Iphicles laughed, ignoring the heat those words lit in his cock. "We'll just see about that, won't we?"  He stood up, striding to the edge of the tent to exchange a few words with the sentry.  As the king waited for the order to be filled, he peered out over the camp, shielding his eyes from the vibrant rays of the setting sun.

His soldiers' purposeful activity pleased him, as they constructed more make-shift prisons for the captured Romans; built fires to cook their dinner; performed exercises to hone their fighting skills.  If the weather held, they could advance further into imperial territory. Vortigern, leader of the Germanic tribe, assured him that the rest of the Roman centurions could be killed or secured within a few days.

A servant with a bowl, soap and cloth appeared, interrupting his dreams of victory.  Iphicles accepted the items, retreating from the cool wind into the warmth of the tent.  Caesar hadn't moved, and didn't turn when the king walked past him, depositing the bowl on a small wooden table beside the brocaded couch, keeping the soap and cloth in his hand.  Pointing toward the sofa, Iphicles said, "Sit."

The emperor's mouth opened, then closed.  Wordlessly, he dragged himself the short distance before lowering his lean body onto the cushioned surface.  The position put pressure on his wound, opening it, and blood began to ooze down Caesar's tanned thigh.

Iphicles drew closer, standing before the prisoner.  "I'm going to clean your cut.  The camp's doctor and his staff are needed to tend the more serious injuries."

Still, Caesar said nothing.  His silence disturbed the king, made him aware that his decision might be misinterpreted.  Aware that perhaps it should be. His attraction to the emperor had been immediate: the aura of power excited him.  And he imagined, against his will, those long, tanned legs wrapped around his hips as he fucked Caesar until the man's control broke.

He tried to ignore his own erection, although he saw the emperor's black eyes fixed between his leather-clad thighs, saw the slight smile that played on the arrogant lips.  But when Caesar finally spoke, his words, on the surface, conveyed only humility.

"Clean my wound, king."  He spread his thighs.  "I'm all yours."

Wetting the soft cloth in the fire-heated water, rubbing the soap against it until lather formed, Iphicles squeezed out the excess moisture, then knelt between Caesar's thighs, avoiding the chain binding the man's ankles.  He began at the knee, focusing his attention on the ripped flesh there, refusing to look higher, refusing to acknowledge the emperor's desire. The air in the tent suddenly seemed close, over-warm, and he wiped away the sweat that trickled from his forehead.

"This might be easier if you removed your shirt," Caesar observed in the same neutral tone.  "It's warm in here, and you'll need freedom of movement."

"Yes, you're right."  Leaving the cloth lying across the man's thigh, he rose to his feet, leather pants creaking.  Iphicles untucked the plain linen shirt, then, crossing his arms, grabbed the ends and pulled it over his head.  Feigning casualness, the king tossed the garment onto the table.  But he felt self-conscious clad only in the high boots and tight pants, sweat trickling down his chest.  Provocative.

"That's better," Caesar said softly, "isn't it?"

Iphicles watched the man's pink tongue wet his lips.  "Yes.  Easier to clean the wound."  He lowered himself again between the emperor's legs, wishing he could take off the pants chaffing his hard cock.  Reaching up, he re-wet the cloth, and applied it to the wound, carefully wiping away the blood and grime.  He could feel the heat emanating from Caesar's crotch, could smell a damp, earthy muskiness that made his throat dry with desire.

"Move a little higher now.  That part's clean."

Wanting to refuse, regretting his offer, wondering why he'd even made it, Iphicles dipped the strip of cloth in the water and returned to his task, pushing the tunic higher along Caesar's hard, bronze thigh.  He tried not to stare at the dark hair curling around the man's heavy balls, or the thick cock that jutted out, now clearly visible.

Instead, he concentrated on the next section of the gash, dabbing until it, too, was clean.  Above him, Caesar's breathing quickened as Iphicles gently pushed his thighs wider apart to reach the final line of the wound.  When finished, the king left his position to find a piece of gauze in the heavy wooden chest hidden in a corner of the candle-lit tent.

"I'm going to use this to keep the wound closed," he explained unnecessarily, bending down to wrap the flimsy fabric around Caesar's leg, then tying it tightly.  Before he could leave again, the emperor spoke.

"I don't think you're finished, king.  Look higher on my thigh, on the inside.  That's where the wound started--the blade slipped.  That's why the wound begins again below."

Iphicles pushed the tunic higher, tucking it under the man.  Caesar's cock rose.

"Do you see the wound now, king? It's right on my inner thigh.  Bend forward--it's quite small.  But any wound can kill."

The king took the damp rag, and ran it along the emperor's inner thighs, under his balls, then lower.  Iphicles' skin burned, as though he'd contracted a fever, and even without his shirt, sweat flowed down his back, running into the crack of his ass.

"I think you missed it," Caesar whispered.  "Try again.  A bit higher this time."

Wetting the cloth a final time, Iphicles hesitated, then took the man's cock in his hand, rubbing the engorged head in slow, sensuous circles.

Closing his eyes, the emperor moaned.  "Yes, that's better.  But I think that you need something wetter than that cloth.  Something wet and warm..."  When Iphicles' lips closed around the swollen tip of his cock, Caesar's eyes opened at once, and he met the king's upturned, amber stare.  "Be thorough.  Don't miss a spot."

Iphicles' tongue traced a leisurely path around the edge of the thick head, dipping into the leaking slit to taste the emperor's salty juices, before sliding down the hard shaft, pausing to flicker over pulsing blue veins.

Caesar moaned again. "That's incredible.  But faster now.  Don't be so gentle."

Grasping the man's cock at the base, the king began to jerk him off with quick, fluid strokes, while he continued to suck the head.  Every caress brought another moan from Caesar's lips, and every sound reverberated in Iphicles' cock.

"Faster..."

Fingers flying over the emperor's reddening cock, Iphicles suddenly bent down, swallowing the length.  Caesar rewarded him by cumming, sending spurt after spurt of creamy semen down the king's throat.

"Ohhhh...Feels so good..."

When Iphicles had lapped up the last drops of cum, he stood, then pushed Caesar back against the couch, taking care with the man's wounded leg, before easing his seed-slick tongue between the emperor's lips. They kissed for centuries, until the king finally pulled away, his cock ready to explode, and sat beside the other man, confused by the situation, unsure what to do.  Caesar's chains made him uncomfortable; the idea of force didn't appeal to him, so he remained still despite his need.

"Iphicles," Caesar said quietly.

The red-gold head turned in his direction. "Yes?"

"You're not finished."

"What do you mean?"

"On a journey to Gaul, a handsome young doctor there convinced me that a small amount of salty liquid, ingested shortly after a wound's been cleaned, eliminates almost entirely the risk of infection."

"Salt is in low quantity in the camp,"Iphicles replied, his cheeks flushing.  He stared at the table before him, noting that the scrolls had to be tidied and rebound.  "I know of only one immediate source.  But you might not like it."

"I'm desperate to taste...something salty.  Anything will do.  I have an idea.  Why don't I close my eyes?  I need to relax a little, and you can give me what I need."  The dark fringe of lashes descended, and Caesar rested his head on the back of the couch, lips slightly parted.

Refusing to think, to acknowledge the implications of his actions, Iphicles tugged off one dusty boot, then another, before standing to pull his leather pants down over his hips, freeing his cock.  When they were off, he climbed back onto the couch.   This time he remained standing, with one foot on either side of the emperor's thighs.

Reaching behind Caesar's head, he pushed the emperor toward his cock, guiding it between his lips with his other hand until he was buried in the man's throat.

Iphicles, almost frantic with lust, fucked Caesar's mouth, his movements hurried, impatient.  The tongue swirling over his cock had him crying out in seconds, semen shooting from the swollen head onto the emperor's greedy tongue.  He remained like that for a minute, letting Caesar suck away the cum that continued to flow from his overexcited cock.

Finally, Iphicles collapsed on the couch beside the man.  "I hope that was what you were looking for," he said at long last, trying to suppress a grin.  The orgasm had lifted his anxiety, made him feel almost giddy.

"Actually, the Gallic physician had another suggestion...But we can try that out later."

Iphicles leaned over, kissing Caesar.  "I'm glad. War wounds can be so dangerous"

The End