I sometimes wish I were an artist, so I could sculpt him. It would have to be sculpture. Impossible to flatten him into paint. None of the insipidly crafted statues in his temples do him justice. They reflect an ideal man, not a god. Not this god. Apollo, perhaps, all lean limbs and refined proportions. Not Ares, who bulges with things that the sensitive Athenian or Corinthian artist would find repulsive: muscles, genitals, passion. None of the eyes I see staring out of stone faces could measure up to the ones that watch me now.
He sits across the table from me, unconcerned with his nudity, and waits for me to finish eating. Have to keep my strength up, he says, because we've only just started the evening. Only just started, and I'm already covered in sweat and juices, and my thighs twinge when I move. Heat flushes my body when I think of what else we might do, but I blame it on the spicy roe I just ate. My eyes water a bit from the brine and heat of the food, and from the incense I lit to cover the smell of our rutting. The servants play the game, all of us pretending that pine and sandalwood mask the odor of male sex.
Suddenly I'm unaccountably nervous, and I push the platter of tempting morsels away. Ares moves toward me, an action that he abruptly cuts off as I surge to my feet and walk away. I glance at him over my shoulder, and find him eyeing my ass appreciatively. I fight the urge to blush. I should be well beyond that by now. There's not one part of me he hasn't seen, or touched. But still, he's a god. And I'm just a man. It amazes me that he might want me.
"I have a gift for you," I tell him.
He leans back on his couch and lets his legs fall open, hips tilting up. It should look lewd, but on him it's wildly arousing. He raises a single brow (a habit I hate because I can't do it) and smirks at me. Somehow he realizes I'm buying time, trying to find a little equilibrium. I hate to be so pathetically eager. I do. I've had my share of pathetic. He knows it, and once in awhile he lets me feel I have a tiny bit of control.
The gift is concealed in a long, flat box that I grab out of my clothing press, and he dutifully reaches for it when I hand it to him. It hits me how ridiculous it is to present Ares with yet another weapon, but that's what I do. He opens the box, and a dull gleam sparks in the subdued light. The dagger, which was a gift to me from some diplomat or other, reminds me of him. It's Egyptian, the blade beautifully worked, the hilt decorated in granulated gold, crusted with turquoise and carnelian. He strokes a blunt finger over it, and I shudder. It really is so much like him, a little showy, but sharp, and wickedly dangerous. He picks it up and turns it over and over in his hands, testing its balance and weight. Then he glances upat me, and his smile makes my balls sweat.
A crooked finger pulls me on invisible strings until I'm standing next to him. Ares holds the dagger up between us and turns it to catch the light. "Very pretty," he murmurs, and the way he's looking at me I can't tell if he means the knife, or if he's talking about me. He gestures to the floor next to his seat, and I sink down gratefully, unsure how much longer my legs will hold. Ares tests his thumb against the edge of the knife and makes an approving noise. He reaches out with his free hand and tilts my face up, then gently, delicately, runs the flat of the blade along the side of my jaw.
"Hold still," he admonishes, and I work hard to suppress the shiver that goes through me as he rubs the bright metal down over my neck, turning it so the point rests lightly in the hollow of my throat. I can't breathe or swallow for fear of impaling myself, and his laughter rumbles up through his chest and along his arm until I feel the vibrations on my skin. I must have moved, because I can feel a tiny warm trickle of blood crest my collarbone. His eyes seem to glow as he leans down to lick it off, my sacrifice to his godhood. His roughsweet tongue flicks against the tiny nick, and I realize I'm harder that I've ever been, even with him.
My chest is working like Hephaestus' bellows. Ares shoves me with casual strength, and I land with my back on the floor. One graceful movement and he is straddling my thighs, grabbing my wrists with one of his hands and trapping them above my head. He grips the dagger in his other hand, and now he trails it down my sternum, breaking off to the left to circle a nipple. My nipple tightens, and I can feel the sharp blade against every individual hair surrounding it. Cool against my hot, hot skin, and I know I must be the one making those sounds, but they just seem so far away.Ares runs the pointed tip round and round the nipple until it actually aches, then slides it over my chest to press the point into the other nipple, not quite breaking the skin.
His hips are moving now, rubbing his gorgeous cock against my thigh, letting me know he enjoys this game as much as I do. He bends down to blow hot breath across my goosebumped chest, and I can taste the wild honey darkness of it as it flows up my body. I arch up, curling my neck at a hard angle to reach for his mouth with mine. He obliges me with a soft laugh and hard lips. The kiss explodes into my mouth; his tongue thrusts deep, and my entire body undulates with pleasure. He pulls away, leaving me straining towards him, and moves off of me to kneel next to my hips.
"So responsive, so trusting," Ares says. He slides the knife down my belly, following the trail of hair. He dips it in my navel, which tickles, and I have to tighten my muscles against a laugh. He pulls away slightly, and his eyes laugh with me. How many people get to see him this way? All lazy sensuality, indulging his own twisted sense of fun. I do trust him, I realize, at least with my body. I have to fight to keep that in mind though, when the dagger moves again, lower.
"Ares." I mean it to come out as a strong warning, but it's more like a moan. He drags the flat of the blade along my cock, careful to keep the sharp edge away from the silk-thin skin. "Please."
"Please what, Iphicles?", he replies. "Please, yes? Please, no?" He turns the blade so it rests under my balls, and hefts the weight of them with it. "I should shave you with this. It's sharp enough. Think how you would look, naked and vulnerable. And every time you move for the next week you would think of me."
Before he's halfway through his little speech I'm moaning again, my head thrashing from side to side. Some small part of my brain is screaming that one of the most ruthless gods on Olympus has a knife at my balls, but I can't seem to fear him. Not like this. Not when his incredible hardness reaches out to tap my hip, and the muscles in his arm bulge from the effort of holding me down. When we're together this way all I can think about is the void in me that only he fills. He's like a drug made from poppies. He makes everything else go away, and the feeling he gives you is one you would spend your entire life trying to feel again.
The dagger disappears for long moments while Ares leans in for more kisses, deep throated and stinging. He licks my lips and nuzzles under my chin to find that bright little spot of pain where he broke the skin earlier. He sucks that spot until I can feel the blood rushing to it, blooming into a bruise. As his wet tongue wraps around my nipple, I feel something cool and hard slide between my ass cheeks and nudge at the opening of my body. I should be gibbering, I'm sure, but the feeling is blunt, not sharp, and I realize he has reversed the knife so that the hilt pushes against me. I'm loose and open from our earlier gymnastics, and the grip slides easily into me.
My hips buck and roll, and I can feel the tiny granules of gold tracing patterns on my insides. The smooth polish of the gemstones contrasts with the sudden heat of Ares' mouth wrapping around the tip of my cock. I scream, arching upwards, and my heels scrabble against the floor, searching for something, anything solid. My hands fist in Ares' hair, and only then do I realize he has released them. He spreads me wide and kneels between my legs, holding the dagger just inside me and letting go of my cock with a wet pop.
He looks up at me, his eyes insanely dark, his smile teetering on a complete loss of control. "Do you want this?" he rasps, pushing the dagger a bit further into me. "Or do you want me?" He fists his own cock with his free hand and pumps it roughly, once, twice, before letting it go. I lick my lips as I watch, knowing that I want him in me. His heat, his fullness.
"You. You in me, Ares. Fuck me. Please." I'm gasping, barely able to talk, half-blind with need. He pulls the hilt of the knife out of me and flings the thing across the room. I realize vaguely that it has sunk deep into the wall and quivers there violently. Then it's all Ares as he pries me open and sinks inside. He's huge and hot and slamming into me harshly, and I can see the kind of lust on his face that is usually reserved for war. For me. I wrap my legs around him and lock my muscles down on him, and soon we are both roaring towards completion. He rams into me one last time, and my body arches in a spasm so tight I can feel my spine creak. He convulses above me, his face screwed up in agonized pleasure. We collapse together, breathing hard, sticky and sated.
Ares whispers something indistinct against my ear, something about gifts, but I'm too sleepy to pursue it. Instead, I let my hands wander over his body like a sculptor, storing up the feel of him, hoarding it for the day he's no longer mine. When all of my gifts mean nothing to him.