The Game Continues
"Tell me again, Harry, how is this supposed to be sexually exciting for me," Tyr said as he paced the floor with his arms folded and a scowl on his face. Even though Tyr now knew his lover's real identity, he delighted in calling him by the name Ares had first called himself the night they met in the bar.
He looked so damn pathetic. Chained to the wall with heavy iron cuffs around his wrists, small weights clamped with electrical connectors to his erect nipples, his penis encased in a series of graduated rings and a heavier weight hung from his testicles; he was just short of pure agony.
Ares lifted his head up and looked him in the eye. "Well, if it isn't exciting for you, it sure as Hades isn't for me. Get me down, and we will try something else. I don't know who dreams up these things anyway."
"Well it had to be someone you knew. I never knew such 'sexual pleasures' existed before I started hanging around with you."
"Ah, poor sheltered Tyr." Even chained to a wall, Ares was still taunting him. Tyr liked that. He loved looking at Ares's spectacular body, loved Ares's creativity, but most of all he loved the way he would remain in control even while suggesting ways to transfer power to you. 'Got to be careful, you are using that "L" word in your thoughts again, Tyr,' he said to himself. 'This is just play, it is certainly nothing even coming close to resembling love. Is it?'
"I've been collecting this junk for three thousand years," Ares was carefully wiping each piece and placing it in leather bags for storage. "Rarely used it, never though it would ever be used on me. Some guys get off on this stuff. Caesar, Julius Caesar, for example. He designed a lot of it himself. Liked to use it on big hulking gladiators. Said it really made him hot. Once I tried it on him, and reacted about like you did. I thought it made him look stupid. Would have much rather just fucked his young ass."
"I don't have that option with you." Tyr pouted. "Here let me help you with that."
"You and your damn genetic engineering. I can get it myself." The four hands fumbled as they reached for the sex accouterments and their respective bags.
"I'm the one who has to wear the fucking diapers. How do you think that makes me feel? I curse my forefathers every time I think of you! I was just trying to be helpful."
"And I'm a fucking God! You'd think it wouldn't hurt me. I'm just not sure."
"I'm not sure, either. I've never tried it. As I said, before I met you I never had any desire."
"Got that one right, big guy, takes the old God-of-war to put desire in a Nietzschean." He laughed heartily, even though he knew Tyr was trying to be serious.
"Dylan, says he's seen it though. It's horrible. Mouths, faces burned. Having to eat mush the rest of their lives."
"Dylan, now there's a guy whose experience with fucking I would use as a first hand reference any day of the week." Ares sneered, he had still not told Tyr about his relationship, close familial relationship, with Dylan. There were some things he still chose to keep private.
"I know he's a drama queen, but he has lived a long time with my species. And he stopped Beka Valentine from giving me a blowjob. . ."
"Yea, so he could fuck her himself. You told me that one. Doesn't sound at all like my lit. . . "
"It was nice. He really got her. She was so turned on. Never seen a kludge woman in that state."
"And I don't suppose you came when you watched them go at it like minks, did you?"
"Nope, only with you, Harry. And of course, Nietzschean women." Tyr had this cute little smile he always used when he thought he had bettered his opponent in verbal battles. Ares liked it a lot. Tyr was smart, he had to grant him that; but if he were so damn fucking smart why couldn't he figure out a way . . .
"I'm working on it, Harry, I'm working on it."
"How did you know what I was thinking?"
"What are you always thinking?"
"I'm the god, I'm supposed to be the one who reads minds."
"Then why is yours so easy to read?" Tyr bent down and gave him a casual kiss on the forehead.
"That's not a kiss. This is a kiss." Ares grabbed the taller man, pulled him down on the nearby chair, and once again methodically explained what a real kiss was like.
Properly instructed Tyr continued the course of licking, tweaking and tickling down Ares's bronze body. Ares undid his leather pants, lifted his leg up on the arm of the chair, and got one of those now all-too- familiar-but-nevertheless-exciting-Nietzschean-deep-breathing-blow-jobs.
"Gods, you're good."
"Genetic engineering did have some good points."
"I'm good, too. Some day I'll get a chance to show you."
"Don't think I don't dream about being worshipped by the eyes of a god."
"If you wouldn't close your eyes when I kiss you."
"Yea, but nothing says 'you the man' like someone's eyes when his mouth is full your dick."
"How do you know?"
"Because, I see you seeing it in my eyes when I blow you."
"Got me there, Tyr. Maybe got both of us. Roll over and let me fuck you. Then we don't have to worry about eyes." Tyr obliged.
They stood side by side in the massive black-tiled shower with gold fixtures. Ares did not scrimp when it came to creature comforts. Five heads shot water out at various levels. Tyr delighted in wetting down his braids and flipping water at Ares. It would make both of them laugh. Ares rarely let undid his long hair, but tonight it flowed soaking wet down his back and chest.
"Did you get it clean?" Ares said jokingly. Showering was his one chance to get a good view of a Nietzschean penis. Tyr's was long, darker than the rest of his skin, and surrounded by thick dark hair that Ares had joked, could have been braided, too.
"Mine's easy to keep clean. Not like yours." Nietzscheans had also genetically engineered away foreskins.
"It's so cute when it's wet. So harmless."
"Shut up, Harry, you're sounding like a fucking faggot."
"And how would you know what a 'fucking faggot' sound like."
"Only from listening to you."
"OK, OK, will stick to godly ministrations. I just like looking at it, when it's not caged up."
"Like a monkey in the fucking zoo."
"You said it, I didn't."
Ares dropped to his knees and held the long, wet, limp penis in his massive hands. "Don't know if this is safe or not, but I'm going to trust that after you've come twice in one night, you might be able to control your self for a few seconds, just so that. . .
"Shut up and suck it." The last person who had come this close to Tyr's penis had been Beka Valentine. He half expected Dylan's voice to come over the intercom telling Ares to stop. Ares ran his hands along the extra muscles Nietzscheans had in their groin, but his mouth was too full to question.
"This one does this." Tyr flexed and he knew Ares enjoying the movement in his mouth. "And this is the fun one." One flex and the penis was deep in Ares's throat. He coughed. Tyr pulled back quickly and removed his organ from his mouth. It stood erect before Ares's face.
"Holy shit. I didn't think they got that big."
"It's sort of the genetic engineer's way of keeping our women from fucking kludges. Once you've had a Nietzschean."
"Shut up. I get the fucking point." Ares looked down at his god-sized but smaller organ.
They dressed in silence. Ares noticed that Tyr put on his regular underwear which indicating that sex was done for the next few hours, if not for the night. They both decided on leather, Tyr with chainmail and Ares with black silk.
'At least he didn't say "whatever"' Ares thought to himself.
SIX MONTHS LATER
"Hey, sailor, can I buy you a drink." Tyr spun around and found himself face to face with the man he liked to call Harry Wagner, dressed casually in blue denim with a new shorter hairstyle.
"I didn't expect to see you here, today." He and Dylan were awaiting a meeting with counsel from Diphda V at an office in the War Museum.
"Why not? This is as close to one of my temples as they get these days. Interesting displays don't you think?"
"It's just, I'm with . . . Tyr moved his hand in the general direction of a corner. Dylan Hunt, who had been watching a holographic presentation, turned and walked toward the two men.
"Captain Dylan Hunt, this is an associate of mine Harry Wagner. Harry, Dylan."
It was obvious from the looks the two "strangers" shared that there was a past between them. Tyr thought it was a lot like introducing someone to his ex-wife, the tension was so heavy.
"So I finally get to meet the famous Captain Hunt, Tyr has told me a lot about you." Ares smarmed.
"That's funny, Tyr has told me nothing about you." Hunt's smile was just as self-assured.
"Dylan and I are here for a meeting. I suggest that the matters we have to deal with can be addressed at a later time, Mr. Wagner. I'll be in touch." Tyr had put on his cold Nietzschean face.
Ares walked away without so much as a good-bye.
"Met him about a year ago. Has some interesting ideas." Tyr felt like he needed to make some sort of cover explanation.
"And you meet often for games of chess."
"Something like that. He plays very well, and accepts my limitations."
"Why Tyr, I thought Nietzscheans . . ." 'Christ, Dylan, how thick is your head anyway? He's talking about sex. Tyr Anasazi is fucking Ares -- or considering the drawbacks of Nietzschean biochemistry, the other way around.'
"You thought Nietzscheans?"
"Preferred GO." Dylan walked to another exhibit and inserted the plastic card starting the animation and narration. "I hear this battle reenactment is really fascinating. I may be here for a while. Catch up with you later."
'He fucking knows.' Tyr thought to himself. 'He's telling me to go find Harry, and . . . what am I doing worrying about what he knows or thinks?'
Ares was leaning against a pillar in a dark corner of the next exhibition space. Tyr resisted the urge to kiss him full on the lips and instead grabbed him by the muscular upper arm.
"That was slightly rough. You didn't tell me you knew Dylan. Were you lovers, too?"
"I don't tell you a lot of things, Tyr. I've known Dylan a long, long time, and no, he's not my type, and I'm pretty sure I'm not his."
"He knows about us, figured it out. Can't see how?"
"He knows me. He knows I like powerful men. Don't let him know he's right."
"Believe me, I'm not, but it bothers me."
"Tyr, you look like you need some serious bothering. My place. About 10. I know I am going to get drunk, I know you are going to be bothered, and maybe, just maybe, if you play your cards right, I might tell you about Dylan."
"I told him we played chess."
"We do, in our own little way."
Tyr waked back to Dylan who was still acting as if the exhibit was more fascinating that it every possibly could be. He stood beside his Captain for a few seconds before his presence registered with Dylan.
"I'm sorry, Tyr, I usually make it a point not to get involved with the personal affairs of crew members. I just didn't expect to see him here. He's dangerous you know."
"And I'm not?"
"Not that. You know who he really is, don't you?"
"He told me the first night. But how, how do you know?"
"Let's say 'we have a history' and leave it for him to fill in." Tyr had never seen Dylan combine smugness and concern so well.
"He will you know; he told me he will."
"And you believe him?"
"That, Captain Hunt, is none of your business."
An evening with Ares -- hell a visit with Ares beginning in the evening and often ending two days later -- not only served rid Tyr of at least some portion of his sexual frustration, while aggravating others, but also provided him with plenty of good food and drink. Sure he didn't prepare Nietzschean food, but the dinners were always elaborate, hearty and to some degree sensual. Tyr quickly learned not to ask. That wonderful mouth texture could come from goose liver, vegetable protein, or monkey brains. Drinks were another story. While Ares had access to the entire universe, he seemed to delight in serving alcoholic beverages from the ancient Planet Earth, or at least what Tyr thought of as the ancient earth. To Ares of course, ancient times were a couple of thousand years earlier. Tyr wondered if he had vast storehouse of alcohol, or if he would time travel back and purchase it on a "as needed" basis. He never asked; he just drank.
Ares had already consumed a good portion of a bottle of a peaty smoky Scotch before Tyr's arrival. Sure it came in ridiculously small bottles, but still it was not like him to drink alone, at least that much. He was sprawled over his leather chair holding a jeweled goblet in one hand.
"You're drunk. I had to let myself in."
"I'm not drunk. I'm time traveling. I'm in ancient Scotland. Huge stone castles. Hunting the deer and chasing the roe. Red-haired highland lassies. Brave warriors with their faces painted blue. Those Scots sure could fuck. They adored me. I like being adored. Come and adore me, Tyr."
"I rest my case. I need a drink."
"Only got a little bit left, get another bottle over there." He pointed to a heavily carved wood cabinet in one corner of the room. Ares also seemed to have different furniture every time Tyr visited. This visit he seemed to be into old-dark-wood. Tyr wouldn't miss the bed on chains. Only the leather chair remained constant.
"Got any of that B & B stuff we drank the first night?"
"Thought you didn't like that. Gives you a headache."
"Maybe I need a headache tonight?"
"Don't use a snifter, use the goblet I left for you, and bring me another bottle of Scotch."
Tyr picked up the goblet, sniffed it, and rubbed the inside with a towel he found on the bar cabinet. There was some degree of Nietzschean paranoia even a "committed relationship" could not erase, especially when the other partner -- your partner -- was drunk. Tyr mixed his drink, opened a bottle for Ares and walked over and began "worshipping" the god. Desire often proved a stronger emotion than paranoia.
"Move over, let me sit by you." After sex Tyr felt stupid sitting on the floor talking to Ares.
"Go get a chair, this is mine. There's barely room for me."
"You didn't think that five minutes ago. You don't think that when I bend over the back . .
"Yadda, yadda. Get yourself a fucking chair."
"We ARE in a good mood tonight AREN'T we?"
"And you're still dressed. Careful my kludge cum dribbling down your chin will rust your precious chainmail."
Tyr ran his hand across his chin; it was dry. Ares was obviously in one of his "I truly am a bastard" moods tonight. This wasn't what he wanted. He'd wanted good drinks, good food, good sex, and to find out about Ares and Dylan Hunt. He downed his drink in one gulp.
"You're supposed to sip those, remember."
"Not if I have to deal with you." He went over to get another.
"Don't tell me you never get drunk and think back about your youth. I am sure you have fond memories about DNA studies and what did you call them 'test pregnancies.'"
Tyr started for the door. "I don't have to stay here an listen to a drunken fool insult my cultural heritage."
"You do if you want to get laid."
"Nothing, my ex-friend, is further from my mind right now."
"You do if you want ME to give YOU a blowjob."
"What?" Tyr spun around and looked at a grinning Ares.
"You heard me. Why do you think I got so drunk? I've been thinking about this ever since that last time in the shower. I want to do you! I want you to see that look in my eyes. Drago Musevini, Tyr, I want to make you cum!"
"Don't you, ever, ever, use his name as a curse word, again." Tyr pulled him out of his chair and held him roughly at arms length. Fire seemed to shoot from his eyes. "Or I'll . . I'll . .
"Or you'll what."
"Or I'll just have to kiss you like this." He pulled the naked Ares roughly to him and began softly kissing his face, avoiding his lips, and teasing kissing the ridge above his eyebrows, his high cheekbones, and his fury chin. He still knew how to make a god melt. "Did you really mean what you just said."
Ares nodded his head, his eyes begging to be kissed.
"Me, naked? In your chair? You on the ground? Kneeling before me? No protection?" Each question was answered with a nod of the head. "Are you sure? Really sure?" This long of a list of questions usually produced a "whatever" or a "Yadda", but Ares instead, grabbed Tyr's head and again challenged the power in the kissing game.
"You taste like Scotch."
"You taste like cum."
"You know what, Ares. I think we deserve each other." They both laughed softly.
"Got that one right, now get naked."
Despite being named after a Norse god of war, Tyr had not had a fascination with thrones and worshipping. It was not part of the Nietzschean mind set. True power was obtained by being treacherous. Fear, not devotion, was the ultimate mark of respect. He saw fear in Ares eyes, but knew the fear came from his ejaculate and not his insidiousness.
"The word is 'Potato'." Tyr said with a sweet smile.
"When I say 'Potato' it means that I can no longer control my body. I'm about to cum. I won't blame you if you stop, in fact I would prefer it if you stopped."
"What if I don't want to stop. I want to know what you can do to a god. I heal fast you know. It shouldn't be too bad."
Safe words were often given to bottoms to prevent the tops from getting carried away. A word with no relation to the sexual activities would allow the use of all sorts of screams and curses, but the simple utterance of the safe word would bring the activity to a halt. Neither man had ever heard of an Alpha using a safe word, but in this case it might be useful.
"And for gods sake, Tyr, leave your fucking eyes open. I want to make sure you are not fantasizing about some blond Nietzschean wench. I want this to be all HARRY!"
"I fucking LOVE YOU." 'I didn't say that.'
'He didn't say that. I don't want to think about that now. All I want to think about is getting his huge cock as far down my throat as I can, but not too fast. First I got to get it really hard, then I have to get it really bothered, and then."
There were few men upon whom Ares had performed this act. It was usually reserved for Generals, too injured to take his ass fucking, yet still wanting a reward from the God for their brave performance in battle; the same god who allowed them to survive. There were a few men with whom he had had relationship like the one he now had with Tyr. Damn those mortals, why did they have to grow old and die. A few gods; they were fun. This was fun. Tyr was clean. His dick smelled like leather pants. Why wouldn't it? At least it didn't taste like Nietzschean pussy. That was fun too, to take a guy just after he had fucked some whore, or his wife, make her watch. He had to have been even more of a bastard then. Wouldn't do that to Tyr. He wondered if it would really go that far down his throat.
"Potato. Potato." Tyr tried to give him enough notice. He grabbed Ares's shoulder and pushed him away. The body retreated; the mouth remained. "Jesus, fucking potato, Christ." It was too late. Cum erupted from his dick, into the receptive, but unprotected throat of the God of War.
The first look on Ares face was one of victory. He had done it. He had survived. He was one fucking top god. In a matter of seconds it was replaced by one of agony. Acid pouring down his throat. Hot lead. Molten lava. Tyr pulled out, grateful that no ejaculate was on his lover's face. He reached down and grabbed a goblet.
"Here, drink this." He wasn't sure what good it would do. It might make it worse. Ares gulped down the goblet's contents. Tyr pulled Ares onto the chair and held him close his body. He wrapped his powerful arms around him and held him like a hurt child. Ares buried his head in his chest. Tyr tried to look at the top of his head, but couldn't. The tears blocked his vision, so he closed his eyes.
Dylan had said that it burned faces and mouths. What would it do to throats and stomachs? He had not meant to hurt Ares. He fucking loved Ares. Why did he just have to be so damn pig-headed? He was holding the god of war, whimpering in his arms. It had to hurt horribly for Ares to react like that. His entire body was shaking. It almost felt like he was . . .
Laughing. The kind of laugh he heard when Ares had told him stories about military victories or sexual conquests. It couldn't be. Why would he be laughing?
"Tyr. What did you give me to drink?" He could talk. Tyr had been imagining Ares silent for an eternity.
"B & B?"
"Little heavy on the Benedictine. Did you forget the brandy?"
'The man is in pain and he's questioning my bartending techniques.' Tyr thought. "Well, I may have been a little distracted, by someone in a chair insulting my upbringing. But, forget about me, how are you?"
"I my dear Tyr, I can call you dear, can't I, am mighty fiiiinnnneeee." It was that Ares roar. He never though he would hear it again. Ares threw his head back and yelled, "Fucking Bubba Fine."
'Where does this man get his expletives?' Tyr questioned.
"I knew there had to be an antidote. A neutralizer. I never met an engineer yet chemical, mechanical, railroad or genetic who didn't like getting a little head on the side. They had to have created a loophole. I sort of figured it would be something silly like yak milk or maple syrup, something the average Joe would never think of. Got to hand it to you Nietzscheans, the herbs of the old monks. Very sophisticated."
"Just a huge gulp of Benedictine, and no burn, no ache. All gone. All yummy. And Ares wants some more."
"Now it's me who's created the monster. Does that mean I can fuck you, too."
"Probably, but have to do some thinking about that. About now all I can think of is a little post sex. . . no Tyr I don't even want to go there now. There has to be a something a little more stylish. Ah shit, lean back and let me suck you off again. This time, lots of Benedictine and absolutely no potatoes."
Tyr leaned back, shut his eyes, and pictured how much more fun it would be to whip Ares with his hair with his cock buried in his lover's ass. The Dylan story could wait for another visit. When he got back to the ship he would have to ask Rev Bem to give special thanks to the Benedictine Monks.