And here I am again. I seem to be drawn to this place ever more frequently, and while that doesn't disturb me, I have to wonder exactly what it is that pulls me here.
Is it lust? Strange that I should ask myself that. I'm supposed to be the expert, but the luxuriously sensual enjoyment I feel in this place is warm rather than heated, and the lazy curve to my lips is far removed from any grimace that bespeaks lechery. So I confess a bit of confusion.
Maybe it's his cock: that bit of flesh perfectly formed in its length and thickness. Its well-defined veins are throbbingly evident even from my vantage point, and when it faces me, it weeps copious drops in a kind of unknowing benediction. I watch them well at the tip and slide in a track of liquid pearl down that veined underside, and it feels like an offering.
I never know who will meet him here, in this small chapel apportioned in black marble and satin-draperied solemnity, and that is also part of the delightful surprise. I must confess that my favorite is Ares, that black-garbed inverse reflection of myself. His hands pressing on Iphicles' shoulders become my own, and in my mind's eye, it's my cock that thrusts into the heated depths of the king's body. I watch his buttocks rhythmically clench and release with each stroke, and hear his growled satisfaction in his completion, and it sounds like my own fevered response. With Cupid's counterpart in bloodlust and gore, I achieve a spiritual melding, and enjoy a psychic fuck with the beautiful mortal.
That's paradise, but I can also enjoy the slim-bodied soldiers, eager to please their ruler, and the occasional liveried courier who is pleased to deliver more than an ornately scripted scroll. I have watched the flint-eyed Roman plunder and conquer the Iphiclean territory while his ambition drapes the obsidian altar to War in imperial purple and green-gold laurel. Hercules, too, has been in this place, and the delicate taste of his addicted acquiescence in his own taking fills my mouth with the sweet-sour dryness of a fine wine.
But today it's Iolaus.
He slides in through the side entrance, his face masked with the quivering tautness of the intelligent animal that he is, and his eyes canvass the shadowed corners of the small chamber like a doe poised for flight. I hear his sudden, sharp inhalation, and my eyes join his as the large door swings silently open to admit a figure robed in silken indigo. The cloak slips to the floor with a soft swish at Iphicles' shrug, and he stands there in naked glory. Pale-golden limbs glow in the soft darkness made deeper by the contrast of weak light filtering through stained glass window tiles and candled wall sconces that flicker gently, and he seems to flow like a well-formed stream toward Iolaus.
They embrace in a deep kiss that doesn't break, even as vest and trousers are caressed aside, until Iphicles pulls slowly away, his teeth tugging one final time at Iolaus' bottom lip. He drops to his knees in front of Iolaus, and my cock gives a pleasurable twitch as he nuzzles his face against the solid thighs while his fingers work at unlacing the worn boots. I can feel the silky tresses of auburn in my hands as Iolaus works his fingers through that beautiful hair, and I long to close my eyes, as he does, when Iphicles' lips begin to move insistently against balls already tight under the jutting cock.
Then I do close my eyes, so that I can better hear the wet sounds of Iphicles softly sucking, and my instantly oiled hand closes around the head of my cock with a moist heat that makes me gasp. Iolaus grunts hoarsely, and I know when he enters the lovely embrace of that sculpted throat by Iphicles' husky groan of response. That abandoned groan of raw lust laced with whimpering need always accompanies the first plunge into him, throat or ass, and I imagine him kneeling at my feet, worshipping me as he does Iolaus. My thumb becomes Iphicles' hot tongue as it rubs slowly across the swollen tip, and fingers become his teeth and nibble delicately at the edges of the foreskin. He swallows the length of my cock as my hand squeezes and pulls with the same suction, drawing me in and clasping me tightly in the wet satin of his throat, and jets of come fill and overflow my hand, and I can almost feel him licking me clean.
"No. Over here." That deep purr, russet velvet, compels me to open my eyes and watch as Iphicles steps gracefully to the wall behind the altar.
"Tell me what you want." I see him step behind Iphicles and lay his hands firmly on the well-formed hips, and as he rubs himself against the cleft of the king's ass, I feel myself getting thick and firm under my hand again.
Iphicles presses himself against the cold marble wall, curling his fingers around two brass sconces mounted just above his head. "Fuck me. Hard." His voice drops to a whisper, and I have to listen very carefully. "Give it to me the way Ares gives it to you. Rape me raw, Iolaus."
Do it, I growl softly, as my cock pulses in my hand, and he shoves himself inside Iphicles in one lunging push. A low moan, muffled by the wall, echoes through the marble chamber, and Iphicles' hands tighten to knuckled whiteness around the brass as Iolaus pounds into him. Each thrust slams him into the marble's cold caress, and I shiver deliciously as he writhes between his two lovers, the icy wall and the hot man. My hand moves faster as I try to keep up with the increasing frenzy of Iolaus' thrusts into what I imagine -- what I know -- feels like scalding satin around his cock. I watch Iolaus push up into him, the muscles in his legs and ass tensing on each move forward, and I'm breathing as hard as Iolaus, gasping like Iphicles. I'm fucking that royal ass and getting royally fucked at the same time, and I clench my hand around the base of my cock to forestall the euphoria of my own explosion as I wait for the keening wail of the king. So we can come together, like the sweet lovers we are in my imagination, joined in cataclysm and seminal communion.
And it's bliss, all-encompassing in its force, and it drives away coherent thought. This is why I come here, I know that, have always known that, no matter how I try to logic that away. Iphicles overflows my hand and soaks my legs, and I splash against that cold marble wall beneath him, and the ambrosial milk of us is love, and desire, and need and want and fire, and all that I am, and all that he is, and we are each other. Mortal reflection, godly reflection, we join in each other, me flowing from him flowing from me.
Through eyes that try to focus, I see him collapse, sliding off a still-hard Iolaus and slumping to the floor.
"Iph --" I smile through my daze at the look of consternation on Iolaus' face.
"I want ... Wait a minute." He stretches to reach behind the altar for something. "Come here."
The chalice in his hand is made of carved amethyst facets that pick up the candlelight and reflect a shifting violet kaleidoscope across Iphicles' lax countenance and the smooth terrain of Iolaus' belly. The feline smile on his face intrigues me and pulls me forward in my chair, and then he reaches out and grasps the turgid hardness in front of him, tugging with a firm playfulness.
An icy-hot tendril of sensation wraps itself around my balls and slides deep inside me as he slowly pulls and squeezes Iolaus' cock, both of his hands working with loving industry against the veined shaft, encircling the head of it beneath the crown and rolling the foreskin up and down. He leans down to lick the head, his tongue greedy for each errant drop of cock-dew, and my cock throbs hotly in time with Iolaus' whimpers. He gently draws Iolaus down to his knees, steadying his shaking body against his chest, and Iolaus' head drops back with a gasp when Iphicles nips lightly with careful teeth at one pebbled nipple. My thumb and forefinger pinch my own tit to rosy attention as I watch him suckle, even as he continues to pump the cock with practiced skill. And now the swollen head enters the wide mouth of that goblet, and Iolaus cries out, his scream harsh and raw, and when Iphicles holds the jeweled cup up to the light of a three-candled sconce, I can see milky splashes on the inside through the purple translucence of the amethyst.
As Iolaus slumps bonelessly to the floor, breathing heavily, I let my eyes linger on the flushed form of my sweet Iphicles, and I wonder what thought draws his mouth in such a fine line as he contemplates the purple goblet in his hand. Then he rises, holding the chalice carefully under the bowl, and pads softly behind the altar, and I see him pick up a cask from a small lacquered table against the wall and fill the goblet half-full with wine.
And I know what he's going to do, and that knowledge drops me back into my chair. I lick my lips slowly, and wait for it.
"What are you doing?"
Iolaus' voice is still breathy and cum-rough, and it makes Iphicles laugh softly, in that tantalizingly sexy way, as he swirls the liquid slowly.
"I'm thirsty, Iolaus." Amethyst shadows lay across the hollows in his cheeks when he tilts his head back. I'm hypnotized by the motion of the muscles in his throat as he swallows the carmine and cream that spills over his lips and tongue, and my mouth goes dry as his cock stiffens, thick and dark against his tawny thigh. He finishes the draught and places the chalice in the very center of the altar, and his tongue darts into the corner of his mouth to catch a last drop. "Very tasty. You're a good vintage, Iolaus."
He lifts Iolaus' mouth to meet his in a fleeting brush of lips, then retrieves and dons the blue cloak in a single fluid motion. I want to admire the grace of his movement, but my eyes lock onto a single spot of wetness on the blue silk, a tiny pinpoint that gradually becomes dinar-sized, and knowing exactly where the swollen head of his beautiful cock rests beneath the fabric tears a long-overdue groan from me.
And he shrugs, a carelessly entrancing gesture, and says, "The gods have their ambrosia, and I have mine. Different strokes." One hand on the door latch, he stops, and without turning back, whispers, "Good night, Iolaus. Give Herc my best when you see him." The door slides shut behind him with a barely audible click.
Iolaus creeps away, vague confusion in his eyes and sated laxness drooping his mouth, and I am left alone in this secret chamber I created, this portal between my world and his. From my own flask I fill the now-empty chalice, just half-full, as he did. The crystal-clear wine, reflected through flickering candlelight and translucent amethyst, turns to pale blue ice as I stare into its depths, and I wonder if my young king yet slumbers. I lick delicately at a small milky spot on the rim, tasting the musk tang on the tip of my tongue, and I think that no, he does not sleep.
He lays there, his cock asleep against his thigh, even as his soul cries out for something more than a coupling of bodies. I can feel his heart, gone virginal from disuse, strain and harden in longing for the soul-fuck that it needs, and I know that the silken sheets will be damp and twisted around him by the time dawn eases the uncomfortable insights of midnight truth.
I tuck the chalice gently into a velvet pouch, and as I draw the golden cords tight, I notice the carved face etched into the cup's bottom, a jovial face whose widespread mouth chortles with lunatic glee at a private joke. One eye winks back at me in lascivious spite.
It reflects my own midnight truth.