The god of war threw back his head and screamed.  No words--only the searing sound of pure rage. Here was the destroyer of men, reeking blood' that the poets were always yammering about it.  Autolycus froze.  He could only stare in fascination as white noise poured from Ares' parted lips, past hard white teeth and red tongue.  Beautiful. To have that tongue vibrating on his cock, pushing into his ass...I'm an idiot, he thought.  Who'd say no to that?   He almost regretted his decision--and not just because Ares was going to kill him.  Part of him, the suicidal part, wanted to admire the sight.  But self-preservation kicked in, and he crept away while the god's eyes were still closed.

Quietly, he left the temple, picking up speed as he moved downhill toward the town, mind still whirring.  It's not that he didn't want to fuck him, but the guy was so violent--he doubtless got off inflicting pain, even in bed.  And Autolycus was not into pain.  Ares' furious howl followed him.  He hurried through the market place, past colorful merchants' stalls, turning left down a narrow street, then right, until he arrived at the tavern.  The busiest and the safest spot in Piraeus.  Pushing open the door, he entered the main room.  For a moment he stood still, waiting for his eyes to adjust after the harsh sunlight.

Around him he could hear men and women  laughing, gossiping, arguing, mugs clanging together.  A soprano sang a popular ballad, accompanied by the lilting music of a lyre.  Autolycus took comfort in the boisterous noise--it nearly erased the sound of Ares' savage cry.  Fighting a path to the bar, he ordered a pitcher of strong Thessalian wine, throwing a few dinars on the counter for the burly barkeep.  Then, armed with a flagon and mug, Autolycus looked around for a seat.  He spotted an empty one, and quickly strode toward it.  "Mind if I sit here?"  he asked, already pulling up a chair.

"Go ahead. My friend just left, but I thought I'd hang around, see what turned up."

Autolycus, who'd been craning his neck to watch the door, turned back.  He studied the other man appraisingly.  Now this was more his speed.  Young, blond, small-boned, pretty.  Unlike Ares, this guy wouldn't use his ass for target practice. Smoothing his mustache, Autolycus smiled. "Well, hello there."   He hunched discretely in the chair, keeping his back to the door.  Finally, he could relax.  Filling his tankard to the brim, he downed the wine quickly, nearly choking.  The liquid burned his throat, but warmed his stomach, and he poured another glass.  He needed to get drunk, and forget about Ares.  This little cutie would help.

"Do you come here often?"

Ok, so the boy wasn't too bright.  Fine.  He wasn't looking for Aristotle.  No, he just wanted simple, straightforward, uncomplicated, non-violent sex.  Was that too much to ask? The thief leaned over, placing a hand on the slim thigh.  "I've had a long day.  Can we skip the chitchat and go somewhere private?"

Blue eyes stared into his.  "Sure.  I'm staying at the inn down the street.  It's quiet, with a big bed."

"Going somewhere, Autolycus?"  Ares asked, looming over him.

Autolycus looked up.  And up.  Shit.  "I was just thinking how much I admire you, Ares.  All those wars, all those dead bodies, all those broken bones...Well, see ya."

Ares shoved him back, the force almost shattering the rickety chair.  "Not yet.  We have some unfinished business."

"You can't kill me here with all these people here!  Think of your reputation--I'm unarmed.  Everyone'll stop coming to your temple.  They'll forget about you.  You'll be a has-been, a nobody..." Autolycus stopped.  This wasn't helping.  He glanced around the room to see if anybody might come to his rescue.

The boy was staring at Ares, terror scrawled on his face.  A few others eyed the big, beautiful, leather-clad god, but help, apparently, wasn't on their minds.

Autolycus cursed, while Ares stared down at him, dark eyes unblinking.  A torturer ready to inflict pain.  Shrinking back in his seat, he said plaintively, "I'm allergic to agony.  Besides, shouldn't you be at some battle, overseeing massive death and destruction?  Maybe burning a few cities to the ground?  That kinda thing?"

The god's continued silence alarmed him.  He was scared to blink, keeping his eyes on the shining blade at Ares' side.  Wasn't that dried blood on it, from the last moron who'd said no to the war god? What was he going to happen to him?

"I'm going to fuck you, Autolycus," Ares said deliberately.

Did the guy have to be so loud?  "Well, why didn't you say so?" He pretended to wipe sweat from his brow.  " Let's go.  I've reconsidered your offer, and I'd love to--"

"We're not going anywhere."

"What?!  We're in a bar full of people!  We can't--"

Ares cut him off again.  "Oh yes, we can."

Fear gnawed Autolycus' belly.  This violent psychopath was going to rape him.  Here, in front of everyone.  He felt sick.  And when Ares leaned down, Autolycus cringed, shutting his eyes tightly against the inevitable pain.  Instead, he felt something wet, smooth and hot slide between his lips.  The heat from the contact shot so quickly to the thief's cock that he jerked in his chair.  Startled, he opened his eyes, and found himself staring into the god's dark ones.  He studied the flecks of hazel there, trying to understand what was happening.  Apparently, Ares was kissing him. With his tongue.

Autolycus's brain tried to catch up to his body while the god's tongue gently probed his mouth, exploring it.  The sick bastard!  Getting him hot, before he started with the rape and mutilation.

Ares paused.  Then, in a loud voice:  "I'm not going to hurt you, Autolycus. Like I said, I'm going to fuck you.  Here.  Now.  And you're going to love it.  It's going to be the best fuck you've ever had."  The god returned to the kiss.

His fear abated, replaced by an unnerving combination of embarrassment and desire.  Did Ares have to announce it to the whole bar?  He was very conscious of the eager spectators gathering around them.  But what the hell--it felt great.   Autolycus started to respond, filling the god's mouth with his own wine-sweetened tongue, locking his arms around Ares' neck.

Terror came rushing back, however, when the war god suddenly pulled him from the chair.  Using one powerful arm to hold Autolycus against his mouth, Ares used the other to sweep the mug and the flagon to the stone floor, where they landed with a clatter.  The god then easily lifted the man onto the rough surface of the table, so that he faced the room.  Ares stood between his legs, hands on the thief's thighs, still caressing the man's tongue with his own.

"Wrap your legs around me," Ares ordered in a ringing voice.

Autolycus hastily complied.  Ares' hard, leather-covered cock ground into his own, and he moaned.  The whole bar now watched, including the blonde boy.  Their watching eyes, assessing his desire, applauding it, disconcerted him.   He'd never had sex like this, and he felt vulnerable, especially because he still didn't quite trust Ares.

When Ares suddenly grabbed the front of his shirt in both hands, he yelped.  The audience laughed, realizing before Autolycus did that Ares only wanted greater access to the body beneath.  Ares tore off Autolycus's shirt, drawing a few whistles, then  a few more when he sank his teeth into the man's neck.  The intent was pleasure, not pain, and Autolycus leaned back, gripping the sides of the table, as the teasing bites moved lower, gasping when they converged on his nipples.  He watched the dark head moving back and forth  across his chest, felt the beard tickling him, as Ares sucked his skin till it stung.

He tried to ignore the audience who'd now begun offering commentary and suggestions.  What the hell kinda bar was this, anyway?  Ok--knowing Ares, they'd probably seen it before.  He could just hear it: ‘Forget the new play by Euripides, honey. Ares is banging another one down at the pub.  Grab the beer nuts and let's go!'  But when Ares' warm, wet tongue began a slow descent down his chest, heading toward his cock, Autolycus gave up.   No more jokes.  No more resistance. He closed his eyes, surrendering himself to the god, whose tongue was now back in the thief's mouth.

Moments later, when Ares pulled back,  Autolycus almost cried with disappointment.  His frustration was mirrored by their growing audience, who signaled their displeasure with catcalls.  When Ares tore off his own vest, however, swinging it over his head before tossing it to them, they whooped in delight.   The god grinned, and Autolycus realized Ares was deliberately playing the crowd, encouraging them.  He wanted everyone to see what he was doing.  He wanted to make a point.

Staring at Ares' sculpted torso, Autolycus decided that he didn't really mind.  In fact, he felt like cheering himself.   And when Ares' skin-tight pants vanished at the same time as his own, he did.  Loudly. But  the crowd drowned out his enthusiastic noise.  The god, however, winked in acknowledgment.

Staring at the impressively engorged cock, Autolycus swore he heard music.  Then he realized that a flute, tambor and cithara now accompanied the singer and her lyre, producing a seductive rhythm he felt in his balls.  And as Ares closer, Autolycus didn't wait to be asked, but slid his legs back around Ares' waist, his arms around his neck.  This time, though, nothing separated their cocks.  Hard flesh met hard flesh, and the thief thrust his hips forward, striving for fuller contact.  He didn't care about the audience, the boy--only the heat in his cock. Only Ares.

At a shout from the crowd, Autolycus dragged his eyes from the god's passion-flushed face.  Ares turned slightly toward a grinning bar wench, who tossed him a cruet of olive oil.  Amid raucous laughter, the god slowly drained it over their straining cocks, then tossed back the empty jar.  Now, when Ares slipped his hands under the mortal's ass, lifting him up to rock him back and forth against his now-slick skin, the musicians increased their tempo.  The crowd of patrons who now ringed the table began to clap in time to the god's movements.

Autolycus' eyes closed.  His mind shut down, overtaken by the music, the steady clapping, and, most of all, Ares' hot, oily cock slipping and sliding on and off his own.  The god began to breathe heavily in his ear, and Autolycus could feel the growing tension in Ares' rock-hard body.  The musicians again increased their beat, and the audience followed suit, now pounding on tables with fists, tankards.

Above the noise, Ares roared a question:  "Should I fuck him?"

"Yes!" came the deafening reply.

"Please," Autolycus whimpered, "please.  Please."

The next thing he knew, Ares had positioned him against the tavern's back wall.  He continued to chant the simple word, spreading his palms across the knotted wood just as Ares rammed his hard, slick cock up the thief's ass.

God and man groaned together, while the watching patrons cheered, stamping their feet.  The music had lost any melody, instead pounding out a frenetic beat, a beat Ares repeated on his body.  Clutching the man's hips, the war god fucked him at a breathless, almost frantic pace.  Soon his body was shuddering.  His teeth closed on Autolycus's shoulder while his cock pulsed, shouting as he shot his burning seed deep into the mortal.

Autolycus, his own cock aching for release, his modesty completely forgotten, turned to the boisterous spectators.  "Should I fuck him?" he shouted as loudly as he could.  Even before their enthusiastic yells, Autolycus had pushed the god of war down onto the table, making sure both he and Ares were facing the crowd.  Ares did something to make the crowd laugh, but Autolycus didn't care.  He was staring at the god's damp broad back and smooth ass while the noise thundered about him, in him.

With one swift, fluid movement, he shoved his oil-covered cock into Ares--and almost screamed at the sudden, explosive heat.  Grabbing the god's right hip in one hand, and a hard shoulder in the other, the thief started to pound into Ares.  Sweat dripped from his face, down his chest, onto the god's already glistening body.  His cock was burning, ready to burst, to fragment.  Pleasure so intense it hurt, eyes watching him ready to come inside the god, music loud, so good...

For one brief instant,  Autolycus wondered what he was doing here, fucking the god of war to the beat of a bar band, loudly encouraged by thirty rowdy onlookers.  Then he was past caring, gripped by an intense orgasm--knowing only that he'd never felt so good in his life, and that he'd never feel so good again.