This was living. The nubile young bodies of the slave whore boys being worked down on the stone platform at the grotto entrance to observe, especially the mesmerizing blond-curled one in the middle, me reclining on the couch with a beaker of wine in one hand, the roasted leg of a chicken in another, and the dark-haired slave whore boy Peritas with his head in my lap and his mouth on my cock. I normally wouldn’t be invited into the elite Baths of Dionysus, housed in a grotto in the cliff between the city of Rhodes and the sea, but I had been invited here to see the paintings I had been commissioned to have installed in the walls of the grotto’s main entertainment chamber in situ. They had been all the rave of the elite Greek men who came here. The Baths of Dionysus specialized in men who wanted to ride boys.
I, Argos Flavius, am celebrated for my paintings for venues such as this of boys in sexual congruous with men or after having been taken and was lured in from Athens for this specific commission. While here, half a year already and who knows for how much longer, I have frescoed the pleasure chamber walls of several of the Greek noble families on the island and have added to my own store of paintings to peddle around the Greek empire. My art is distinctive in that I not only paint studies of the boys, but I also paint their bodies provocatively beforehand and, typically, I fuck them myself before painting them in the afterglow of having been worked with a man’s big cock—and, yes, I am also renowned for the size of my cock and the expertise with which I use it.
My specialty is fourteen-year-old boys, as I had ensured the slave boy Peritas, now taking my shaft deep in his throat, was and as I can tell the blond beauty hanging from a hook in the ceiling of the cave on the stone platform below is as well. I like to use boys who are on the cusp of becoming men in the definition of their musculature, but who are still tender, nubile, downy haired, and fresh, and, preferably still have the pert cocks and balls of a boy. Being big membered, extraordinarily big membered, I am pleased to say, I enjoy a boy whose channel is largely unused, tight. I delight in stretching it and listening to a boy whimper and moan. It makes no difference if they are a virgin or a slave boy whore, they whimper and moan when I have put them on my cock. I fancy that I can depict the whimper and moan in my paintings.
Peritas was kissing and licking up my body, near ready to be mounted and ridden, but my primary interest was turned to the stone platform and the beautiful, perfectly formed boy in the middle of a trio of hanging boys of fourteen, the special age of the baths, each being teased and prepared by a burly, battle-toughed muscular soldier, clad only in sandals laced up to his knees, leather harnesses on his chest, and leather guards at his wrists. Each man was chosen for the heaviness of his cock and balls, his musculature, and a rugged handsomeness in the face. Each of the boys was fourteen, comely, and small. In performances like this, where there were three boys, all different in coloring to whet different appetites, the boys were slave whores. When a virgin was deflowered on stage, it usually was a solo act.
After the three young slave whores had been worked to exhaustion on the platform, the soldier performers would come out into room of couches and lend their cocks to entertaining the patrician men in the chamber who liked to lie under men and the patrons who liked to cover the boys took them away to do so.
I reclined on my back, bending my knees and placing my feet on the surface of the couch, as Peritas saddled himself on my pelvis, encircled and raised my throbbing staff to the vertical, position his entrance, and began, with a deep moan, to swallow and slide down my pole.
I turned my head, watching the blond boy on the platform, fancying that he was he fucking himself on my cock. He now was receiving the full attentions of one of the soldiers, who was standing behind the boy’s body, hanging by his wrists from leather strappings tied to a hook overhead, his feet not touching the floor. The soldier’s wingspan was broad, the boy’s body, though perfectly formed, was small. By grasping the ankles of the boy and raising and spreading the boy’s legs straight out from his body, the soldier could suspend the boy’s legs at full stretch.
Peritas leaned down for a kiss on the lips and I accommodated him, but only shortly, as I wanted to catch the moment of penetration down on the platform. Peritas began fucking himself on my shaft, raising and lowering his buttocks, using the leverage of his feet, set on bended legs next to my thighs. I grasped the lad’s thin waist and helped raise and lower him on the cock. He was declaring at loud volume how huge I was inside him—enough so to invite the attention and interest on the men on the couches around us.
My attention was turned to the platform, though, where the blond boy cried out at the moment of penetration, the soldier crouched behind him, thrusting up into the boy. The boy leaned forward toward the audience of randy men, toward me, as if begging me for relief, his torso bowed, his legs stretched out to the sides from his body. His body jerked and rocked from the power of the soldier’s thrusts. The boy’s mouth, the face still beautiful—no matter of taxing could rob him of his beauty—was set in the yawn of an unvoiced scream of total taking, with a hint of sauciness and appreciation of how he was being tested and used. I had seen the soldier’s erection, though, which, though very commanding, was not as commanding as mine—as Peritas was finding as he whimpered and groaned from his exertions of riding my cock. I could only imagine and savor what my shaft could do inside that beautiful blond boy.
Drawn by Peritas’s endorsement of my measure and being about to see the circumference of the root of the shaft themselves when they looked over, the men on the couches close to mine, were dividing their attention between the platform action and the action on my couch. I was still a young man, in superb condition. I’m sure more than one of the patrician clients in the chamber were fantasizing having a taste of me.
As it was, I was already painting the blond boy hanging on the platform in my mind—and would do so on a panel when I made my way back to my studio apartment. But I longed to have him in the flesh as well as paint him.
At the same time, my fluids and passion for the slave whore Peritas were on the rise too. I wanted control. I wanted it to be me to decide how deep to go, how fast to fuck, when to pull his seed out of him and to release my own. I rolled out from underneath him, turned him on the couch so that he was on his back, underneath me, and I was kneeling between his thighs. Men around me were now gasping, licking their lips, and drawing closer at the sight of my full erection. I grasped Peritas’s ankles and bent his knees up into his chest, rolling his hips up so that his gaping hole, gaping because of the size of me that he had already sheathed, winked at me. I must remember to capture that in paint, I thought, as I thrust inside him and he raised his hands over his head to grip the arm of the couch to hold himself steady, and howled in echoey tones to the ceiling of the grotto to broadcast taking me huge and deep inside him.
The men from neighboring couches, alerted by Peritas’s cries of what he was being taxed by, were rising and gathering around my couch to watch and celebrate my debauching of the small, dark-haired sex slave. I reveled in the knowledge that my own performance could detract attention from the entertainment down on the platform, but when I turned my head to observe the action down there, I discovered that the entertainment was over. The platform was bare; the blond bird had flown—or, more likely, been carried off by a lucky club patron.
I had meant to watch the blond boy taken to a finish. I so wanted to eternalize him in paint—and to take him to finish myself.
“Nai, Nai, Thaskale. Eeloyese me to sporo soe!—Yes, yes, Master. Bless me with your seed!” Peritas cried out. But I continued thrusting, not giving him mind until I’d ripped his out of his body and he had collapsed under me, fully open and vulnerable, eyes glassy and mouth blowing bubbles of total surrender.
I knelt there on the couch between Crios’s spread thighs, my hands gripping his knees—moving them out as I buried my cock in him and moving them together as I withdrew my cockhead almost to his opening, never, though, losing purchase inside him. The young Greek boy, fourteen by my order and as handsome as Apollo and covered by swirls of blue, yellow, and red paint that emphasized his curves and highlighted his crevices, slitted his eyes, arched his back, palmed my left breast with one hand, and threw the other over his head, gripping the top of the inclined end of the velvet couch to hold himself in place as I slowly plowed him.
“Páo na értho,” he whispered in a gaspy voice.
“Yes, come for me. I want you to come. You can come now,” I responded, maintaining the steady rhythm of the fuck, moving his knees apart as I pushed up into the quick of him, holding to listen for his gasp, and then moving his knees together as I withdrew and he exhaled with a raspy sound. He may be a whore slave, here because I bought his time, but I could feel that he had opened to me—that he wanted the huge shaft inside him that I provided. I had taken time in preparing him. This wasn’t a quick poke and release. This wasn’t, I was sure, what he was used to in earning money for his master at the house of male whores.
The trembling hand pulled back from my breast and encircled his cock. He stroked himself, emitting little gasps, arching his back, pushing his chest up. I leaned over and took his right nipple in my teeth.
“Me douléveis pio grígora. Fýge!—Work me faster, harder. Bring me off!” he cried out. “Páo apó tin anáki. Eíste pára polý megáloi gia na eíste mesa mou tóso polý. Min eíste skliroí gia ména—I am suffering from need. You are too big to be in me so long. Don’t be cruel to me.”
“Mi miláte tóso polý. Dóse mou ti plírosa—Don’t talk so much. Give me what I paid for,” I growled. I reached up and slapped him across the face and covered his mouth and nose with my hand, while I continued fucking him, but I also picked up the speed of the thrusts and deepened them. He whimpered, and I loosened my breath control grip. I slipped my thumb into his mouth, though, and he sucked on it, smiling at me with his eyes, while I fucked him. He was an experienced whore. He could take it.
My hands were gripping his knees again and he settled down to panting and moaning low. I gave him two quicker, off-rhythm thrusts and bit his nipple. With a gasp and a shudder, he came, and I felt the wetness of his ejaculate on my belly. I continued fucking him, back on rhythm, and he relaxed under me. But as he felt me tense and stiffen and grip his knees hard, he cried out again.
“Més mou. Eláte mesa mou!—Inside me. Release your seed inside me!”
With a sigh, I did, my mind already planning the pose I wanted the boy to be in when I painted him. I always painted them after I’d fucked them. Happily enough, my body had stayed firm and presentable enough that this, combined with the size of my cock, the money I gave to their masters, and a promise of eternity in oils, ensured I had no trouble convincing beautiful young boys to model for me and to let me fuck them.
I was also blessed with virility. We held there, Crios clutching me too him, murmuring, “Yes, yes. Give it to me. You are a bull!” as I tensed and jerked and spouted, tensed and jerked and spouted, tensed and jerked and spouted.
“Oh, fuck, you’re flooding me!” he cried out. But he had reached down and grasped my buttocks to him and rocked on me during the slow roll of the ejaculation, so I knew he wasn’t objecting.
“Shit, you are big. And so virile. So full of seed. Fuck me again.” He knew his trade well, how to squeeze every bit of fee out of his client along with their last drop of seed.
Such an accomplished little whore he was. But he was sweet. And such a looker—a young Greek god. He would paint up a treasure. I pulled out of him, rising up from between his legs. I stood there, beside the couch, deciding what pose to put him in. The pale blue sheet under him, placed there to protect the burgundy velvet of the posing chaise at the studio end of my large, one-room flat, was nicely rumpled. I had done the painting of his body well too, the eye following each swirl of blue, yellow, or red to a treasure aspect of his small, boy’s body. He was nicely posed already too, stretched out there, with his legs bent and spread, his feet flat on the surface of the couch, one hand over his head, gripping the top of the curled couch arm and the other encasing his cock. His perfect, lightly muscled torso was stretched out by the arm being flung over his head. I was already considering the shadow angles.
“Stay there, just like that. I will paint you that way. We will fuck again later,” I said. I picked up my toga and pulled it onto my shoulders, not folding it to cover me in front. I went to the easel and paints already set up and started sketching him. I had everything positioned just right—not just the beautiful, spent body of the Greek boy, but the couch he was on and my easel as well, so that the sunlight streaming in from the only opening to the outside, a wide doorway out onto a balcony, with a gorgeous view down the levels of the Rhodes and to the sea, was just right.
I worked quickly, sketching in the lines of the beautiful boy’s body and starting to build a foundation with the paint. I, though, regained my libido while I was sketching him and suspending the work, far enough along that I now could complete it without him being there, and, in erection, I moved back to the couch.
He was asleep, softly snoring. I laughed. I wasn’t so old that I couldn’t exhaust them in sex—and fuck them well, I mused, as I looked down at the gaping hole I had stretched open as he panted and groaned. The lad, slave he might be, seemed to like the attention I had given his passage, and I certainly did too when I could get inside one.
Still in half erection, instead of going back to the paint board, for which I wasn’t in the mood anymore, I went through the doorway out onto my balcony and took in the vista of the white-walled, with splashes of rich color, buildings spread along the top of a cliff and cascading haphazardly down the slope the city of Rhodes on the Greek island of the same name was on to the sea below and beyond. What I saw was a pleasing pattern of housetops, balconies, and terraces. The streets here were so narrow and the houses so haphazardly arranged that I couldn’t tell where anything was. I had painted this landscape several times already and would do so again. I’d have no trouble finding buyers for the paintings. They could be handled openly in galleries. My paintings of Greek boys post coitus would go to private, discerning collectors or be used as panels on pleasure chamber walls.
My attention went to a balcony to my right and perhaps two streets down toward the clifftop, with the blue water below. The boy was maybe the same age as Crios—fourteen—and, if anything, even more beautiful than Crios was. Crios was a dark beauty, dark hair, sultry, and foxlike mystery. He was less of a mystery now that I had caressed every inch of him with my hands and gotten my cock inside him. The boy on the balcony was all blond curls and sunshine. My hands and dick itched to do the same with him.
I suddenly realized that it was the boy from the Baths of Dionysus—the blond boy who had been ravished by the muscular soldier as he hung from a hook on the stone platform at the cave’s mouth. So, he had weathered that ordeal. And here he was, tantalizing me again.
He was naked, standing there, looking not down toward the water as I had been doing, but up the slope, up toward me. I fancied he could see me and had been arrested by the sight of me, standing there, toga open, my naked torso showing, my proud cock in half erection. Even in half erection, my cock was arresting, even if I say so myself.
My eyes latched onto his and we drank each other in. His body was so beautiful that I was going into full erection again, and I unabashedly took my cock in my hand and began stroking myself. The blond boy on the balcony did the same, and the two of us stood on our separate balconies, half a town away from each other, stroking ourselves and feasting on each other with our eyes.
Neither one of us came. I’m sure we would have—and would have been so much in synch despite the distance that we would have come off together, but, as we got close, a tall, muscular, dark skinned and haired man, older than the boy but younger than I was, came onto the balcony across the way. He was naked and in massive erection. He gathered the young blond Greek god up in his arms and took him inside, off the balcony.
I could see into the chamber the boy was carried to, if only dimly because of the shadows. But I could see the man lay the boy on a bed on his belly, climb over him, run an arm under the boy’s belly and pull him up onto his hands and knees. The boy was docile, giving over to however the man was positioning him, prepared to take whatever the man did with him. Then I could see the boy’s body move rhythmically, as the man mounted and penetrated him and set up the rhythm of the fuck. The boy turned his face toward the doorway, and I fancied that he was looking at me, across the stretch of the town, as the man rode and fucked him.
In erection and panting, I turned and moved back inside, slipping the toga off my shoulders.
Crios woke as I lifted his body on the couch and turned him over onto his belly.
Half awake, he murmured, “Páli, páli,” and I answered.
“Yes, Crios, again. And maybe yet again, if you please me and can take care of this erection.”
I mounted his ass, grasped his shoulders, holding him pressed to the couch, and, as he cried out “Nai! Nai!” I thrust inside him and fucked him in long, deep strokes. All the time I was fucking him I was fucking the naked blond boy on the balcony in my mind and imagining what that dark-skinned stud was doing to him now. I didn’t tell Crios that, though, and he didn’t take it personally.
When I was done, Crios was lying there moaning, his arms and one leg dangling off the sides of the couch, blowing bubbles, panting lightly, and emitting a sustained, low moan.
“You are killing me good. I won’t be able to walk tomorrow,” he whimpered.
“I want you to stay tonight, in my bed. I’ll pay you for tomorrow,” I said. I was standing beside the couch. I slapped him on the rump to make him gasp and inserted my finger in his ass, sliding through the cum I had deposited inside him, searching for and finding his prostate. He raised his ass to me and moaned.
“Sas efcharistó loipón?—So, I have pleased you?” he murmured, his voice gaspy. “I was told you would be demanding. That I would have to give you everything.”
“Yes, you have pleased me well.” I didn’t add that it was as a surrogate for the gorgeous blond boy across the town on the balcony. I was horny and would be perpetually horny as long as the mystery boy was on my mind.
“You will fuck me again?”
“Oh, yes, I most certainly will fuck you again.” And I would again and again in the night, as often as I felt like coupling with the blond boy—as often as I had an erection I needed to try to assuage.
“All right, fine then.” With a contented sigh, he lowered his rump as I withdrew my finger from his ass and he dozed off again. I had exhausted him. I would exhaust him again before the next dawn. He would earn his fee for his master.
I liked the pose so much, that I renewed the easel with a new board and sketched out a second painting of Crios. All was going well until I realized that I was painting Crios’s dark, straight hair in golden-blond curls. I didn’t bother to correct that. Over the next several days, I had painted several other paintings from memory of and longing for the blond boy on the Rhodes balcony.
For three days I fell into a routine, working on finishing sketches I’d completed plus working on four oils of My Eros from observation, memory, and wishful thinking. I was calling the blond boy I spied on the balcony across Rhodes and interacted with from afar My Eros now. Eros was the Greek god of love and attraction. My Eros certainly was attracting. There didn’t seem to be a Greek god of sexual obsession, although I could certainly understand why if there were, so I settled on Eros. And the “My” was added, of course, because he had become my obsession. I didn’t want to marry him; he obvious was a slave sex whore; I wanted to fuck and then paint him.
He fell into my obsession without trouble, appearing on his balcony at nearly the same time every day, in the early morning softer light, before the Mediterranean island sun began to burn the earth, and then again, in late afternoon, as the light continued but without the intensity of the middle day. I assumed the boy did more than lay on his back under men but that he worked a schedule in that room across the town.
Even slave whores were worked during periods they weren’t being humped. And chances were good his time servicing men corresponded with the two times a day I saw him, being drawn out on my own balcony precisely on the chance we would be floating over Rhodes together. I thought he might be at work in a brothel during those times, because five out of the six times I saw him on the balcony those days, a man, naked as the young My Eros was, appeared eventually on the balcony, drew the young god inside, and fucked him on the bed in the inner chamber in the dim illumination through the balcony door. And it never was the same man.
I wanted to be one of those men.
It had become a routine that I would come looking for My Eros twice a day and he would be there—perhaps not right away, but if I was patient and spent my time observing the life of Rhodes descending down to the sea, I would be rewarded by My Eros coming out on the balcony, naked, as I would almost be, wearing my toga but letting it flare open when he appeared, and masturbating himself in concert with me before he was drawn back into his flat. The time waiting for him wasn’t wasted. I was painting oils of the much-depicted city scape of the beautiful island of Rhodes at a faster rate than I ever had before in my months here. And I was being invited to fresco the walls of some of the pleasure rooms of country villas on the island, the patrons having seen and appreciated the paintings of mine installed in the Baths of Dionysus.
I had such a preliminary design meeting with the Lectorus family across town, in the vicinity of where the young god’s brothel must be, and I decided to do some sleuthing on where I could contact My Eros while I was in that area. I arrived in that sector of the town early and wandered around, looking up at the balconies of the buildings haphazardly set on the narrow city alley-type stone-clad streets, more paths than streets. I was trying to discern where the balcony was of My Eros. If he sold himself to men, I wished to buy—and I wished to paint him as well, even though I had already painted four oils of him in provocative, post-coital poses. That had all been from imagination, though, and I ached to bring reality to coupling with him. I dreamed of holding him in close embrace and fusing my body with his. My cock longed to know the blond beauty’s passage walls. It mattered not to me how many men’s shafts had been there before mine. I was confident that there was more stretching of his passage to accomplish and that I was the man to do it.
I longed to find the balcony and to ascend the stairs of the building to find My Eros. But I wasn’t able to. The clifftop town of Rhodes was just too much of a jumble of white-washed buildings and terraces and balconies cascading down to the cliff edge before dropping to the sea.