Chapter Eight: Noble Forgiveness, Beloved.

"Achilles…" beckoned the husky whisper from parted, moist pink lips. Amongst beaded pillows, quilts, and dazzlingly bright blankets dyed in selections of gold, red, orange, and deep dark blue, Alexandros of Mount Ida wallowed in the feel of the silk sheets against his aroused flesh; the smooth hush of the delicate material gliding teasingly across his golden, warm bare skin. The rich, liquid brown of his eyes twinkled playfully bellow the shadows of his black lashes, made thicker and darker by the intense wicked glow of the large fire burning brightly in the hearth across from the bed.
Sometime during the night in had begun to rain, fast and hard. The drumming acoustics lulled the youth into a sleepy, dulled state where sweet dreams blended with vague, half-present reality. His fears and concerns were forgotten, dimmed like the gradual intensity and heat of the fire as it smoldered in the hearth. He was safe for the moment, curled behind four sheer crimson veils that softened the grandness of his accommodations.
Alexandros dreamed of his lover. In the arms of Achilles was the safest place in all the world. No king or commander could touch him there, no duty or demand could make him leave; in the arms of his beloved he found both a shelter and a champion, and acceptance without expectation or misconception. It was always warm and he felt no need to be brave or strong on his own, just a will to be himself, a treasured secret that was becoming lost even as he struggled to reclaim it. Paris had never existed and there were no wars to summon his lover away.
He dreamt of the sun drenched grove near the greenest pasture with the sweetest grass, at the foot of Mount Ida where he would laze in the shade on hot, drowsy afternoons. He would swim in the river near the tall bushes and run back to his favorite pear tree to sun himself dry and nibble fallen fruit, his eyes seeing blue sky and white clouds through the branches and leaves but his heart and his hand knowing only the pleasure of needy blue eyes as they stared down and calloused, strong hands as they caressed him. His own hand would have to suffice but in his fantasies, oh in his most delicious dreams…
A small, winsome whimper escaped the shivering prince throat and faded into a blood red pillow with golden tassels beneath his head. Guided by the lustful, loving direction of his phantom Achilles, so beautiful in the becoming glow of the imagined sun, the sinfully needy youth ground his dripping erection into the layered bedding, rocking his hips desperately. "Achilles," he mewled helplessly, "please, beloved, oh please!"
Just as his lover was about to pierce him with his oiled cock, something too firm, too real, and out of place intruded on the precious moment of their joining, shattering the inner landscape irreparably.
Groggy and confused, bleary brown eyes fluttered and opened as rough, ringed hands bruised his bare arms and a wide, heavy body forced the startled prince deeper against the feathered mattress. Shaking away his mussed curls, cheek turned into the fine silks at a painful angle, Alexandros cried out in horror. He bucked and reared, scrambled to scratch and kick, but for all he was pinned; crushed into the blankets like a brown flower beneath a travelers boot heel.
His heart thundered in his ears, on his tongue, rising bile in his throat which he struggled not to choke himself on. He could not flee from this, trapped as he was. In his mind he knew he was helpless but his body's instinct was irrepressible. He had to stop this. He was for Achilles and Achilles alone. This was not right. No one else must touch him. He. Had. To. Get. Away.
"Nooo," Alexandros wailed into a blue sheet. "I don-don't wan-want… I don't want you. Stop this!"
The man above him chortled loudly. "It doesn't matter what you want, boy. My pleasure is not dependent upon yours," mocked the gruff voice again. "Indeed, I find your rebellion to be only too rousing, pretty one."
Crying silent tears, Alexandros chanted, "No, no, no, no, no, no, no!" while his heart begged, "forgiveness, forgiveness, forgiveness, forgiveness!" from a man miles away, across seas and land, who would never know until it was too late how sullied Alexandros had become. Too sullied to love? He was still keening into the expensive bedding when the oppressive weight was torn from his body, and kinder, gentler hands soothed his numb skin. Alexandros remained still and staring beyond the crimson-hued wall, envisioning a golden warrior stripped and waiting for him in the sun.

TBC...
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