Primal Need
By Acca Larentia
Iphicles padded quietly down the deserted corridor. He had tried so hard to deny the inevitable, but the desire was just too strong. He'd made it two whole days, this time, and he was pleased by that. The penalty would be fierce. Was that why he'd done it? The answer scared him.

Dropping the crossbar behind him, he locked himself in the total darkness. Moving by feel and rote, he pulled his simple shift over his head and hung it on the door handle. His own breathing sounded too fast in his ears. Naked skin prickled and although he wasn't sweating he wondered if the scent of his fear was noticeable.

The waiting was the hardest part. Time enough for his civilized and proper brain to remind him that he was a King. He could leave. He could avoid the lash and the blood.

He never did. The primal force of his need won out every time. He wanted this, craved it, couldn't be a King in the light of day without the violence of these black nights.

Kneeling, it was colder on the floor, his balls crawled up against his body. Resisting the urge to comfort himself with a warm palm, he folded his arms behind his back and prayed.

A God answered. The God. The only God. His God. Ares stepped forward, softly backlit by the radiance of his arrival. Behind Iphicles a  pair of thick candles sputtered to life. Even that light hurt his eyes after the total blackness. He ducked his head and let his wild curls further protect his face from the visage he worshipped and detested.

"You're late." The voice of his God promised retribution. And maybe he'd heard a touch of surprise, but perhaps that was wishful thinking. It was dangerous, so intoxicatingly dangerous, to dare a God to care.

The blow caught him by surprise. He fell forward, didn't even try to catch himself with his hands. The pain of his forehead impacting the stone floor was no less than the throb in his skull from the force of Ares' hand.

Willing air back into his lungs, he rocked back to sitting on his heels. Spreading his knees just a little further, he wanted the war god to see his cock rising in appreciation. Demon shadows flickered on the walls, laughing at his depravity.

Ares swooped, gripping the kneeling divinity around the neck and lifting with ridiculous ease. Lifted until Iphicles was off his knees and then off his feet. Dangling, at the end of Ares' arm, dangling like a scruffed kitten, this was the hardest lesson. But he'd learned it and he was proud of that accomplishment.

Swaying complacently, he watched from under lowered eyelids as Ares conjured chains and manacles. Back at the beginning, when he was still afraid of his own desires, the war god would chain him to an altar. Ares liked ritual symbolism. But when he'd started finding pleasure in grinding his cock against the marble, when he had come against the unforgiving rock for the second time, Ares began to deny him even that cold comfort.

A rough shake and Iphicles remembered he had to move. Raising his arms wide overhead and pulling his knees apart as much as possible, he felt the manacles tighten with a reassuring clank of solidness. When Ares let loose of his neck he stumbled only slightly before getting his weight evenly distributed between his spread and shackled legs.

Ares' latest perversion. He was displayed like a capital Chi, with nothing but the air to cushion or caress him. Nothing to distract him from the attentions of his lord, his master, his God.

Ares was pleased. His mortal king was so much fun. He caressed his toy with a firm slow stroke. Starting at the wrist, just under the manacles, sliding down the tanned skin of forearms, across bunched muscles of the upper arms, outward over strong shoulders and around to tickle lightly in the recess of hairy underarms. Continuing with a stronger touch over broad pectorals, widening his fingers to trace down the solid ribcage, centering again along the path dictated by the coarse trail of hair that led down, down. Stopping only briefly to dip thumbs into navel and then wider again, avoiding the straining cock that jumped for him. Down even further, over strong thighs of corded muscle. Returning upward, digging a little deeper, brushing the backs of his fingers along the heavy weight of balls. Nails scratching harshly in the mat of curls. Further up the panting body, over the abdomen, across the sternum and ending by tracing meticulously light circles with his palms over erect nipples.

Iphicles moaned. His skin was singing with electricity. Every nerve ending screamed for more, another touch, a slap, a pinch. Something hard and solid and satisfying. His cock wept salty tears, begging shameless. Ares ran the rough pad of his thumb lightly, oh god too lightly, along the underside of Iphicles desperate cock, swirled gently and slowly through the thick moisture and stopped with barely any pressure at all over the slit. Iphicles watched himself try to fuck the thumb that tortured him. He knew he was begging but couldn't hear his own voice, everything he was, every thought and action and movement, was concentrated on trying to increase the contact and pressure. He writhed in his restraints and bucked helplessly against the tiny point of contact.

Ares had no mercy. He stood impassive and let Iphicles work himself into a sweating mass of frustration before lifting his hand to Iphicles mouth. Iphicles fucked the air for several moments until his brain recognized the stimulus at his lips. He swallowed the God's thumb hungrily. Sucked it deeply into his mouth and eagerly cleansed it of his own sharp flavor. Working his throat and lips and tongue he stove to show Ares that he would be good at sucking something else. He could worship Ares cock, he wanted to, was begging to. They didn't have to continue this, not now, not when his body was so needy, his cock aching. He sucked until he'd drawn the digit deep into his mouth, his teeth pressed into the fleshy part of Ares' palm. Full lips stretched past sultry, intentionally hollowing his cheeks to mimic the expression he knew he wore when Ares allowed him to worship the cock of a God.

Too soon, too soon, the thumb began it's slow slide out. Crooking behind Iphicles' front teeth, the manicured nail jabbing into his palate, it forced his head up. Looking into Ares eyes his soul melted. Touch me and I'll come for you. Stroke me and I'll kill for you. Kiss me and I'll die for you. Ares caressed his jaw, tenderly as if in thanks for the unspoken devotions.

Ares belt was wide black leather, supple, exquisitely tooled and gleaming in the candle light. It smelled of musk and blood and sweat. Iphicles moaned when it was presented to his lips. He kissed it reverently and then dared to lick it. He craved this strap. This extension of the God himself. More personal, more intimate than any conjured instrument. His cock pulsed painfully. The muscles of his ass and thighs contracted rythmically. Shuddering with aching need, he pulled the tapered tongue into his mouth. Carefully, slowly, he drew the thick leather between his teeth until he found the indentations. Something in his chest broke open, releasing him from sanity. They were still there, the tiny crescents of crushed leather that marked the last time he had bit down into that delicious strap. A tiny thing, that his God would abide the imperfection, that his God wore his mark. He felt the warm tightening at the base of his spine, the earliest herald of orgasm and fought to stop it, push it back, ignore it. His sobbing breath unclenched his teeth and the blessed belt fell from his lips.

He was not bereft for long. The first stoke of the strap was gentle, caressing the bottom curves of his ass. Pulling against the shackles at his wrists, he pushed backwards, offering himself to next stroke, opening himself to the promised pain. The next kiss of the leather was lower, across his thighs, encouraging him to spread them even further. Again, this time harder, a stinging blow. Blood coursed to the surface, bringing heat and prickly itchiness to the skin. He'd started rocking, trying to anticipate the next strike. Harder, harder, the cadence started. Each flat lash causing every muscle in his body to contract. And in the moment between blows, every muscle relaxed. The rhythm was unbearable; straining, clenching, uncoiling. Over and over until the tears fell unnoticed. His body thrusting widely, arching painfully tight into the solid pain and then sagging momentarily against the chains. He lost track of time and space and reason. The only thing in his world was the belt. His ass burned on the surface, but deeper, at his gaping hole and the root of his over full cock, the tense pleasure magnified until he was nothing but the craving for more.

The belt was a life force of its own, independent of the wielder. It loved him. It bit across his shoulders, nipped over his ribcage. Curled around his heaving chest to lick at his nipples. Slapped his calves and thighs and burned through the tender skin behind his knees. The belt loved his ass best, always returning there to feed. He burned for its touch, so close to orgasm surely the next stroke would be enough. He wanted the belt to slap his asshole, but couldn't spread himself far enough. He begged the belt to strike his cock, but he couldn't twist himself far enough. The frustration sent him higher, spiraling past everything except the unholy craving for release. Too soon the rhythm slowed, he twisted and bucked and writhed, trying to show the belt he needed it to continue. Gently it lapped at his balls, and he shoved into it, if he could convince it to bite him there, he would explode into a million pieces.

He was still thrusting into the blows that were no longer falling when he felt powerful hands grip his hips. Ares held the belt. Ares controlled the belt. He stilled in Ares' hands, praying Ares would revive the belt. The belt would let him come.

Ares pushed him forward to the limits of his manacles. There would be no more rocking, no more thrusting. Without warning, Ares slid his rigid cock into the king's clenching ass. Buried himself  in the desperate mortal. Iphicles' tortured ass stung where coarse curls pushed up against him. Exhausted muscles rejoiced in waves of pleasant heat as they contracted against something solid. His God was fucking him. Delirious, overwhelmed, every nerve ending firing, he couldn't breathe, couldn't endure a single moment more without dying in the agony of desire.

Ares offered salvation. Wrapping large arms around Iphicles' waist, he folded the sweat slicked belt in two. Holding the doubled ends loosely a pocket formed between the halves. Slipping the leather over Iphicles' starving cock, he pulled the ends taunt. Iphicles screamed. Relaxing the leather and moving it upwards, to catch the king's desperate, weeping, head, Ares snapped the belt tight again. Iphicles' orgasm slammed his body backwards, pulsing waves of seed erupted and arced to the floor. Rigid muscles clutched the cock in his ass. The war god came almost as violently, hot semen flooding the quivering channel.

When Iphicles recovered enough to have a conscious thought, he found himself curled on the hard cold floor. Ares was watching him impassively. As Iphicles pulled himself to his knees, he wondered how he was going to manage the long walk to his chambers. All he wanted to do was sleep, for a week or so, alone.

Ares apparently decided he was coherent enough to be spoken to and growled out a parting warning before he disappeared. He took the candles out with him.

"Don't keep me waiting."

Echoed in Iphicles' head. Falling back into the darkness, the King of Corinth laughed.

"Or what? You'll do this again?"

He wondered if he could manage three days this time.