A Breath of Fresh Air
Iolaus was sitting in a Thracian tavern, alone and more than a little bored. Boredom had proved in the past to be a dangerous state for the hunter to be in, as more than a few husbands and fathers all over Greece could attest to. Female companionship was never a problem for the small blond, and it certainly looked as if he could take his pick from any number of attractive ladies on this evening. Decisions, decisions. . . He chose to order another bottle of wine from a rather buxom young tavern wench and mull over his options.
Three hours and four more bottles later, the hunter was quite drunk. He was getting louder and louder, and his stories growing more and more exaggerated. In the midst of telling the small, mostly uninterested crowd for the fifth time how he slew the hydra, Iolaus felt an unmistakable, unwelcome churning in his stomach. He paused for a moment, realized his gorge was rapidly rising, and decided to make a rather hasty exit before he embarrassed himself. A young woman, perhaps the only person still listening, was dismayed. "HEY!" Sure, he was drunk, but he *was* Iolaus. She tried to stop him. "Where are you going?"
"For a breath of fresh air," the hunter groaned, roughly pushing the girl aside. He rounded the corner, and violently vomited the remains of the evening's stew outside the forge. That felt better. Iolaus realized he really was quite intoxicated, and the best course of action was to take a walk and sober up a little.
The night air was cool and sweet. He walked all over the town, and although he felt a little better, the rapidly increasing pounding in his head was not diminishing. He decided to find a nice field to sleep it off in, instead of
heading back to his room behind the tavern. There was a little shack and a nice pasture only a few yards away, and he headed towards it, removing his patchwork vest and folding it up to use as a pillow.
The shack was clearly not abandoned, as he had originally thought. He could see oil lamps flickering, and decided it would be best to inform the owners that he would be spending the night in their pasture, to avoid being run off with a pitchfork in the morning. About eight feet from the door, Iolaus heard an unpleasantly familiar giggle, and broke into a run.
"Callisto!" He came barreling through the unlocked door, sliding to an unsteady stop directly in front of the psychotic God. "What do you think you're doing?"
Her deep brown eyes, shining with madness, lit on the blond. She broke out into a wide grin. "Iolaus, so nice of you to come to my little party! Would you like to join us?"
For the first time, Iolaus noticed the chair. Had he not been inebriated, he may have had the sense to look around instead of staring at Callisto, his jaw hanging open. Had he not been inebriated, he would have immediately noticed that a very agitated Ares, with a child's ball shoved in his mouth and his black leather pants around his ankles, was strapped to said chair.
Callisto was still giggling. Even as she disappeared in a puff of smoke.
Iolaus suddenly had the feeling that it was going to be a long night. Ares was making little, choking, grunting noises. Being careful to keep his fingers as far away from the enraged God of War's teeth as possible, he plucked the ball out of his mouth.
"Psychotic bitch! I will make you pay! No one does this to the God of War and gets away with it!"
"Easy, big fella! I don't think she can hear you," Iolaus said, trying to stifle a giggle of his own. "Dare I ask how you found yourself in this position?"
"How do you think, blondie?"
"I think I can figure that out. The question is, how do we get you out of this thing?"
"You can't. Callisto had Hephestus forge the bonds. I'm stuck here until the bitch decides to let me go."
"Couldn't you ask one of the other gods for help?"
"I am not about to let them see me in this position."
The hunter's sky-blue eyes began to glitter. Iolaus was still drunk enough to be reckless. He never would have taken the chance he was about to take, had he been sober. But how often does one have a naked, vulnerable,
achingly beautiful God of War at their disposal?
The kiss caught the God of War completely by surprise. His head was immobilized by a heavy adamant band around his forehead, and another at his throat. He couldn't turn away even if he'd wanted to. He didn't. He could
kill Iolaus right now if he wanted to, just force his will into the mortal's chest and stop his heart. He didn't. The thought of taking something his brother wanted but was too afraid to ask for was intoxicating, and he didn't even have to take it - it was being given to him, freely.
Emboldened by the fact that he had kissed the Big, Bad God of War and still had his head attached to his shoulders, as well as by his advanced state of drunkenness, Iolaus deepened the kiss, gently opening Ares' lips with his tongue. He gingerly probed, still half-expecting to have it bitten off.
He felt a slight shock when the tip of the God's tongue touched his, like a miniature lightning bolt, not altogether unpleasant. He rested his hands on the arms of the chair, on the thick metal cuffs imprisoning Ares' wrists, and leaned in. Tongues and teeth and lips tangled, the mixing of divine and human breath and saliva, and Iolaus felt, rather than heard, a soft, guttural moan issue from the divine throat.
The hunter's head was spinning, he thought he might have forgotten to breath. He broke contact, and took several deep breaths, slowly inhaling and exhaling, aware that heat was beginning to slowly suffuse his entire body. Whether this was the product of the grape or the God, he wasn't entirely certain. Just about the only thing he was certain of was that that damn codpiece was growing a little too snug.
Ares stared up at him, eyes for the first time completely guileless, no scheming, no plotting. The God was a little flushed himself, and his lips were slightly swollen and glistening. He was still surprised that he had no urge to kill Iolaus. He had an urge to do several things to him, but killing him was not among them.
For a moment, the two just looked at each other, silent. Iolaus was trying to decide what to do next, still unsure. He looked down, and realized that while he was feeling more than a little hindered by codpiece, trousers and breech clout, Ares had no such problems. Awestruck by the sight of the god's cock, curved like a scimitar and seemingly as solid as marble, there was little Iolaus could do, except get down on his knees and offer proper worship.
He had never expected the God of War to whimper, but whimper he did, as if the heat from Iolaus' tongue burned him. He licked gently, polishing the head before drawing the whole length and thickness into his throat. The glans hit the back of his throat awkwardly, and he had to fight his gag reflex, but once he gained control, feeling triumphant, the smooth, swollen head fit damn near perfect.
Ares tried to arch his hips up, but the leg irons were fastened too tightly to allow him much room. The chair, originally fashioned for Callisto's rangy frame, was not at all suited to Ares' brawn. He had to content himself with balling his hands up into fists as best he could, wishing he could break the cuffs to at least touch the golden head bobbing steadily in his lap. Iolaus was actually far better at this than anyone he'd ever consorted with, even Callisto, and she was a God.
Iolaus wanted to reach up and cup Ares' testicles, but the narrow construction of the chair would not permit it. He had to content himself with stroking the small portion of sensitive inner thigh he could get to. Ares was beginning to make a lot of noise, moaning and panting, but trying to keep himself under control, lest he inadvertently bring down a mountain (it had happened before). He could feel the tide rising, inexorably, and he came, curling his toes and biting nearly through his lip to stifle the earth-shaking roar.
The blond didn't let go, suckling and swallowing, milking every last drop of the ambrosial seed he could. Ares tasted of almonds and saltwater. He reluctantly released the divine cock, and slowly stood. Ares could still see the opalescent sheen of his own semen on Iolaus' lips.
Ares looked up at this amazing creature, and yet again cursed his execrable position. He spoke, hoarsely, "Take off your clothes, Iolaus."
The still drunken hunter looked a little stunned, and confused. Perhaps he'd stood up too quickly. "Pardon me?"
"Your clothes, Iolaus." It was a little like speaking to a toddler. "Please."
It was the "please" that got him. Iolaus struggled with the codpiece for several long minutes, and then seemed to forget how his pants laced. Muttering and cursing to himself, he managed to successfully free himself, and tore away the damned breech clout. He drew himself up to his full height and stood before the God, attempting to fathom the mechanics of whatever was going to come next.
The flickering light of the oil lamp turned the mortal into gold, and Ares was momentarily mesmerized by the beauty before him. He was also, taking in the full view, shocked. "Gods, " he thought to himself, "I'll never call him 'little' again."
Iolaus first attempted to perch on the God's lap, but, again, the chair would not allow it. He was completely confounded. Ares was quite enjoying the dumbfounded expression on his face, but was growing tired of waiting.
He pushed a small suggestion into the man's mind, and watched it register.
He clambered up on the incongruously broad, flat chair arms, and knew that they could bear his weight. Kneeling up brought his cock level to Ares' mouth. The God bit, lightly, then brought the tip of his tongue to the small indentation and licked away the lone, salty tear.
Iolaus grabbed on to the high back of the chair, feeling a slightly more intense, immeasurably enjoyable version of the shock he had received when kissing Ares. He closed his eyes and relaxed, feeling the strong, steady, rhythmic pulling, and lost himself in the sensation. Time stood still, nothing existed except that mouth and the pleasure washing over him in slow, rolling waves. He lazily moved his hips, not needing too, not needing anything except the wet heat engulfing him. When he came, it was slow and deep, and he could feel Ares' throat contracting around him. It was too much, too intense, and Iolaus felt tears run down his cheeks, and he heard his own small, ragged sobs, sounding distant compared to the rushing in his ears. That was when he passed out.
Ares felt his body slacken, and watched Iolaus hit the floor with a thud before he could do anything. He was concerned. "Iolaus, are you all right? Iolaus! Answer me!"
A small, muffled "ow" came from the heap of flesh on the dirt floor.
"Are you all right?"
"I don't know." Iolaus hauled himself up into a lotus. "Umm, that was, ummm..."
"Shh, I know."
Iolaus crawled to the God's feet, and laid his head on his knee. Ares stroked the curly mop with the tips of his fingers, as best as he could. They fell into an easy, companionable slumber for a while.
Meanwhile, watching from Olympus, two Goddesses of Chaos were tangled around each other and sated. Dischord frowned a little. "Do you think we should let Ares go now?"
"Oh, all right. I guess that's all they have in them for tonight anyway. I didn't appreciate that crack about my oral performance, though." Callisto was pouting, and a pouting Callisto was about twenty minutes away from being
a tornado-throwing Callisto.
"I don't have any complaints, " the smaller woman leered.
"I know! I know!" Callisto clapped her hands together and began her happy dance. "Let's leave them like that, and see what happens when Hercules finds them."
"How's he going to do that? He's in Corinth."
"Oh, he will."