The tip of Caesar’s cock was poised against Iphicles’ hot, eager ass. One thrust and it would be heaven on earth. He stood up, backed a few paces away from the bed where the Corinthian king reclined and lunged.
"Hang on a tic."
"I said, hang on a tic." Iphicles’ tanned body was poetry in motion as he rolled smoothly over, flicking his red-gold hair in a manner reminiscent of highly paid supermodels not due to be born for two thousand years. Caesar’s
heat-seeking missile zoomed relentlessly in on its target, only to rebound painfully against the king’s hip. The sheer agony caused the lust crazed emperor to curl in on himself as he uttered several words his mother hadn’t taught him.
He whimpered and gingerly studied the decided bend in his once manly tool. It needed a splint or something. Maybe even a transplant.
"How’s this possible?" wondered Iphicles. His amber eyes were fixed to the ceiling, mouth slightly open as he considered. Caesar had seen completely and utterly annihilated cities which looked less vacant.
"What?" Oh please gods, couldn’t he at least leave the whinging til afterwards. Caesar was in no mood for following the tortured convolutions of what passed for conversation with the pouting, brooding, copper-haired Corinthian king.
"Us fucking ?"
Caesar rolled his eyes. He didn’t think Iphicles had that much experience, but surely he didn’t need the birds and the bees talk *just* now. "Hunh?" he exclaimed loudly.
"Well, we come from completely different times - the city I’m king of was burned to the ground a hundred years before you ruled the Roman Empire."
"Does it matter?"
"Well …yes. Yes, quite frankly, yes it does!"
"Why?" Please don’t let him get deep and meaningful, prayed Caesar, anything but that. I just want to have some dirty, sweaty, groaning, moaning, pumping, thrusting, grinding, mind-bending cum-filled sex, he thought wistfully. Maybe even some whipped cream too.
Iphicles looked soulful, fluttering his eyelashes in what Caesar assumed was an attempt to cool his overheated brain. "I don’t think I can do anything until I’m sure this is real. You know, I was reading this book today…."
Caesar whimpered softly. He could hear his chances of salacious, rampant, lubricious cock-filled sex disappearing through a plot hole wide enough to swallow even his ego.
"..And it listed all of the kings of Corinth. My name wasn’t there! Perhaps I don’t really exist." Iphicles was warming to his subject. He rolled over, displaying his ripe buttock cheeks to Caesar’s lascivious gaze. The lack of tan line displayed the king’s fondness for nude sunbathing on his battlements. It was a habit much appreciated by his soldiers.
"Of course you do!" Caesar cast about desperately for some way to convince Iphicles before *he* lost the mood too. Aha, perfect! "How ‘bout we appeal to an expert? Somebody who’s more than mortal."
"Ares," shouted the emperor, not liking the quiver that was evident in his normally commanding monotone. " Help !!!!"
Ares flashed into the room. Ebony leather creaked, biceps flexed and the temperature soared as he drooled at the pulchritudinous sight before his mud-brown eyes. "Oh, baby!"
"He needs help, Ares."
The god nodded thoughtfully. "I can totally see what you mean….his hairdresser must hate him to have done that to him."
Caesar groaned. It was getting worse, not better. "No ! Not that! Who cares what colour it is as long as it’s draped about my engorged manliness." He pouted, bottom lip aquiver. "He won’t do the horizontal hustle with me until he’s convinced we exist."
"You want me to act as some sort of metaphysical counsellor to a man who doesn’t think he exists?" Ares snorted in disgust. "Smack his ass til it bleeds - that’ll prove who’s real."
Caesar’s eyes lit up with unholy glee. Perhaps not all was lost. Then Iphicles spoke again.
"You know I don’t think he could call on you either, if you exist….he’s Roman and you’re Greek. Surely there’s some sort of demarcation…."
Ares considered. "Well, the Romans are supposed to have stolen their gods from the Greeks…" he suggested tentatively. He scratched his head thoughtfully and cocked his head, sidetracked from the pleasures of torturing angsty kings.
"True…but then he’d call upon Mars, not Ares." Iphicles was warming to his subject. "And wouldn’t a god of war have better things to do than answer sex-crazed madmen’s prayers?"
Ares nodded thoughtfully . Iphicles had a point.
"And while we’re on the subject….another scroll I read insisted that Ares was only into women. And there was never any rough stuff involved. Meant to be a perfect gentleman. I can’t see that he’d be motivated to help Caesar get his rocks off."
"Oh." The god chewed on his lip, looking damn disappointed. "No whips?"
Iphicles shook his chestnut head slowly, sadly.
Another shake, even more decisive.
"No plunging into tight, hot, asses with my godly pole of power?"
"Well, shit!" Ares stamped his foot and disappeared angrily in a billowing puff of black smoke. Caesar looked at the smoke in disbelief. Ares popped back into view seconds later, coughing as he waved the smoke away. "Next you’ll be telling me that I’m not supposed to wear black leather either!"
"I don’t wanna hear it! Arrgghhhhhh!"
The god was gone once more. Caesar flopped back on the bed. He looked down at his cock, now swollen not by lust but by serious tissue damage. His balls were turning sky blue as he watched.
"I want my mummy!" he shouted loudly and burst into tears.
And nobody lived happily ever after.
One year later - where are they now ?
Caesar is currently in therapy but is progressing nicely. He’ll be allowed to use a knife instead of a spoon any day now, just as soon as the attendants can dislodge him from his chandelier.
Iphicles went on to reorder the Hercuverse to his own satisfaction and was horribly killed in a freak shower of frozen goats instigated by enraged deities.
Ares gave up men, and whips and chains and BDSM, swapping his black leather outfits for a sort of white linen-ish toga. He’s been unable to get an erection since but he’s still trying. When he does, those sheep won’t know what hit them.