|Immortal With a Kiss
"Make me immortal with a kiss." --Faustus
Caesar ran a ringed hand over his stomach. Maybe the stewed peacock brains from last night's banquet...? When the nausea stayed, he called for a physician, who examined him thoroughly, his fingers probing, a look of confusion on his wrinkled face. His tender abdomen in particular received much manipulation, as did his swollen nipples, and he endured it only by focusing on the splendor of Rome through his bedroom window.
Finally, the old man stood up, scratching his chin beneath the grey beard. He, too, seemed fascinated by the red-topped roofs and marble columns that decorated the land around the river. "Your imperial majesty, I've heard rumors that one of your lovers is a god. Is this true?"
He nodded impatiently and began to dress. "What's that got to do with the way I'm feeling?"
The man ducked his head a little, eyes spinning like a child's marbles. "It's just that...Well, your symptoms are oddly familiar. I saw them just this morning, in..." He swallowed, teeth gnawing at his lower lip, fingers worrying his blue gown.
"Just spit it out, you stuttering idiot. Is it poison? The pox? What?"
"I saw your symptoms this morning...In a woman."
The blow landed across the physian's cheek, the ring slicing it open. "You toad," Caesar snapped. "You're trying to tell me that I've got some woman's illness? Guards!" They burst into the room, spears ready. "Take this fool to the dungeon. A few rounds on the rack should teach him a lesson. Then cut out his tongue and toss it from the Ponte Rotto into the Tiber." As they dragged away the cowering man, Caesar permitted himself a smile. Served the quack right.
But his stomach gave another roll, and he rubbed it in irritation.
When that didn't dispel the discomfort or the anxiety that whispered under
it, Caesar grabbed a pot of red ink from his desk and hurled it at a frescoed
wall, where it shattered, fragile as a man's body.
The next morning, the rolls turned into waves, and he was violently sick in the privy. Afterward, his face splashed with water, eating an oddly-sweet apricot, Caesar stood at the window and let the breeze refresh him, while Rome glowed white and red beneath him. In the distance, he saw a colonnaded temple, and remembered--
He spun around and saw Ares lounging on a red divan. "Finally. You need to heal me," Caesar told him. "I think someone's poisoned me. Maybe one of Pompey's men. Or Cassius'. I never trusted that bastard. I could be dying. Me."
"Oh, you're not dying," Ares said with a grin. "You could say that it's more like a rebirth."
"What are you talking about?" Caesar's fingers hooked into claws, and he unfurled them slowly. Couldn't show weakness or fear, not with Ares. Never with Ares.
The god swung his feet to the floor, then strolled toward him, the heels of his black boots slapping the mosaic of Caesar's face. "You want to live forever, don't you?"
"Of course. That's why I need you to cure me. I can't die. There's so much more to conquer and avenge." Those pirates who had kidnapped him, the Gauls who had the temerity to fight their inevitable surrender, the barbarians who still worshipped their feeble gods and not the might of Rome...
Ares laughed, and the sun breathed gold on his exposed skin. "You really don't get it, do you? You're not dying. It's just your body adjusting to your immortality."
What did he mean? Caesar studied the words, considered them carefully. "You mean my body is dying, because I'm now a god?" The ecstasy hit him hard, and he fell bruise-hard to his knees.
"Not a god," Ares said, staring down at him, black eyes unblinking. "Just immortalized."
"You mean 'immortal.'"
Crouching, Ares placed his hand on Caesar's belly through the soft purple cloth of his robe. "You always did love to swallow my seed."
"I'll swallow it now, if you'll tell me what's going on."
"Do it, then I'll tell you what you want to know." He pulled out his cock, and Caesar, still on his knees, opened his mouth obediently. The cock tasted wine-soaked, and he lapped at the head and squeezed Ares' balls. "Give it all to me."
Ares grunted and settled back against the window sill, legs spread wide, one hand resting on Caesar's head as though in benediction. "You love to suck it, don't you? You prance around out there like you own the world, but in here, you're a slave to my cock."
His tone was almost affectionate, and Caesar sucked harder, drawing the head deeper into his mouth. His stomach calmed, and he knew it was the soothing effect of Ares' semen, the fat salty drops that fell teasingly on his tongue. He always knew the secret to his own immortality lay in that huge cock, in that divine come. Swallow enough of it, and it would work like nectar. Then he could fulfill his destiny: to be immortal, omnipotent. To be Rome.
"Yes, suck it hard like that."
Ares' voice turned dreamy, and his cock thickened even more, huge and swollen now. Caesar's jaw ached with the effort of sucking it. But the reward was so good, so perfect, so right. To encourage Ares, Caesar pulled off his cock long enough to lick his own finger, then slowly penetrated his god, while taking the cock deep down his throat. Ares growled, wolfish, and the skin of his cock burned as the veins filled with blood. Caesar's own cock, hard and heavy against his thigh, was leaking through his robes, and the air smelled ripe and heavy, like rotting pears in summer. He slid his finger deeper inside Ares and began to stroke, tiny moth-flutters of his finger that made the god arch and groan.
"You're good, Caesar. You deserve to be immortal, so I can feel this forever."
The words were cracked now, pushed out by hot panting breaths, so Caesar focused on the fist-sized head, licking around it, entering the dripping slit, his finger always moving with the precision to dominate a god. He knew how, after months of experience. How many times had he done this, sucked Ares' cock and swallowed his come, since that first time, in the Gallic church, after he'd dessimated the rebel troops and hung their bodies from trees as crow-food? A thousand? More? After that, every night, every morning, sometimes more, Ares would come to him, in his tent, on the battlefield, in his villa, and offer his thick cock for worship. And Caesar would suck and suck until his mouth filled with god-come, his belly warmed with it.
Once was never enough, and he'd suck again and again, creamy rivers of semen flowing down his throat. He'd wipe his chin afterward, not wanting to waste a drop. He stopped drinking wine, beer, and drank only Ares' come. And Ares, he knew, loved it, loved to see the emperor of the world on his knees, the purple robe spread around him like a pool of old blood, while he performed tribute.
If the cock had belonged to anyone else, it might've been demeaning, but not with Ares--because Ares fed him, like a mother. They were bonded now, closer than any two could be, mouth and cock fused. Eternal lovers.
"That's it," Ares moaned, and the hand on Caesar's head tightened. "I'm going to fill your mouth." And he did: hot streams of come shot past his lips, pulse after pulse. Caesar kept sucking, draining the cock, until Ares got hard again, and he swallowed the second load, and the third.
Nectar, he thought, and rubbed his cheek against Ares' thigh, then kissed
Later, Ares lay back on the bed, Caesar beside him, both naked, both sated. Elysium.
Then Caesar's stomach gave another roll, and he massaged it with his fist. "When is this going to stop?"
Ares gave him a lazy smile. "A few months."
The doctor's words rushed back, and the seed inside him churned. Like Semele, he saw and burned with his knowledge, staring at Ares in horror. "No. Not that. No."
"Finally he gets it," Ares smirked. "No one could drink that much come without consequences. Now we both have what we want. You have your immortality in the son that's growing inside you, and I have a new generation of cocksuckers to serve me. Hail Caesar." And he patted the belly with a terrifying affection.