In His Arena 1: Slave Eternal

by Maksima, Nasia

  All Hektor wanted was for Lucan to be safe. But his duty was to endanger Lucan, to put him in the greatest peril of his life, to train, in one month, to be ready for the Grand Melee.

  Hektor remembered his own training. Brutal, efficient, his instructor was a scarred primus palus who never smiled, never laughed, who drilled Hektor during the day and then entered the stables in the middle of the night and plowed him mercilessly, his only sounds the grunts and growls as he claimed Hektor and shot his wad inside him.

  Gazing at Lucan, watching him embrace the crowd, embrace the cheers and adoration as they called for him—“Lucan! Lucan!”—Hektor did not want that for him.

  Even now, as Lucan was bowing before Alession, as Alession placed the silver laurels upon his brow, Hektor knew the boy would be great. One day, the crowd would be screaming his name as the Empress herself crowned him victorious with laurels.

  If only he knew what a curse that can be.

  It was due to Hektor’s fame that Leander had died. Because the Empress had wanted a new kind of Spectacle, one in which lovers killed each other.

  Hektor swept a hand over his face, wiping away sweat and any emotion that might have threatened. He had no proof of that, but in all these years, he’d not been able to let go of the guilt. Now he wanted to hold Lucan and protect him from that fate. He wanted to love him gently in the darkest hours of the night, to pet his golden hair and his golden body, and to see love outweigh the lust in his golden eyes.

  It hurt Hektor to admit that. So many years of feeling horrible guilt of Leander’s death. He carried it. He would always carry it. But Lucan…

  I cannot stop loving him. And yet, I must not show him.

  And so, when Lucan came striding into the racks, looking somehow taller and leaner, somehow tougher and more capable, Hektor only threw him a heavy shield and spear.

  “To the training grounds with you.”

  * * * *

  Unable to keep the superior smile from his face, Stratos strode the white halls of the Empress’s palace at House Zaerus. The house and all its holdings stood on the highest tier of the Grand Palestra, and the sun slanted in through every niche. On a normal day, the heat would have been oppressive, but today, the sunlight streamed over him, warming him, stirring the strength in his limbs and making him feel powerful, vigorous. His cock stirred beneath his robes.

  Alession had summoned him to a private council.

  Memories of being in the baths assailed Stratos, sending shivers of pleasure over his flesh. Alession kissing him, claiming his mouth, his teeth scraping over Stratos’s neck as he turned him, lifted the tunic from his strong thighs, and pushed inside him.

  The bathwater had sloshed, Alession’s thick prick stretching Stratos’s hole as he grunted, panting in Stratos’s ear, his fingers biting into Stratos’s hips as he pumped him. The hard pounding, the feel of Alession’s wet sleek body against his own, his chest pushing Stratos over, bending him over the side of the bath—Stratos had reveled in it.

  Then the gush of Alession’s shuddering release plugged deep into him, cum shooting thick and hot into Stratos’s ass. Stratos had cried out, and then disappointment gripped him as the cum ran down his thigh, washed away by the bath.

  He had wanted to hold Alession inside him forever. But Alession had only smiled that crooked grin of his and washed his scent from Stratos’s skin.

  Today though, there would be no bathing pool. Only a council chamber.

  Only him and me.

  Stratos shaded his eyes as he passed a bank of niches open to the day’s heat. How he would bend over and display himself for Alession’s pleasure, how the consul would pound Stratos until he cried out for mercy, and then, only then, would Alession blow his wad deep within his lover.

  The very thought made Stratos hard.

  He shifted his aching bulge to one side, smirking. Alession wouldn’t care that Stratos had come ready. No. The consul was a man of action. He had fucked that Lucan kid and carved his sigil in him even as he’d spilled his seed, sealing the deal.

  Alession was efficient.

  Stratos came to the door, and without knocking, he entered. An ugly shock gripped him.

  The Empress was seated on one of the raised white couches, her gown and skin so pale that she stood out only by the merit of her dark hair. Alession waited at her side, whispering to her.

  Stratos’s stomach dropped out as their scheme came to light in his mind. A Spectacle. He cast a glance behind him, but the doors were already closing.

  “He is here?” Though the Empress’s voice was soft, it held a resonant timbre that struck at Stratos’s heart. She was indeed exquisite—pure and pale, forever youthful, her chestnut-brown hair cascading over her shoulders in lustrous waves, her eyes the color of rarest jade.

  She did nothing to stir Stratos’s passion.

  No, it was Alession he wanted. Hair so black it gleamed in the sun, crystal ice-blue eyes, and a body packed with corded muscle. Alession, who was so beautiful Stratos nearly swooned. To have that beautiful man over him, pumping him, making him feel wanted…

  Stratos abandoned any thought of fleeing. Alession’s gaze raked him, desire burning in those ice-blue eyes. Stratos could not help the whimper of need that escaped his lips.

  Alession smiled at him, that devastatingly handsome smile, and laid the barest touch of his fingertips on the Empress’s knee. “Yes, he is here.”

  She gave a slight nod and stared straight ahead, her blind eyes unblinking.

  His grin crooked, wicked, Alession came down off the small dais, only four short steps, and moved toward Stratos with a purpose. The quaestor could smell the desire on Alession, sweat and masculine musk in the heat of day. The cool breeze that blew in through the drapes seemed only to fan the flames of desire between them.

  Forcefully, Alession grabbed Stratos by the nape of his neck and drew him in for a deep kiss.

  At first Stratos resisted. It was the nature of men to fight for dominance. But Alession claimed him so fully, so deeply, his tongue plundering Stratos’s hungry mouth, that Stratos’s will to fight fled.

  Deft and strong, Alession’s hands worked at Stratos’s leather belt, and he turned the quaestor, pulling his tunic up to display his hard cock to the Empress.

  Anger flared within Stratos. He would not be a Spectacle for her perverse desires! And then Alession’s hands gripped his ass, cupping it and squeezing the roundness of his flesh. With a lewd groan, the consul rode his hardness against Stratos’s ass. Pleasure seized Stratos, flooding his anger, drowning it in decadent moans and jerky thrusts of his hips.

  The Empress sat, blind, an unseeing witness.

  What did Stratos care if she heard them fuck? Half of House Vulpinius had heard Alession plowing him that night. And now, the soft brutality of Alession’s lips, of his teeth on Stratos’s nape and the hard stiffness of his cock, took the quaestor to a place of not caring.

  Reaching back, he grabbed Alession’s hips and pulled him in, moaning as the man dry humped him hard, riding his pole against Stratos’s ass cheeks, groaning against his neck.

  Alession chuckled, not unkindly. “There’s a good boy,” he whispered, his breath hot in Stratos’s ear.

  The conceited, condescending tone reminded Stratos that he was here as a display, but as he began to fight Alession’s hands, the consul grabbed Stratos’s shaft and pumped him slowly, sensuously. Stratos’s entire body jolted. Gently, Alession pushed him to the floor, to his hands and knees.

  Stratos’s dirty-blond hair hung in his face. Sweat dripped from the tips, spattering on the perfect marble floor. He saw his reflection, distorted, unclear.

  Alession was going to fuck him for one of her Spectacles.

  Anger swept through him once more. He struggled, but Alession was stronger. With ease, the consul pinned Stratos to the floor. He cried out, squirming as Alession held him down, his chest against Stratos’s back, one hand spreading his ass cheeks as Alession dragged a pot of oil close. Sco
oping two fingers full, he smeared the warm oil on Stratos’s ass, and began to work it into his needy hole.

  Stratos could not help groaning as a lone finger worked its way into him, pressing and pushing in deep. He grunted, his struggles turning to salacious rolls of his hips, his gaze flashing up to glimpse the Empress.

  She sat stone-still, her face devoid of expression, her pale eyes blind and blank. They might have been fucking before a marble statue for all she seemed to care.

  And when Alession slipped a second finger into Stratos’s ass, Stratos no longer cared. He ground back shamelessly against the invasion, pumping his hips, trying to suck up all of Alession’s stiffness. The consul laughed softly and worked him harder. Stratos attempted a glimpse back. He wanted, he needed to see Alession’s expression, but Alession grabbed him by the back of the neck and shoved him to the floor.

  “You’ll look when I tell you to look.” Alession’s voice was rough, his breath coming fast.

  He does want me. He does. The knowledge soared within Stratos.

  Pinned, his ass high in the air, he had never felt more the slut, but he wiggled and writhed, exulting in the freedom of being taken. He jerked back, wanting Alession’s cock more than he wanted his fingers, but Alession held him, content to work his ass, to stretch him with two, then three strong digits.

  Patience was leaving Stratos, his body strung tight with want, with need. He moaned like a whore. The marble floor rubbed his knees and elbows raw, but he did not care. He wanted one thing. Only one thing.

  “Fuck me.” He laid his forehead on his arms to hide his shame in begging. “Dear Doomsayer in hell, fuck me!”

  Alession’s hands were suddenly rough at Stratos’s shoulders. In one yank, the consul tore the fine tunic from Stratos’s body. The heat of the day enveloped his sweaty skin, and he humped the air impotently. “Please.” He was almost sobbing with need.

  “Soon.” Alession made an appreciative sound as he ran one hand over Stratos’s back, smoothing oil over the corded muscles of his lower back and hips and ass. Stratos reveled in this gentler touch. Why could it not be like this always between him and Alession?

  He looked up at the Empress. Soon she would be dead, and then he and Alession—

  A gasp tore from Stratos’s lips as Alession’s cock-tip prodded his hole.

  “Yessss…” He drew the word out into a desperate hiss. With a grunt, he pushed back and felt the tip breach him. His own rod spasmed, tiny droplets of precum spattering the floor. Alession reached around and teased him cruelly, lilting his fingers over Stratos’s straining cock, gathering the silky liquid. Sitting back, he pulled out and smeared Stratos’s jism on the tip of his shaft.

  The quaestor’s mind whirled. He had to see the look on Alession’s face. He turned his head slowly, the sounds of Alession pulling at his own cock driving Stratos wild with need.

  Ice-blue eyes glittering, Alession lined himself up with Stratos’s hole once more. A glance at the Empress; an almost imperceptible nod in return.

  Stratos did not care. “Fuck me,” he whispered, desperate. “Fuck me, Alession.”

  In one swift thrust, Alession claimed him, splitting inside with such force it left Stratos breathless. His hips pumped flush with Stratos’s ass cheeks as he jammed himself in deep and then pulled back and began fucking him in long, punching strokes.

  The marble halls echoed with the lewd smack of Alession’s balls against Stratos’s ass. The man’s grunts, the sucking sound of a thick cock pulling out then thrusting in heightened Stratos’s arousal. With every thrust, he was pushed forward across the floor. His knees and elbows chafed, and he exulted in the burn, in the burn in his ass, in Alession’s grunts, his shouts of triumph turning Stratos into a whore.

  “Fuck me with that cock. Yes. Pound my ass.”

  Alession plowed him hard and good, digging deep and then pulling out slowly. He slammed back in, driving Stratos across the floor until his face was at the foot of the dais, at the foot of the Empress.

  She gazed down, expressionless, as though she could not comprehend the licentious scene before her. Stratos took fierce pleasure in that fact. Bitch. No one had ever fucked her.

  He could not help the desperate, mewling noise he made as Alession rutted him at her feet. Every shove drew a low moan, every pull out a cry of despair. He was on his hands and knees, a whore before his Empress.

  A Spectacle.

  A thread of dignity arose within him. He loosed a murmur of dissent. “N-no…” He didn’t want to be fucked like this, like a baseless slut for his Empress’s pleasure, and then Alession’s hand came over his cock and began to stroke him.

  And Stratos was utterly lost. He did not care as long as Alession fucked him to completion.

  Moaning, wild with need, he pumped his cock into Alession’s hand even as he ground back to be taken deeper. He whimpered and cried out beneath Alession’s plowing, Alession’s grunts becoming more urgent now, his thrusts shorter, his breath shallower.

  Stratos squeezed him, sucking him deeper into his hole.

  Shouting, Alession rooted him, fierce, deep, his fingers digging into Stratos’s hips as he dragged the quaestor back, impaling him on his cock. And then, shuddering, Alession came so hard Stratos swore he would taste it, the man pounding jet after jet of molten cum into his ass. He cried out, thrust once more, and pulled out.

  Glancing back, Stratos saw the consul was holding his cock, holding back. Surely he did not need to come again. So soon? But Alession was stroking himself with one hand, the other gripping the base of his shaft. Drawn by the lascivious sight, Stratos turned fully around, licking his lips, begging with his gaze for a taste.

  A look of desperation on his face, Alession grabbed Stratos’s by the nape and drew him in.

  Bending on chafed knees, Stratos came willingly, opening for his lover’s cock. In one heady swallow, he took Alession down with pleasure. With a cry Alession slid into that wet hole, pushing deep into the clasp of Stratos’s throat. Grabbing his head, he fucked him mercilessly, cum and saliva drooling down Stratos’s jaw, over his chest.

  Alession’s face was strained with his crisis, but still he smirked, fucking Stratos for the pleasure of his Empress.

  “My love.” He was looking at her. Looking at her even as he pumped Stratos’s mouth.

  The Empress remained motionless, unaffected, unmoved.

  Anger suffused Stratos, and he tried to pull away, but Alession kept him there, held him, used him, and Stratos loved every inch of it. Shame burned his cheeks as he reveled in being used. Alession’s free hand closed over Stratos’s shaft.

  In three strokes, Stratos came, spurting his seed impotently onto the floor.

  “Take it, bitch-boy!” With a heaving grunt, Alession came again, choking Stratos with his spunk and the heavy, thick rod of his cock.

  Stratos swallowed it like the whore he was. He would take this if it was all Alession could give. “My love.” Those words should have been for him.

  Some day. Stratos swore it like a dark spell. Some day, when she is dead, he will say it to me.

  And as Alession pulled out completely, leaving Stratos empty, hollow and bereft, cum trickling from his mouth, from his ass, both holes thoroughly used, his body thoroughly sated, Stratos slumped to the marble floor.

  For now, this…this fucking would be enough.

  The Empress’s lips quirked every so slightly into a smile.

  Chapter Eleven

  HAIL THE VICTORIOUS DEAD

  There were many Spectacles to be had

  In the Empress’s Grand Theatre.

  But a favorite among the masses was

  The Gauntlet of Fire

  —Nefertari Amon Ankh, House Actaeon, the Warriors

  Lucan’s steps were heavy as he exited the Claim. Remulon had been more than happy to plow Lucan’s vanquished foe and keep his silence, and for surprisingly few triens. Perhaps after years of being hailed a champion in the arena, the man had grown bored with his as
signment as Master of the Claim.

  Yes, Lady Luck Viltheleon had smiled on Lucan, at least where his Claim was concerned.

  Now he trudged toward the training grounds of Ludus Magnii. Already, he could hear the shouts and excited battle cries of novices training, drilling, sparring. He hoped he could smooth the frown from his face before he saw Hektor. He could not help it.

  The Gauntlet of Fire. How had he drawn that as his next challenge in the arena?

  The odds-makers. Had they turned against him? Such a thing was not unheard of. Rumor told of Daios, a primus palus from House Menelaus who had accidentally shot an odds-maker with an arrow. The shaft—a strange and grotesque invention of his house’s masters—caused an infection that cost the odds-maker his leg. After that, Daios never drew a fair fight. Two on one, four on one, animals being released, his opponent with cover, superior weapons…

  For six months, he staved off all the odds-maker’s scenarios, winning or gaining the Mercy each time.

  Until the final time, when his luck ran out.

  The plebes had turned on him. As the children’s rhyme went, “When the Empress lifts her palm up to the sky, it means let your swords fly!” His victor had cut his head off and paraded it around to the delight of both plebes and citizens alike.

  Lucan had only been ten, a slave in the House of Pineus then, but that sight had stayed with him to this day—Daios’s face confused, as if his head wondered where the rest of his body was.

  Even still, despite the ignominy of death, despite the brutality, the glory of the arena drew Lucan. Even at ten, he had wanted fiercely to be a gladiator. Better to fight and die than to be a slave on his knees. Better to plow than be plowed.

  Lucan wondered if he still felt the same as that ten-year-old boy. He lengthened his stride. The sun glinted off the top of the pillars around the gladiatorial school, the Doomsayer’s statue looming over him, reminding him of his own mortality.

  Maybe Hektor will kill me, and I won’t have to worry about the Gauntlet of Fire. He was late, and Hektor would be furious. These past few weeks, the primus palus had worked Lucan in a grueling schedule—up before dawn, training hard at drills, running, endurance, strength, pulling huge loads through the sand while Hektor sat on the back looking disapproving, always disapproving.