by T M Chris
Thoros leaned against the wall to watch them circle each other. For one to focus his attention on another would be to leave himself open to attack by the third.
“We both know it’s you and me,” he heard Dalin say to Rory.
“Hey,” Provo’s trainer complained. “No collusion.”
“I don’t remember that rule,” Samas said.
Thoros only smiled. Dalin would make a good Prince Consort. Look at him forming alliances already. He would win today, and Thoros would go home with a fat purse. That his home would be too empty without Dalin in it was a concern he didn’t dwell on. Now was the time to fight, to win. Even if winning meant losing what you wanted most.
On the cloth, Dalin and Rory negotiated while Provo blustered.
“I can pin him down sure enough,” Rory said. “He’s a small thing, no more than a mite. But how this contest is to be won even so …”
“I’ll handle what needs to be done in that regard. You just keep him still long enough for me to do it.” Dalin appeared eager to handle what needed to be done, his cock having filled noticeably. Well, Thoros had taught him to enjoy sucking a man off, even perhaps a less worthy man like Provo. Thoros had also taught him how to do it well.
“I’m going to make you feel good,” Dalin taunted Provo with a snickering smile.
“Just try it.”
Dalin nodded his readiness and Rory went for Provo, easily pinning his upper body to the mat despite the sheen of oil by simply laying his own across it. If this were a normal wrestling match, Provo would be out in a three count, but there was a different goal, one Provo showed no interest in. His cock remained soft and hooded, flopping around as he attempted to kick Dalin away from him.
Dalin got his forearms braced on Provo’s thighs, spreading them wide so he could dip his mouth down to take him in. Thoros chuckled at the way Rory kept his head turned firmly in the other direction—complicit, but not approving—as Dalin got to work.
The crowd chanted. Make him come on one side of the arena warred with Suck that dick on the other. Provo had no fans in the audience, it would seem, as they all rooted for Dalin to knock him out of the competition. Though there was no way for Thoros to see what Dalin was doing, he could imagine it clearly enough after weeks of the same treatment. Whatever Provo’s sexual preferences might be, it was doubtful he could hold off against the magic of Dalin’s mouth.
Already, the bits of Provo’s cock visible as Dalin’s lips moved up and down his shaft showed he’d been brought to full hardness, and if Thoros wasn’t mistaken, Provo thrashed less like a man who wanted to get away and more like a man who wanted to come. His shouts grew desperate, the pleading of a man on the very edge of release, and then Dalin pulled Provo’s cock from his mouth and pointed it straight up. The crowd oohed as jets of come streaked visibly into the sky to land on Rory’s face when he turned to see what was going on.
“Really?” Rory asked as he climbed off Provo and swiped a hand across his sodden face.
“I had to prove he’d come,” Dalin said with a grin that demonstrated his lack of regret.
The Chancellor prodded Provo with an annoyed foot, urging him off the mat. Poor man wasn’t even allowed a moment to enjoy his orgasm, which Thoros would bet had been a good one based on how unsteadily he walked towards them.
“You couldn’t have made an alliance yourself?” Provo’s trainer berated him. “Go on then, I’m done with you. That was completely unfair,” he added, turning to Thoros with his complaint.
Thoros shrugged. “Your boy never had a chance. He was nothing more than a distraction.”
“And I suppose you think your boy’s going to win?”
“Yup.”
Out on the cloth, Atalanta had sent some of her ladies out to apply a fresh coat of oil to Rory and Dalin. The feminine hands had an effect on Rory that lying on top of Provo while Dalin went down on him hadn’t had. Rory brushed their hands away from his cock in an effort to curtail it while Dalin paid them no mind at all. He gleamed in the afternoon sun—tall and confident and strong and sure.
“Rory will win,” Samas predicted. “Your boy runs hot, and as we’ve all just seen, he has a taste for men that Rory doesn’t share.”
Yeah, Thoros figured Atalanta had noticed Dalin’s taste for men and meant to use it against him, to give Rory the advantage of an over-eager opponent. He tried to school his expression into something Samas could interpret as concern. Most likely Samas had advised Rory to hold back his seed the last few days, whereas Dalin was freshly satisfied.
Smothering his confidence behind a scowl, Thoros waited for round two to begin.
Dalin
The giggling young women with their pots of oil were dismissed from the playing field, and Dalin squared off against Rory on the slick tarp. Now that there wasn’t a third competitor to take into consideration, they approached each other more directly. The attentions of the women had left them both in a state of semi-hardness—Rory’s cock having grown beneath their fingers as his own settled.
Dalin had no particular attraction to Rory or to Provo, but slippery male flesh beneath his hands and a cock down his throat would always have a certain effect. Nevertheless, he tackled Rory straight to the mat without concern. If all of Thoros’s efforts had failed to make Dalin blow without his wishing it, Rory could hardly hope to do better.
Still, the smooth flesh of Rory’s chest rubbed deliciously against Dalin’s more heavily furred one, and the weight of their chubby cocks against each other made Dalin’s rise even further. Rory pushed against his shoulders in an effort to separate their groins, but Dalin arched his back with the movement to bring them tighter together.
“Fuck, you’re going to feel good beneath me,” he said in an attempt to worm his way into the worried recesses of Rory’s mind. It’d been a while since Dalin had been the one to do the fucking. If he could maneuver Rory into position to take advantage of the opportunity, he most certainly would.
“You’re not fucking me.”
“Let me stroke you off then.” He wrangled a hand between their straining bodies to take Rory’s cock into it. It felt fat and lively, the effects of adrenalin lingering there. Rory grabbed for his wrist and put all his strength into ripping it away, allowing Dalin to get a forearm across his windpipe. He wondered if he could bring an unconscious man to orgasm as Rory thrashed beneath him, his efforts now divided between trying to keep Dalin’s hand off his dick and trying to find room to breathe.
“I’ll stroke you and you stroke me.” He lightened the arm across Rory’s windpipe in a show of good faith. “It’s a simple contest. No need to be shy over it.”
Samas shouted over his agreement. “You’ll never outmuscle him, Rory, but if you apply yourself to it, you’ll have him off soon enough. Look how he hungers for it.”
Dalin slid his hard cock along Rory’s thigh in confirmation. “Afraid you hunger for it a bit too much yourself?”
“I don’t hunger for it at all.”
“Then stop fighting me and give Atalanta the show she asked for.” He released Rory, rolling onto his back to let the proud upward thrust of his cock speak for him.
Beside him, Rory panted from lack of air and the exertion of trying to throw Dalin off him. Dalin patted the mat next to himself with a sarcastically seductive grin. Rory scowled as he arranged himself likewise on his back, his arms demurely at his sides.
“I allow you to begin.” Dalin gestured down his body, inviting Rory into it.
“You think I’m afraid to touch you or that I don’t know how? I’ve touched my own cock oft enough.”
“It’s much like that.”
“Just grab him,” Samas yelled. “One good yank or two and it’ll be over.”
Tentatively, Rory’s hand came to his cock. Dalin moaned to encourage him. The touch was welcome, stroking at the fires inside him, light and feathery, slick from the oil yet slightly gritty from the grains of sand that had found their way onto the mat. A little bit of ple
asure, a little bit of pain, neither of them more than he could bear. He felt so good today, the endorphins of last night’s orgasm still carrying him. He didn’t need to come for another week, not if Thoros told him he couldn’t, and Rory certainly couldn’t bring him to it. But he was hard and ready, full of what made him a man.
He let Rory work him for several minutes, luxuriating in the attention and the eyes on him, not least of which were Thoros’s, before beginning his own assault on Rory’s body. Rory jumped a bit when Dalin touched him, but Dalin continued moaning decadently and thrusting his torso up to help Rory’s hand along, disguising his attentions to Rory’s body with his own unbridled enthusiasm.
Rory’s cock felt odd in his hand after a steady diet of Thoros’s. It was not so thick, nor so hard, though Dalin soon brought it to a state of full arousal. The crowd roared for them, approving of the way they groped at each other as Dalin rolled his body over Rory’s. He pushed his thigh up against Rory’s shaft and worked the fingers of his other hand farther back to slide them over Rory’s balls and the smoother skin behind them.
“Watch your fucking fingers,” Rory growled out when Dalin breached his hole for the first time.
Dalin grinned and stabbed deeper, seeking out the spot Rory probably didn’t know he had.
“That’s going too far,” Rory complained. “Don’t—” He tensed when Dalin found it, shocked into stillness. Dalin leaned heavily on him, using his weight to pin Rory while his fingers squirrelled deeper.
Rory bucked, an enraged cry roaring from him that changed to a squeak of surprise when his bucking only served to drive Dalin’s fingers harder against that bundle of nerves inside him. Dalin remembered how he’d felt the first time Thoros had hit him there—as if a bolt of lightning cleaved through him, leaving him hot and gasping and hollow.
He wedged his leg tighter between Rory’s thighs and Rory rutted up into it instinctively even as he called out a protest to the referee.
“No limits,” the Chancellor reminded him, uninterested in anything except making sure they stayed on the mat. “Do you cede the match”
“Fuck that.”
But Rory was weakening, forgetting to stroke Dalin as Dalin continued to work him from both ends. His heated writhing became hard to control. Dalin pulled his fingers free, and before Rory could wake up to the changed circumstances, he flipped him, pressing him down face first into the mat with his heavier frame and nestling his cock between Rory’s oiled cheeks.
“Get off me,” Rory complained.
“Let me fuck you.”
“Never.”
“I can make it good for you.” He slid his cock back and forth along Rory’s cleft and gave a hearty moan. He would enjoy fucking Rory—driving into him and vanquishing him. That was his rightful place in the world, not at Thoros’s feet or bent over for him. Thoros had enslaved him, worked some kind of dark magic on him that made him happy to take what he should be giving. This felt right—a hot, slick body beneath him, squirming for him, begging him to empty himself inside it.
“You’d like it if I fucked you.” He bumped against Rory’s hole to remind him that he’d enjoyed being fingered there. “Feels so good.” He had one arm wrapped around Rory’s neck, pulling back to keep him breathless, and now he worked the other under his body to wrap it around his cock.
“I don’t like the things you like,” Rory protested. But he rocked his pelvis so the motion pushed his cock through the fist Dalin made around him. The crowd cheered.
“They want me to fuck you. You know you want it too. You’re curious. You loved my fingers in your ass, and you want to know how it’ll feel when you’re skewered on my cock. You want to be full of me.”
“It’s you who lusts after me,” Rory argued. “You’d rather fuck me than Atalanta. I’m the one you want.”
Rory was right that Dalin didn’t want Atalanta, and not wrong that Dalin would enjoy sliding inside his tight ass and stretching it wide around him, but wrong about who he wanted. He wanted no one, would submit to no one. That was why he’d entered this contest—to have dominion over his own self, to lord it over others. When he was king, he would fuck any man he wanted, would have man servants galore. Would have them begging for him.
“Fuck me then,” Rory hissed. “Do it and see what happens. I won’t come—you will.”
Thoros
Thoros saw the moment Dalin breached Rory. Rory gasped and arched from the combination of horror and pleasure spreading through him. Dalin yanked him up onto his knees to plow him deeper, making what they were doing unmistakable to all. A roar of approval went up around the arena. Money changed hands.
Dalin fucked Rory hard, his hand working Rory’s cock as he moved. The expression of concentration on Rory’s face grew more and more intense as he struggled not to enjoy being drilled. His cock filled Dalin’s fist, his ass jerked back to meet Dalin’s hips, his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.
With a victorious roar, Dalin rose to his feet, Rory tight against his chest as Rory’s cock spurted a fountain into the air. Dalin spun as Rory came, showing his orgasm to the entire arena until Rory hung limp and weak in his arms, then Dalin threw him from his cock. Rory landed on his back, blinking up at Dalin as if he couldn’t understand what he was seeing. There was Dalin’s cock still standing proudly out from his body, hard and glistening with oil.
The Chancellor raised Dalin’s arm to signify his victory, but Dalin shook him off. He jogged to where Thoros stood watching and slid to his knees. Responding to the question in Dalin’s eyes, Thoros reached down to stroke a single fingertip along his shaft, triggering the climax pent up in his balls. Come spurted high into the air to the cheers of the crowd.
Thoros saw Atalanta nod approvingly and he knew Dalin had won—not just today’s contest but Atalanta’s hand. She would appreciate a man who came only when given permission by his master. By her. Thoros had trained Dalin for her, and now he was perfect and she would take him.
Thoros gave Dalin a hand up. Dalin didn’t belong at his feet anymore. He would be Prince Consort now.
“Your Majesty,” he said, dipping his head to his new ruler.
He turned and left the arena. There would be a ceremony, no doubt. Dalin would be declared victor. He and Atalanta would pledge fealty to each other, make a formal vow of intent. But ceremonies of that sort were for other people, for the nobility and their ilk, not for a simple man with a stone cottage and complicated tastes.
Victory
Thoros
It was a long trudge home with dust kicking up under his heavy feet. Thoros fed Moxie and Loxie, pumped fresh water into their trough, tidied the supplies he’d used to primp Dalin for the contest, tucking them away in the cabinet in the corner, though why he’d ever need scented soaps or fancy ribbons again, he didn’t know.
This too, he wouldn’t need—this bit of cloth Dalin had worn the week they’d played at being ladies and gentlemen. It had been ruined anyway. But he didn’t throw it away. It would make a rag, perhaps.
Evening fell, and Thoros sat at his table, turning the heavy chalice between his hands, remembering how he’d balanced it on Dalin’s outstretched palm once. A tap at the door interrupted his reminiscing, and he opened it to find Dalin dressed in a tunic with sandals on his feet, his hair pulled back in a loose braid, holding up a plump bag tied with a string. He looked clean and rested and a little ordinary, like someone Thoros might pass on the street.
“Your purse.” Dalin held the bag out to him.
That was right. He’d won, and there’d been a prize for winning. That was why he’d embarked on this project in the first place. That and to have a bit of firm man flesh under his whip for a while.
He accepted the bag and threw it on the table, no appetite for counting it out at the moment. “Courteous of you to deliver it yourself.”
“I had other reasons for coming.”
Dalin was probably angry. He’d been whipped and fucked and humiliated, tortured and
tied, and now he was Prince Consort and would want his revenge on the man who’d done these things to him. Well, Thoros wouldn’t beg for mercy. He would accept what retribution Dalin chose to mete out.
“Your Majesty.” He backed away from the door, gesturing Dalin inside.
Dalin shut the door behind himself and turned from it to face him. “I’m not your majesty. Not anyone’s majesty but certainly not yours.”
“Atalanta didn’t choose you?” Thoros frowned. There was no justification for her to have chosen anyone else.
“She chose me. I didn’t choose her. I told her I fought not for the right to have her, but for the right to decide my own fate, and she granted me that right. I think she was happy for it.”
Thoros nodded. Atalanta hadn’t wanted to marry at all. She would be glad all the spectacle had amounted to nothing. Her father, the King, wouldn’t be so pleased, but Atalanta had bought herself some time with her little contest.
But why shouldn’t Dalin marry her? It was what he’d fought for, what he’d won.
“I couldn’t submit to her, Thoros.”
“Did I teach you nothing then? You bow to no one except your master. But to your master, you will bow.”
Dalin dropped to his knees. He slid his cheek up along Thoros’s thigh until his nose nudged at the hem of his skirt. “There can be only one master, and that one isn’t Atalanta. So here I am, Thoros. On my knees. To you.”
Thoros brushed his hand back from Dalin’s brow, pulling through the loose braid to tumble his hair free. “How can you choose this? You could have power, riches, an easy life.”
“I wasn’t made for an easy life. I can’t bring myself to want it. What I want is to be beaten and bruised, hurt and humiliated. To be made wild by the one who tamed me.”
“Dalin,” Thoros warned, unable to accept such sacrifice until Dalin looked up at him with worshipful eyes and said the one word he’d been waiting for all along.
