Every Monday I post a filthy excerpt for your entertainment!
Today, something a bit different. I suddenly randomly remembered this scene from my swords-n-sandals novel Divine Torment, published way back in the days before
Black Lace got all nervous about M/M and their heroes doing Teh Gay on the side. So I thought I'd dig it out and see if it was as dodgy and non-consensual as I recalled. In this scene my hero General Veraine is getting a massage from his aide. He's under a ton of strain and, I regret to say, he's about to lose his composure, bigtime...
'You know, sir,' Arioc ventured, after he had loosened the cords of the Achilles tendons and slid cupped hands right up the length of Veraine's legs, from rough-textured calves to the soft skin at the small of the spine; 'your back's like a board. You're too tense. If I might say so, sir, you could do with a bloody good fuck.'
'And you're offering, are you, Arioc?' Veraine grunted to the linen sheet under his face.
'No, sir. You're not my type. I 'd suggest you go back to that silk-house though.'
'The silk-house just about threw me out last time,' Veraine growled. Then he added, 'What do you mean, I'm not your type? Don't tell me you do prefer pussy to arse, Arioc; four thousand men can't have all got it wrong.'
'Four thousand men are under the impression that I'm your mattress,' Arioc pointed out, digging into his ribs perhaps a shade too hard.
'Oh, great. Just great.' Veraine was not really surprised; he supposed he should have expected it.
'I do screw arse, sir,' Arioc continued conversationally, adding an extra drizzle of oil between the shoulder blades and running it out to the triceps. 'But you're not the kind I prefer. You're …'
'What?'
'You're a general, sir. You walk and act and think like a noble. You smell like a noble. You're rational, self-disciplined and courteous. Mostly,' he added as an afterthought. 'And that's not what I'm interested in.'
'You like something a bit less bland, I gather?'
'I can appreciate a good man, sir. It just doesn't get me hard.'
'So you fuck footsoldiers. Well, I can see why your family might want to keep that quiet.'
'Oh, you don’t know the half of it, sir.' There was a clink as Arioc picked up the strigil he had prepared. He touched the bronze scraper firmly to Veraine's neck and the general jumped at the coldness of the metal.
'Go on; shock me,' he said grimly.
Arioc began to run the strigil across his body, bringing off a layer of oil, sweat and dirty skin, which he wiped off the bronze onto a handcloth. 'I fuck footsoldiers,' he said as he scraped Veraine clean. 'I take cock. I like it hard and nasty. I like it from a group of men. One isn't enough. I like it when they slap me about, and when they piss on me, and when they make me crawl. It's hard to keep that discrete. I've tried to tone it down, to make do with the lighter stuff. But it doesn't give me a rush the way being cluster-fucked in a latrine does.'
Veraine's eyes were suddenly wide open, though he said nothing.
'There was this time. This was the best time I ever had; I still think about it. Though it left me terrified for weeks. I was in barracks at Antoth. It was late at night, and I was out in the city, just going from tavern to tavern, looking for action. I was crossing the road when I saw a soldier coming out of a wine-house, fumbling with himself. He was a big, rough looking bloke, with a broken nose and scars all down one side of his face. He had an ear missing too. I didn't recognise him; he must have been from a different host. He caught sight of me and looked me over, long enough for me to be sure, then he stared right past me like I wasn't there. He turned away down an alley and I followed him. He went behind the tavern into what must have been a potter's yard; there were broken pots all over the floor and the ground was all dug up into humps of kilns. He stopped against the nearest one and lifted his tunic. I came in a little closer, and suddenly he turned round and glared at me, asked me why I'd been following him. He had his cock out in his hand and I couldn't stop staring at it. It was thick and knobbly and misshapen, just like him, with thick veins like snakes twined about it. I told him I wanted to watch him piss. He didn't say a thing, but he suddenly rushed at me and knocked me flat, then grabbed hold of my tunic and held me up as he straddled me, his legs set either side of my shoulders, my face stuck against his crotch. Then he lifted his tunic again and slapped his cock into my face and he pissed all over me, up my nose and in my eyes, and he stuffed it in my mouth and just kept pissing. I nearly drowned. He was snarling something about if I wanted to see it, here it was, but I couldn't really hear, I was so busy trying to swallow and breathe at the same time.
'Just as he finished a bunch of other men came up to us. Three men. His friends. They asked what the fuck was going on, and he told them he had found this little bitch-dog that was following him around. He whipped his belt off and looped it round my neck, then dragged me back and forth across the ground in front of his mates. They were laughing like they were going to burst. They made me bark and whimper, and then lick their feet. They liked the whimpering. Then one of them said he thought the bitch was on heat because she was flashing her ass for everyone to see. He pulled out his tackle and asked me if I wanted to lick at that. So I did, and he held me by the hair and fucked my throat. Then while I crouched on hands and knees, they took it in turn to bugger me while their friends had their cocks sucked at the other end. They stank of alcohol and piss, and they were so fucking strong and brutal - I had a hard-on every moment of the ordeal. They laughed at that. They threatened to cut it off, because a bitch shouldn't have a pizzle. They stood round me when they had finished and made me bring myself off, and then eat my spunk off my hands. I was nearly shitting myself in fear. They all had knives.
'Finally they tied my wrists to my knees and left me crouched there in the potter's yard, unable to move. I was one huge bruise from head to foot. My commanding officer had to send a team of stretcher-bearers to get me back to barracks the next day. But I still had a hard-on. Turn over, sir.'
Without thinking, Veraine rolled onto his back, propping himself up on his elbows. Arioc had set down the strigil and his hands were cupped full of oil. He looked down at Veraine's body. Veraine followed the line of his gaze.
Arioc raised his eyebrows.
Veraine looked uneasily at the tumescent length of his half-erect cock, stirring on his belly. As they watched a surge ran up it, and it visibly thickened.
His smile illuminated Arioc's beautiful features like a light. 'I told you, you were tense,' he murmured. Oil dripped from his long fingers. He reached out to touch the general's member.
'No,' said Veraine, very clearly.
The smile became mocking. 'Don't tell me you've never fucked a man, sir?'
'Not recently.'
'I didn't think you could be the only virgin in the Eighth Host.'
'I prefer women,' said Veraine through bared teeth.
'That's alright. I don't like officers.' Arioc looked down at his own quite obvious bulge. 'We can be flexible.'
Veraine sat bolt upright, trying to parry the reaching hand, but he was far too slow. And as Arioc's oiled fingers closed around his aching length, he forgot why he had any objections. A groan escaped from his throat. The muscles of his stomach clenched and jumped.
'That's better, sir,' Arioc said, kneeling up beside him to get both hands engaged. His grip was firm and knowing, as efficient as his massage. One slim patrician hand worked up and down the shaft, while the other cupped and flexed his scrotum. Veraine imagined hot lead had been poured into his balls; they felt heavy and fit to burst. Unhurriedly, Arioc worked his foreskin back down from the head of his cock, revealing the flushed and angry dome and the slitted eye from which milky fluid was already seeping. And Veraine, who had never intended or anticipated this, could only be grateful that somebody -
anybody - was taking in hand the demanding, raging beast that jerked and danced between his legs. He leaned back against his braced arms, eyes closed, feeling the blood begin to boil in his veins.
'You're gagging for it,' Arioc observed.
Veraine forced his eyes open. The young man's head was bowed reverentially over his toil, his hand alternating between a blur of movement and slow, masterful strokes that made the general bite his lip in frustration. Arioc's glossy black curls quivered to the rhythm of his pumping muscles. Veraine struggled for speech.
'That's enough,' he managed to say.
Arioc looked up at him sharply and shook his head, the quirk of his lips expressing sheer wickedness.
'That's enough, soldier!' Veraine rasped, and this time his voice held the bite of command. 'Up against the wall!'
Arioc released him, crossed the room in two long strides and slapped his hands hard against the plaster, head bowed. Veraine rolled off the table to his feet, glanced around the room and found what he wanted; a short-bladed knife on the pile of linen to be used for rags. He walked up behind Arioc, surveyed the young man's back for a moment, then hitched the knee-length tunic up and cut through the cords of the loin-cloth beneath. He was sloppy with the knife, nicking Arioc's skin over the hip. The young man shuddered like a horse on the battlefield.
Veraine threw both blade and shredded cloth to the floor and placed both hands on the other man's arse, feeling the muscle hard under the sculpted planes of the skin.
'Spread your legs,' he growled. Arioc jerked his feet apart on the flagstones. Veraine slid his thumbs into the cleft of his buttocks, finding tight, shiny skin and wiry hairs and - very quickly - the clenched muscular ring of his anus. He guided the head of his own cock to that aperture and without pause or warning shoved nearly the full length of his member hard into it.
It was a good job that Arioc had slathered him in oil, because that orifice was far drier and tighter than a woman's sex. The chariot-driver jerked beneath him and made a noise that might have been a sob, but did not cry out. Veraine rested for a moment against his back, bemused temporarily by its muscularity, by the narrowness of the hips under his hands. He laid his cheek against the youth's raven-black locks. 'Comfortable?' he asked sarcastically.
Arioc made a whining noise in his throat.
Veraine considered abusing him verbally, but impatience got the better of him. Though the young man would probably appreciate it, Veraine was not interested in giving a performance or indulging the other's tastes. He wanted to come. He wanted to shoot his load into that tight grip and fill the man's arrogant arse with his jism and that was all.
He reached round and found the other man's erection, proud as a battle-standard. He slapped it once, stingingly, with his flat palm and then let it fall back to rest there. It felt surprisingly good. Arioc's cock, like Arioc, was slim and elegant. Veraine gripped it firmly, knotted his other arm around the other man's belly and began to fuck him strong and hard. Arioc groaned, spread his legs wider and opened up to him, taking it to the hilt. The grip on Veraine's cock pulsed and clenched and new spaces unfurled about it, the incredible heat and softness and yielding caress of that interior world sending bolts of fire up the invading member and into his spine. He thrust pitilessly and came at last with a snarl, barely conscious of the alien prick spasming under his hand.
He pulled out after only a moment's rest, before his tumescence had subsided, and stood panting, surprised at the effort the act had wrung from his body. Arioc leaned against the wall, wiping the sweat from his face. Snail-trails glistened beside him on the plaster, where his own ejaculate had bespattered the wall.
'Well, I do feel better for a good fuck, you were right,' Veraine nodded, trying to calm his ragged breathing. 'But if you ever disobey an order again like that, soldier, I will have the chariot-pole rammed up your insubordinate arse. Understand?'
'Yes sir,' said Arioc meekly.
Talking of goddesses, here's Chamunda, a particularly scary one from India:
There's a lot of Chamunda in 
