In His Arena 1: Slave Eternal (13 page)

He reached between the gladiator’s legs and found Hektor’s hand pulling and tugging at his sac. Greedily, Lucan entangled his fingers with his mentor’s, helping him stroke his balls. They were full to bursting, and Lucan couldn’t wait to feel the foamy gush of Hektor’s load jetting down his gullet.

He slurped back up Hektor’s stiff length, leaving his man glistening wet, and sucked the tip with a
pop.

“You don’t…have to…continue.” Hektor’s words came out, a struggle. He seemed unable to stop moving his hips, nudging his beautiful rod toward Lucan.

“I want to.” Lucan heard his own voice trembling. “I want you to fuck my mouth. I want you to come down my throat.” He pressed his lips to the tip of Hektor’s cock and waited.

Hektor pushed gently at first, and then, as his shaft slid into the tight warmth of Lucan’s mouth, he groaned and shoved all the way in. Tears sprang to Lucan’s eyes, and he worked to adjust to his man’s girth. He could barely accommodate the huge cock invading him. Hektor’s hands came down on his head. He stroked Lucan’s blond hair gently and then began to thrust long and deep, defiling his mouth, forcing Lucan to take him all the way to the hilt of that glorious cock.

The slap of his balls on Lucan’s chin was heady. Lucan wanted to lick them, but he couldn’t move with Hektor’s meat rammed down his throat. The gladiator took him, and Lucan squeezed and massaged his balls. He breathed through his nose as Hektor throat-fucked him.

It felt glorious to have his man inside him, so deep, so tight.

Hektor groaned. His ass clenched.

Yes.
Lucan’s eyes rolled back in pleasure so intense he thought he might black out.

He dragged his fingernails down Hektor’s thighs, and Hektor plunged wildly into him. “I’m going to—” His cock twitched, and he came hard, jetting cum into Lucan’s mouth, forcing it down his throat with a shout of triumph. Lucan opened his throat, not even able to swallow, Hektor was so deep into him.

Lucan had no choice. He reveled in having no choice.

Hektor pumped a few more times until he was fully spent. Lucan’s jaw ached as Hektor pulled free, his gorgeous cock softening, glistening with cum and saliva.

“Good boy.” Hektor kissed him, sweeping his tongue inside Lucan’s mouth to taste his jism on his student’s lips. He palmed Lucan’s shaft and began to ride him off.

Two, three strokes, and Lucan was flying. The orgasm slammed into him, and he jerked and screamed, spraying his seed all over Hektor’s palm.

Hektor lifted it to his lips and licked it off. Lucan kissed him again, chasing the taste of his spunk in his man’s mouth.

“If you’re done.” Stratos stood at the doorway, leaning. His demeanor was casual, but he cupped his own cock, rubbing it absently. “Come now, Lucan. You’ll need your rest. In the morn, you have a conquest to fuck.”

HEKTOR WATCHED AS Stratos put his arm around Lucan and turned him toward the chambers beneath the Grand Palestra. The junior quaestor threw a lascivious, knowing smile over his shoulder at Hektor as he led Lucan away.

Hektor’s blood boiled, and he clenched his fists. He looked around to where the weapons lay scattered all over the floor. Face burning, he bent over and began picking things up.

One of the swords slipped, and he caught it, edge first. It sliced his palm open, sending a spatter of blood across the wood. He cursed himself. What had he been thinking, taking up with Lucan like that? The boy was a Vulpinius. Likely Stratos had his hooks into him already.

But no. Hektor didn’t think so. He remembered the softness in Lucan’s eyes the moment before they first kissed, the feel of his mouth, his hands. Those were not the movements of a marionette, someone going through the motions, being puppeted.

It felt more like…
Leander.
And yet, it was different. Somehow more intense. Somehow more real.

Hektor closed his eyes, tightening his grip on the blade until it cut him deeper. Blood ran down the steel, and the sharp
pat-pat
of it near his sandal counted time as Hektor’s memory brought him back.

Leander lying amid the pillows, his tawny hair like a lion’s mane, his golden body stretched out. His finger crooking as he beckoned Hektor to the couch, to lose himself in their touch, in their soft kisses, and then the eventual roughness of his teeth on Leander’s neck, grabbing him roughly about the waist, turning him, bending him over the couch, and pounding into him, until their cries rose to the heavens and the couch jerked forward with every thrust.

He shook his head, his loose hair brushing across his nape, across the spent black mark there, the reminder of his past as a puppet of Stratos of House Vulpinius.

Hektor’s blood pooled the floor. He scuffed it away with his sandal and wiped the blade on his tunic. Standing, he began putting all the weapons up again, making sure each one was in its place.

And with each one placed back where it belonged, he put away his memories of Leander one by one.

Sweat rolled down Hektor’s back, the smell of sex and spunk in the rack beginning to stifle him. He had to get out. And he had to avoid thinking of what Lucan would be doing tomorrow in the cells with his Claim. What he wished Lucan were doing with him instead.

Chapter Six

VICTOR’S CLAIM

Some suspected the Empress

Instituted the Victor’s Claim to keep deaths low

Others thought it was to induce them

After all, gladiators were traditionally possessive

—Nefertari Amon Actaeon of House Actaeon, the Warriors

Lucan tried to project an aura of command as he descended the stairs into the shadowy depths of the Claim. It felt strange to be coming here of his own accord instead of in manacles to be chained to the wall.

At the bottom of the stair, he paused to let his eyes adjust from predawn light to the dusty dimness. Three quick breaths, that was all he allowed himself.

He was a victor. He should not be seen hesitating.

One final deep inhalation, and he plunged into the Claim proper. Guttering torches lit the halls that opened up before him in all their labyrinthine splendor. Sector B. Toward the back. Stratos had made it clear to him where his Claim would be kept.

Lucan slipped into the B passageway. The slick caress of muggy stone and metal slats against his fingers startled him. He’d never had the time to really look around, to feel the perspiration clinging to the walls, to see shadowy figures moving behind the iron bars, to hear the cries of pleasure or pain, the ambient sounds of fucking, flesh slapping against sweaty flesh—

His cock came to half-hardness. He wanted. He yearned.

But not this senseless, animalistic rutting. Definitely not this.

The
smack
of a sandal punctuated by the
rap
of a cane alerted Lucan before Remulon rounded the corner. “Lucan!” The Master of the Claim had an uncanny sense of knowing when someone entered his dark demesne. With a knowing smile, he clasped Lucan’s forearm. “You are here for your Claim, yes?”

“Yes.” Lucan kept his voice steady, managed to sound interested, even.

“Good, good.” Remulon stroked his beard, his gaze shrewd on Lucan. The smile went away from his face for a moment, and then he banished the severity with another, bigger grin. “Come. Come.” He beckoned Lucan deeper into Sector B, down a narrow passageway that made his crutching about with a cane cramped and difficult.

Lucan trailed behind as though heading toward his death. The sound of the key turning the tumblers of the lock grated across his nerves, the scent of sweat and blood and spunk making his head pound.

The first sight of his Claim in chains sent a heady thrill through Lucan, striking him low in the abdomen and spreading out deliciously, traitorously, toward the root of his cock. But he wanted to be the one chained, not…

Great Scar’s back was to the cell door, his arms stretched high over his head, his dark skin glistening with sweat. He twisted in his chains the way Lucan remembered twisting when it had been him. And Alession.

The ache in his left pectoral flared, and Lucan dug his fingers into the skin, hoping fresh pain could dull the flare. He didn’t want to think about that morning—Alession, the black dagger, the Ebon brand.

Hastily, Lucan stepped into the room. Remulon’s chuckle told him he took that as overeagerness. The sound of the door closing behind him was final, terrifying.

Bull Neck craned to glance back over his shoulder, his dark hair tumbling into his dark eyes. Lucan had to admit the other novice was attractive. Heavy muscles lined his upper body; his abs were tight and toned, his ass, barely concealed by a loincloth, was round and firm. His legs were a bit thin, not at all like Hektor’s. Hektor was—

Try not to think of him.

—perfect.

Lucan sighed.

“Come on,” Great Scar said roughly, his teeth clenched in anticipation. Sweat glistened on his face, making the scar stand out in the dimness. “Take your prize.”

Lucan saw the hesitation and desire warring in Great Scar’s eyes. Clearly, he would rather be on the giving end, and yet he was ready. Custom and superstition was ingrained in all of them—the more powerful gladiator giving up his seed, pouring it into the weaker to make him strong.

And Great Scar wanted Lucan’s essence deep within him.

The idea of ass fucking his conquest did have some allure. Lucan’s cock jerked at the sight of all that fine man-flesh displayed before him.

Great Scar rolled his hips slightly, subtly. Inviting. “Well?”

Sweat trickled down Lucan’s neck. Why was he waiting? This was natural, as natural as anything in the arena. He swiped the perspiration away with the back of his hand and moved in.

Every step closer to his Claim felt like a betrayal of his feelings. Of Hektor.

A low moan escaped Great Scar, and Lucan hated his body’s response to it, heady and hungry. He wanted to fuck and be fucked. But not by his fellow novice.

Yet if he refused, everyone—Great Scar, Remulon, all the trainers and other novices, the higher-tiered gladiators, even the spectators—would think Lucan deficient for not claiming his prize. Would Hektor think the same? Lucan could not bear that. The odds-makers would surely find out. They’d lower his odds. His career in the arena would be over before it even started.

Driven by fear, he stepped in and let his hand brush the silky, sweaty flesh of Great Scar’s ass. The novice squirmed, moaning at the contact. Lucan knew that anticipation—the shame, the freedom of being tied and taking whatever the victor wanted with no choice, no blame. Lucan knew Great Scar had been hanging for hours. He also knew that Remulon often “worked up” the Claims so they would be ready. Judging from the teeth marks in the novice’s shoulder, Remulon had paid his visit already.

Lucan slowly peeled the loincloth down. Great Scar wriggled his round, taut ass, his cock hanging heavy between his legs. Lucan should have been excited. His first Claim, his first taking.
If I win more, I will have to do this more.

Great Scar hissed impatiently through his teeth. “Are you going to fuck me or what?”

“Shut up.” Lucan’s voice was rough, but it trembled. He had no choice. He put both hands on Great Scar’s ass and massaged his heavy cheeks. Lucan hated himself for doing it, but he thought of Hektor’s hands on his head, pushing his hot pole down Lucan’s throat, claiming him, coming inside him to brand him with his lust.

Lucan’s cock jumped, his mind buzzing with imagined excitement. He had to do it now, before he lost the momentum of his fantasy.

With one harsh shove, he pushed Great Scar’s feet farther apart, encouraging him to open. The oil lay within arm’s reach. Remulon had indeed been here. Lucan took it, slathered his fingers, and began to lube his Claim. He rimmed Great Scar with his fingers, rubbing that puckered hole, and the novice yearned back, trying to shove his ass onto Lucan’s fingers, trying to get him inside. Lucan balked.

I cannot hesitate any longer.

He positioned the head of his cock at Great Scar’s entrance. The dark-skinned novice grew very still, anticipating.

Pretend it’s Hektor. Pretend it’s Hektor. Pretend it’s—

The door slammed open so hard the hinges groaned.

Lucan’s eyes flew open.
Hektor!

The primus palus loomed in the doorway, his face white, fists clenched and shaking. Lucan had never seen him in such a perilous state. Hektor looked murderous, so different from his calm demeanor during training. He took up the entire doorway he was so massive, and in two strides, he was on Lucan. He grabbed him by the neck and shoved him against the wall.

The hard press of Hektor’s body grinding him into the wall made Lucan’s head spin. He nearly swooned when the gladiator claimed his mouth, shoving his tongue in roughly, licking over Lucan’s teeth, dueling with him as he ground the length of his erection against Lucan’s eager cock.

Lucan moaned as Hektor pulled back. He reeled.

Remulon was suddenly there. Denarii exchanged hands—sixteen pieces in all, clinking. Lucan watched each one fall into Remulon’s palm.

“Make sure he doesn’t tell.” Hektor’s voice was low with the threat.

“Of course, my friend.” Remulon laughed with dark mirth. With surprising agility, he slipped out of his robes and stepped in toward Great Scar. He positioned his hard dick at the novice’s puckered entrance. “You have my word.” In one move, he shafted the novice and began fucking him. Great Scar grunted and then cried out, his chains shrieking wildly with every one of Remulon’s powerful thrusts.

Confusion lit within Lucan. He turned to Hektor. “What is—”

But Hektor only claimed him in another heady kiss. Lucan melted into him. The fact the Hektor was there and real, and against his chest, his thick, corded biceps around Lucan, was all that mattered. In the next moment, Hektor was pulling him out of the room and into the dusty, darkened hall.

The last glimpse Lucan had of his Claim was Remulon abandoning his crutch to grab Great Scar’s hips with both hands. He pounded the novice’s ass in earnest. “Take it, bitch-boy.” His laughs and grunts and sweaty slaps made Lucan’s mind spin.