This story has nothing to do with reality.

Most of you will recognize the myth, and some will say: You mix different traditions, you add stuff that isn't there and you fuck with chronology. I know I do. Who cares? This is my attempt at a sexy story, not a history lesson.

There is more than one sexual constellation in this story: boy/boy, man/boy, and there's also father/son eroticism and sex. If you feel uncomfortable with that, move on to another story. There's plenty of them.

If some mindless law says you shouldn't be reading this, it's entirely your decision whether you want to abide by that law or break it. If you choose to read on, and you should happen to like my story, please tell me.

winterboy@tutanota.com

 

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THE TOWER AND THE MAZE

 

Magnus Winter

 

 

He said Wait for me here on the beach

He said Just don't cry

(From Waiting for Icarus by Muriel Rukeyser)

 

 

 

1

 

 

 

 

"Father! Come look! The ships are coming in!"

I'm sitting, naked except for my tiny loincloth, in the upper embrasure, latticed shutters open, my feet dangling on the outside. This is my place, it's the place in the tower with the best view. My father has long since given up barking at me for sitting here. None of his warnings and admonitions have yet worked. But come on, I have not yet fallen down, nor do I have any intention of doing so. My arms are strong for a boy my age, I am nimble and agile, and my reflexes are fast. And I have no fear of heights.

The harbor is buzzing with commotion and excitement in the afternoon sun. The soldiers are in position on the wharf, trying to keep the hundreds of people in line, all of them eager and curious, milling about, fighting for the best view. The sea twinkles and sparkles in the slanting light.

The soldiers are not in full battle gear today. They are bare chested, their bodies glisten behind their shields, their muscled arms hold their spears high. Their powerful naked thighs and their leather protected lower legs are spread beneath leather cod pieces, their feet are sturdily planted to the ground in heel-capped sandals, their bronze helmets reflect the sunlight and long aigrettes waft in the breeze. I wish I was down there and could see them better, see their faces. I fantasize them, I color them in, I beautify them. My whole inside trembles when I watch them, my heart beats faster and my groin tingles.

And here they come: Three ships gliding through the shimmering sea. Two proud biremes with their double decks and double rows of oars. The crew are busy tying up the sails, the oarsmen are backing their oars to array the ships so they block the harbor and guard the bulky cargo ship that slowly approaches the pier.

The archers take position on the steps in front of the columns of the sacred hall. The spear-men line up to frame the passageway from the quay to the square. The gangway is laid out, and people start disembarking: Merchants in their long yellow and green cloaks, slaves in their dirty, off-white loincloths, carrying crates and baskets. Officers in their red and purple tunics and high boots, their belts and breastplates of bronze and of gilded leather, their feather-topped helmets under their arms.

And behind them: The seven young men and the seven young women from Athens, their chitons blindingly white. They're stripped of all their fineries, no bracelets adorn their arms, no golden rings encase their ankles. Their necks are bent and their eyes are downcast as they're driven barefoot forward by a rearguard of javelin throwers and slingers. The crowds cheer and hoot them.

I hear my father's resigned sigh behind me.

"You'll never learn", he says, "until you fall down. And then it will be too late."

He puts his arms around me. We watch the procession as it weaves through the throng and disappears around the corner on the way to the dungeons.

 

* * *

 

"Put your clothes on", my father says. "We need bread and oil. And if the fishermen are in, maybe get us some sprats or squids."

He is not allowed out of the tower, only on special occasions, and then heavily guarded and watched. That's the king's orders. He's afraid of my clever father, afraid he'll escape back to Athens, afraid he'll disclose secrets. Me, I come and go as I please. I don't think it has ever struck the king that I might share some of my father's knowledge, and I'm certainly not going to tell anyone. That's my forte, no one suspects a twelve year old kid of harboring major secrets.

So while my father frets in his confinement and curses the queen for her persuasive powers and her insatiable pussy, I move about inconspicuously and unnoticed. And let me tell you, my eyesight is sharp and my hearing is keen.

 

* * *

 

To get to the fishermen's wharf, I first have to walk through the olive grove, then past the palace gates, across the square, and through the tradesmen's and merchants' quarters, and then a shortcut past the bawdy houses. Even though it's still early evening, the girls and the women are busy down here; there are sailors and soldiers in town. I watch the men, they sit in clusters outside the houses, drinking and singing, laughing and bantering, while the whores slink in and out of the groups, pouring wine, touching shoulders, offering pleasure.

I linger to watch the men's faces, they seem so open and unguarded, so unlike the women who mostly look indifferent or tired. As I pass, one of the sailors grabs me from behind and grinds my butt into his crotch, his boisterous laughter splitting my eardrums. I play my game: I push back, just a little bit, just to feel if there's a reaction behind his perizoma. He laughs again, pushes me off his lap and smacks my behind. I almost drop my basket with the loaf and the amphora of oil.

"Off with you, boy! Your sheath is too small for my sword."

Which I don't think is true at all, but he really has his eyes set on the very young and very pretty girl who pours wine to his mate. He winks at her, gestures rudely and roars with laughter.

The closer I get to the wharf, the tawdrier the girls and the cheaper the wine. Also the men's faces look harder, dirtier; their glances are lewder, their drool is wetter, their sniggers are more lecherous. I see no traces of the carefree happiness I found upstreet. I speed up, I don't much care for spending time here.

The fishermen have all gone, save for one boat bobbing at the quayside. I know the owner of the boat. All that is left in the bow are some cockles and a few scallops, and I get them dead cheap, even without one bit of haggling.

I don't want to pass through the whores' quarters again, so I take the long way back. I saunter along the wharf, past the storehouses and the shipyard, then take off towards the barracks. Four guardsmen sit outside throwing dice. The evening air is sultry and humid; they've doffed their breastplates and tunics, one of them has even taken his leather groin plate and his perizoma off; he is naked from his sandals to his chin. They still have their helmets on, half their faces are covered by them. I get closer to them, and I see sweaty pearls run down their noses and chins and drip to the ground. I don't understand why they don't remove their helmets, uncomfortable as they must be. Besides, I would love to see the whole of their faces.

The guard to the left is alert to me, he follows my eyes as they travel over the display of golden, glowing skin, he notices how I loiter and search for a better view of the naked guardsman's crotch. He smiles at me. I smile back at him, blushing from being caught.

"Boy! Come over!" he calls. The other guards look up and see me.

But I can't, I have to get home with the groceries.

 

* * *

 

We have our evening meal, our deipnon, together. We eat the scallops and the cockles raw, with a sprinkle of vinegar and chervil, we drink watered wine, and we dip chunks of white bread in fresh oil.

"Tomorrow you should go to the woods", my father tells me, "and set a few traps. See if you can catch us a hare."

I nod, but my mind is busy with an entirely different issue. Should I tell him? Does he want to know, will he even care? But who else is there for me to tell about this new and momentous thing?

"Father", I say, slightly embarrassed but mostly proud. "I shoot sperm now!"

He looks at me with mild interest.

"Hm. Well, it's about time, I'd say", he observes. "You'll be thirteen in a month",

 

"It looks like dishwater", I divulge. "Should it?"

He chuckles and leans back against the wall.

"Maybe? I'm not really a connoisseur. Come here!"

I get up and walk over to him. He removes the pin on my shoulder, my chiton falls to the floor. He tilts his head slightly to the side and scrutinizes my body. He has seen me naked every day of my whole life, but now he seems to notice me. Really notice me.

"They've dropped nicely", he says as he cups my balls. "And you've grown quite big. You're about to be a man now."

 

"I want more hairs", I tell him, almost whiny.

 

"Don't fret. They'll come. Personally, I think you'd look better without any hair at all. But well, that's a matter of taste."

He is still holding my balls. My dick is getting hard and I squirm. My hips won't be still. I wish he would touch my dick, pull it like I do myself to get that indescribable feeling. I hear him swallow heavily.

"Close your mouth", he mutters, "and put something on."

 

* * *

 

My father is snoring softly on his wooden bed, the hides and the blankets pushed away; it is such a hot and clammy night. I can't sleep. I've opened the shutters to the south and I lean out against the gentle breeze. The light wind carries the sound of drums, and the sky behind the cypress and chestnut trees has an orange glow. I know: They're having a huge fire in the palace courtyard, there'll be musicians and dancers; they'll have had a sheep roasting on a spit, it will probably be eaten by now. The wine will still be flowing, courtesans and favorites will sit next to or in the laps of their patrons, depending on their size and weight. The queen will parade quickly through the group of men, in her scarlet peplon and her abundance of gold jewelry, her two elegant dogs with their gem-studded collars at her feet, casting her magic spells to ensnare some unlucky creature. She's the only woman allowed there, except for the concubines. The king might be there, or he might have disappeared inside with his favorite boy or girl of the moment. I have heard my father's tales of the partying at the palace, he was once part of it. When they still needed his skills and his ingenuity. When his charms and his clever fingers opened doors to him. But I was too small to remember any of it, though I sometimes feel a tingle of recognition from the sound of the drums and the languorous songs from the double flutes. I picture myself there, in the midst of the splendor, in with the vibrant colors and the rich smells. The longing in my young chest is like an ache.

I look across to where my father is sleeping, almost hidden in darkness. I curse the royals for their treatment of him. How could they! He did everything they asked of him. But no good deed goes unpunished, as they say. A stupid saying.

He's such a charming, such a beautiful man, my father. Not ruggedly handsome and muscled like the soldiers; he is sinewy and taut, sleek like a deer. His body looks younger than his 42 winters, but his face can sometimes look like it contains all the ancient wisdom in the world. His intelligent eyes are deep and dark, sometimes humorous, sometimes hauntingly sad. To me he looks perfect. As he does to a lot of women.

I tiptoe over to the small but deep terracotta brick stove. I blow on the last embers to set fire to a thin wooden stick, then I light the oil lamp and bring it carefully to the small table by my father's bed. Now I can see him: Slung out, naked, his shoulders flat against the bed, his midriff twisted to the side with one knee pulled up.

I watch him and play with my dick. A voice in my head says I shouldn't, but my groin and my fingers tell me differently. I pull my foreskin back and look down at the swelling head: it glows in the flickering light, it's color somewhat paler than the skin I pull back. This is all it takes for my dick to stand straight up, the tip faintly curving towards my belly. Ye gods, I'm so in love with my dick.

My father makes a snorting noise and turns, his legs now spread out and his cock rests between them on top of his balls. I remember when I was little, how impossibly large his cock seemed to me, now it just looks beautiful. I wonder how much it grows, what it looks like when it's hard. I picture him with one of his women, imagine how his cock becomes a giant pole that pushes slowly into the soft flesh between the woman's legs. I imagine myself licking the shaft as it disappears into the woman. My body is all goosebumps, all shivers. I arch my back, my hand closes around my aching dick, and one single pull sends my small amount of thin fluid dancing out. I want to pant and moan, but my brain tells me: Don't make a sound! My body stops convulsing and I see two droplets have landed on my father's thigh.

Phew. What will he say if he discovers them in the morning?

 

* * *

 

I'm up with the first light, getting ready for the woods. I collect the strings and the pegs I need and put them in my leather pouch, and along with my knife I fasten the pouch to my belt. I hurry, I want to be gone before my father gets up. I grab a handful of nuts and a piece of bread on my way out. But shit, when I turn, my father is there, right in front of me. I'm flustered, I try to squeeze past him, but he bars me with his arm.

"Got all you need?" he asks. His grin is broad, his face is as sunny as the newborn day.

I blush when he looks at me, I avoid his eyes. He knows, I think. I manage to slip past him, I run down the steps. He calls after me:

"Take care!"

 

* * *

 

I'm jolted awake by heavy footsteps. Briefly wondering where I am, I'm on my feet, listening. I need, and quickly! to determine the direction of the march. I look around me. Yes, I know where I am, I am about a hundred paces from the paved road to the maze. I must have fallen asleep when I laid down to rest after having set the traps. And the rhythmic, stomping steps are moving towards the maze.

I move silently through the trees, anticipating where they'll be the minute it takes me to reach the road. I hide in the shrubbery, keep still as a mouse, and here they come:

Eight guardsmen, armed and in full attire. Then the fourteen youngsters, paired up, and at the rear four Athenian soldiers in full hoplit gear, huge shields and all. Oh yes. It's time for the payback. It's time for the sacrifice. Oh no! They are all so good looking, these boys and girls, so shapely and attractive. Especially one of the boys; his coloring is lighter than the others', his hair is almost blond. He's bewitchingly beautiful. I want so badly to run to him and hold him, tell him not to be afraid. Oh shit. It's such a waste!

I've known about this as long as I can remember, but I never understood the vindictiveness, the sheer hatred behind it. I mean, if someone kills someone you care about, even love, why take it out on totally innocent people? Why go to war and kill hundreds of people that never hurt anyone, why not concentrate on the real culprits? But whenever I voiced this attitude, I was always fobbed off with You are too young to understand. This is about honor.

If that's what it is, they are right, I'll never understand. To me, it would be honorable to forgive, if not forget, honorable to live and let live. I'd never make it as a soldier, but then, since my father is non-grata now, and stripped of his honor on so many levels, the question of me being in the army will probably never arise. I know I think differently than our traditions says I should, much thanks to my father. He is smart enough to think for himself, and he has taught me the same. Pity that sexed up, bull-fucking queen had him so under her spell.

I follow the procession, hidden in the undergrowth. It's a piece of cake not to be seen, I can keep my distance since I know where they're going. I know these woods, and I can move through them without making a sound.

They're at the gate. The soldiers line the youngsters up in front of it, the lokhagos bellows at them:

"This is the only way in and the only way out, but you cannot open it from the inside."

This is a lie, but they don't know. Only my father and I know. The captain barks on:

"Moving through the maze is your only chance of making it. If you remain in one place, he will find you. If you try to hide, he will find you. If, by a miracle, one or more of you should make it through the maze, you will be let out tomorrow morning."

Another lie, it is impossible to find your way through the maze, no one has ever managed to. The soldiers laugh at their lokhagos' lie, a taunting, humiliating laugh. I can almost smell the fear of the Athenians, almost touch their despair. Some of them are openly crying, some try to look defiant, but all their faces are pale as sheets. Oh, how I hate what I'm seeing.

The bronze gate swings open, and the youngsters are driven inside. I see them hold on to each other in twos and threes as the gate is kicked close, sounding like a huge bell. My thighs feel strained from crouching, and my blood makes noise in my ears. Leave, I silently beg the soldiers, please, please leave now.

But they don't. They remain there for a long, long time, until they have ensured none of the captives will, against all odds, find a way to get out. Only then do they line up and march back through the woods, their weapons clattering, their voices now subdued.

I sneak up to the gate, I open it quietly, I peer inside and I listen. No one. All I can see is the junction of the three corridors that lead off from the gate into the shadowy depths. And then a growl, a roar and a scream from deep within. Too late. I take my heavy heart and tearful eyes out of there. I close the gate carefully, noiselessly.

 

* * *

 

My father is busy constructing something that looks like a small buggy when I come in from checking my traps. They were all empty, but I caught an ochentri, a leopard snake, on my way home, sunning itself on the rocks by the stream that runs west of the woods. It was rather a big one, longer than my arm, its gorgeous orange and red colors gleaming, and I figured it would make a good substitute for our planned, but lost hare dinner.

He's not happy when he sees what I brought.

"Oh, my son", he says, his brows darken. "What have I taught you about the ochentri?"

He reads my blank face and slowly shakes his head.

"They are our lucky snakes", he rebukes me, "they keep our houses clean and free of mice. We don't kill them!"

I suddenly feel crushed. I feel ashamed. My initial joy of having caught us a nice meal crumbles and falls to the floor. I look down and mumble my apologies. My eyes tear up, all my pent up emotions from this morning run riot in me. I sink to the floor and weep against my bare knees.

My father hoists me up to where he sits, pulls me in between his legs, close to his chest. He smooths my hair and murmurs in my ear:

"What is this, then? This is not just the snake, is it?"

I lean into him, his trimmed beard tickles and itches against my cheek. His smell is so familiar, so soothing, I want to stay in his arms forever.

"I saw them this morning, going to the maze", I whisper. "They were so beautiful. And now they're dead."

He rocks me. " I know", he says softly. "I know."

He roasts the confounded snake anyway, and we eat the soft, pale meat in silence, almost like we're committing a sin. It is delicious, but I feel like I'm being accused of treason for thinking so. My father watches me as if he reads my mind.

"It's done", he says, "so don't think about it anymore. Let's get cleaned up, and I'll cut your hair afterwards."

He collects what we need: two linen sheets, the brushes, and the jar of scented oil. He hands them to me and starts down the stairs, I follow behind. Outside he tells the two guards we're going to the bathhouse. They escort us there, it's only a short walk. Once inside, they seat themselves by the door to watch and wait.

There aren't many people in here tonight. An older man sits on the wooden bench by the big, steaming copper cauldron, a dark-skinned slave is busy tending to the fire under it. Two younger men are rinsing each other's backs in the small raised pool. The wet, greenish slabs of stone edging the pool reflect the orange gleams from the fire. The men laugh and joke together, the old man looks envious. The slave ladles hot water from the cauldron into a wooden bucket, fills it up with cold water, and carries it over to us along with a bowl of soft soap made of sheep's fat. It's a smelly soap, I don't really like it, but it gets you clean.

We pour warm water over each other, then soap up. I do my father's back, then he does mine. The sensation of his hands rubbing and caressing my skin makes me forget the vile smell of the soap, and as his hands sweep over my buttocks, I let out a long sigh. I wish his hands would stay there, go deeper, into the crack, rub my hole, like I vaguely remember he did when I was little and didn't know how to clean myself. I'm half hard when he stops and walks over to the pool, where the two guys are just climbing out. They are slender men, almost skinny, not like soldiers or farmers, they are probably craftsmen or merchants. The last one out has the longest cock I've ever seen, it flops down and slides along the flat stone edge of the pool as he climbs out. It hits me like a bolt of lightning, I'm instantly stiffer than a board. I cover myself and hurry to get into the cold water, but my father has noticed. A small smile curls his lips. And by all the gods, he winks at me.

We splash about in the water, we jostle each other a little. I try to wrestle him down when I feel him tense up. He puts his hands on me to still me. I follow his gaze and turn my head. The old man is leaning forward, his hands on the edge of the pool, his tits sagging, his shapeless belly almost hiding his short dick. There's a sly leer on his face. My father looks hard at him.

"One touch", he says, "and you're dead."

The man slinks away, flabby buttocks and hairy shoulders. I shudder as I suddenly imagine what he'd be like in bed. I duck into the water to cleanse my mind of the disturbing picture.

 

We sit outside in the evening sun, me on the lower step between my father's feet. The guards are inside their shelter, we hear their boastful voices rise and fall. My father has his sharp bronze blade in his hand, carefully shearing my thick, black locks of hair. It doesn't matter how cautious he tries to be, every now and then the blade pulls my hair painfully, and I yelp. He laughs at me.

"Be a man", he sniggers. "I'll give you some honey and wine afterwards. The good wine."

* * *

 

It's getting dark, my father lights the oil lamp. I can tell by the way he moves that he's had more than his share of the sweet, fruity wine. I feel a rather heavy buzz myself, and I've only had half as much as him. We sit on the floor, leaning back against the northern wall, the night breeze from the open shutters cools our faces and our bare chests. He has his arm slung lightly around my shoulders, he squeezes them softly, and then he speaks, just a tiny bit slurred.

"Are you all right now? Better than you were this morning?"

I nod. I lean closer to him, my head in the crook of his neck. We sit there, doing nothing, saying nothing, just letting the calm and soothing certainty of being us, him and me together, enfold us. I drift away into darkness.

 

I'm awakened by my father carrying me to the narrow cot where I sleep. He puts me down on the soft sheepskin, stoops down over me and plants an unexpected kiss on my lips. I open my eyes wide in surprise.

"My handsome little Icky", he mumbles. "My beautiful boy. I need to make you a new bed, you are getting way too big for this one."

He crosses the room and I hear him flop down on his own bed. Within seconds I hear his soft snores.

 

* * *

 

My traps are still empty. I think I'll move over to the other side of the road, and I'll set them up closer to the slopes behind the palace. There are some warrens there, where rabbits who have escaped the palace farm have dug their holes. I've seen them. The only problem would be if I came across someone from the king's court, they would take my rabbits from me if I made a catch, because technically they belong to the king.

I hear the sound some distance off: Metal clanking and scraping and pushing into the dry ground, a murmur of voices. I sneak closer, careful not to be seen. There's a clearing in the dense maquis, I hide in the thick shrubbery of low Kermes oaks close to the dell. Two men are there with pointed bronze spades, seems they're digging a grave. The older one still wears his grey slave's himation, but the younger man has thrown his to the ground and is working naked. I guess him to be somewhere in his early twenties; his body is tight with work muscles, they twitch and flicker across his shoulders and his back. His seat muscles firm up and retract, it's like watching a dancer.

"Break!" the young man shouts, then leans over on his spade, legs spread. My breath is caught when I almost see his hole.

 

"What's going on here", he asks the older man. "Got a clue? There's a new one almost every fucking day!"

The older guy shakes his head. "They say it's the queen's doing", he replies. "They say she has poisoned the king's sperm."

The young man throws his head back and laughs. "Oh, come on! That's a tall one! Why the fuck would she do that? And how?"

"I wouldn't put it past her. She's a devious creature, that one. And she knows some powerful magic."

 

"Yeah, yeah. I know they say that, but why?"

 

"Jealousy, I suppose. He's rather heavy on new meat, the king is."

The young man walks over to the leather satchel sat in the undergrowth at the edge of the small glade. He takes out a worn bladder vessel with a stopper in the spout. He turns and comes over to the older man. His chest is beautifully muscled, not too heavy, just right, and his stomach is perfectly defined. His dick flops as he walks, a very long foreskin makes it look bigger than it is. He drinks from the bladder, then hands it to his workmate.

"She should fucking get off her high horse", he reflects. "I've seen what she's up to when she's in heat."

The older man looks questioning at him.

"I saw her with the bull, you know. When I was nine." He points to the west. "Right up there. I saw it all!"

 

"Shh. Careful what you say. Some think she has the power of hearing from afar."

 

"Well, let her hear. It's not that much of a secret, is it? I saw that guy, that handyman, what's his name, the one who's in the tower, I saw him cover that big wooden cow with hides and help her inside. He left her there, and then that huge, white bull came crashing through the trees and jumped the cow and ran that giant rod of his into it. Into her. Fucked the daylights out of her. It was really scary, but really horny too.

He pulls at his dick, it's half hard now. From the memory, I suppose. His companion looks away, then has another drink.

"Enough", he says." Let's finish this and get that poor girl buried."

* * *

 

I have a friend. At least, I think I have a friend. It's a strange feeling, so different than what I feel when I sometimes get asked to play with the other kids, slinging stones at targets or playing three-in-a-row on the cobblestones. Different than what I feel from the horny banter and fast grabbing I sometimes receive from some of the older boys, even some of the men. Different than what I feel when I'm with my father. I can't pinpoint the feeling, it's changing and shifting, like it's a mystic creature with many heads. Sometimes I feel elated, happy, and at the same time all mushy and silly, then lust and want will overtake me. But there is also something that feels like fear, and that's what I don't understand. What is there to be afraid of? He's just a boy!

His family is huge, at least compared to mine. He's still got both his parents, he has three older brothers and two older sisters, and there's a grandmother in the bargain as well. They are of a sturdy stock, thickset with heavy limbs, their faces are swarthy and saturnine, their brows low. All except my friend and his oldest sister, they look almost like nymphs in comparison. Their speech is coarse and sounds unfriendly, but they're not mean. At least not to me, it's just their ways.

They keep goats and sheep, and also bees, and now that I know them, I've found that the soft, delicious goat cheese I have often bought on the market is theirs. And that's how I met him. He was there at the stall in the agora, and I wondered why I'd never seen him before. So I asked him. It was his first time there, his job was normally to herd the sheep, but the menfolk were all out hunting boars, and being only eleven, he wasn't allowed with them. The longer I talked to him, the further he wormed his way into my mind. Into my heart. Into my groin. His name is Anatole: Sunrise.

I'm on my way to him now. It's a two-hour walk from us to them, even longer if I walk along the coast instead of cutting through the woods. Today I've chosen the long way. I love to climb the pale red rocks and cross the sandy coves with the green and blue sea out there to my left, the faraway islands and mountains pale blue in the horizon. The salty sea air mixes with the pungent smells my feet stir up when they trample through the sage and the low rosemary bushes.

The morning is bright and sunny, the breeze from the sea is invigorating. I can tell the day will be hot. When I turn inland to get to their farmland, I'm already sweating. I take my chiton off and walk barefoot and naked through the groves of oaks and pale-stemmed plane trees, carrying my clothes in my hand, singing and making noise to scare off snakes. The landscape opens up, and here's the field of olive trees and grass where his sheep are kept. I see him from afar, he sits in the shadow under a chestnut tree, braiding a mat from thin twigs. I put my chiton back on before I approach him.

He is happy to see me. He touches my hand and smiles, his dainty face lighting up. He gets lonely out here, and I can see it would grate on you in the long run, stuck here all day, all week, but to me right now it all seems just serene and peaceful and very, very beautiful. As beautiful as he is, and I tell him. He blushes, but I can tell he doesn't at all mind my being so blunt. He teaches me how to braid a twig mat, I teach him how to set a rabbit trap. Then he tries to teach me how to call the sheep in. I can see them lift their heads and move their ears to his call, but when I try, they seem not to notice me at all. He tells me they have to learn my voice. He shares his lunch with me, cold lentils boiled with leeks and sweet cakes made from barley and honey.

I tell him why we live in the tower, why my father is grounded. It's a story he has heard fractions of already, but I tell him more. I tell him of the work my father used to do for the king, I tell him how the queen used her magic, or whatever it is she possesses, to urge him into helping her to satisfy her wild need to mate with the ferocious tauros that roamed the forests behind the palace. I tell him of the birth of the bull-man, the kings wrath, the building of the maze for the keep of the queens terrifying bastard son, the imprisonment of my father. I'm tempted to disclose to him that I know the secrets of the labyrinth, but something holds me back.

We lie side by side and look up into the green canopy of big chestnut leaves.

"We need rain", he muses, "or the sheep will starve. Look at the ground! And there aren't enough shrubs to feed them here either."

He sighs a little. His light, boyish voice rings with a note of despondency:

"Then I'll have to move the sheep further away, maybe all the way to the west coast, and I won't see you anymore."

I sit up and look down into his big eyes. I reach out and touch his cheek with the palm of my hand.

"Of course you will", I tell him. "I want to be with you. There's always a way."

And without thinking, I lean in and kiss his half open mouth. But he closes his lips, his hand pushes my face a handbreadth away and he stares into my eyes. For a long time.

Then abruptly he sits up.

"Do you really like me? Do you trust me?"

I tell him I like him a lot. Better than anyone I've ever met. He continues to look searchingly into my face. Then:

"Do you want to feel something good? Something really, really good?"

I have no idea what he means, but deep down in my stomach a tickle grows into a buzzing tremble. I nod, lips apart, there's a tightness in my chest that makes my breath feel heavy.

"Sit against the tree and lean back", he tells me. I do as he says.

He moves over until he sits astride my lap. Then his hips start a soft rolling movement, his arms entwined behind my neck. I gasp. I close my eyes. My dick lengthens and grows against him.

I feel his arms leave my neck, and then his hands are at my hips. He lifts himself and pushes my chiton up to my navel. My skin tingles, my brain feels like it wants to leave my scull. He spits in his hand, and suddenly my cock feels cold.

But only for a moment. Before I have time to think, my cock is enveloped in something warm and very tight sliding down on it. The tightness that almost hurt at first sort of melts, and I feel like my dick is enclosed in the worlds warmest, softest washcloth ever. I gasp again. I open my eyes, but he has his eyes closed now.

"What are you doing?" I whisper. "Oh, by all the gods, what are you doing?"

He moves on me, slowly. A little up, then down. And again. I've never felt anything like this. I have no words for it.

"Touch my cock", he breathes. "Feel it. Pet it. Please."

I take his slim, hairless dick between my fingers, the skin is like silk, the hardness underneath is springy and strong. I want to see him, I need to fill my eyes with what he's doing to me. I try to lift his tunic up. His hands take over and pull the garment over his head and throw it aside.

His body is so lovely, slim and slight, and so beautifully shaped. Each time he lifts his body up and down, I see my cock disappear into him behind his small, tight balls. My fingers find his dick again, pull back the skin, feel the length, start a rhythmic caress to match the movement of his hips. Harder. Faster.

"Look at me", I whisper.

He opens his eyes, they are clouded over. His breath comes out like little shocks, then a long shivering sigh, his body goes all stiff, and I feel him close around my cock in a viselike grip, and I explode into him while he bends over whimpering.

We fall over to the side, onto the dry grass, my dick slips out of him. And we just lie there, like we're lost in a wordless space, unable to move, unable to feel or think. A sadness I wasn't prepared for suddenly washes over me, I don't understand why. Maybe it's because deep in my mind I know nothing will ever be the same again, I have crossed a line that I didn't even know was there. I feel at once an almost overwhelming loneliness.

I reach out and take his hand in mine. I try hard to push back tears that threaten to spill out from behind my eyelids. He breaks into my solitude:

"Did you like it?"

His light voice bores into my heart and sweeps away my feeling of isolation. I breath in, I breath out.

"I didn't know it could be like this", I finally manage to say. "But how? I mean, how? I mean, how can you do this so easily?"

He rolls over on his belly. Then he reaches for his chiton, lifts himself up and puts it under him.

"You never did this before?" he asks, there's wonder in his voice. "They've all fucked me. My brothers, I mean."

He lifts his butt and adjusts his dick.

"But with you it was different. I really wanted to do it with you. And it felt a million times better. Maybe because they never play with my dick."

I lean on my elbow, my eyes feast on his back, his tapering waistline, his deliciously smooth buttocks. I wonder if this is what it's like to fall in love.

And I wonder what this small, but so disturbing feeling of fear has to do with it.

* * * * *

 

It's the start of the harvest month, it's the month of chestnuts and acorns, it's the month of my birthday. My father threw me out of the house this morning, told me to go out and pick blackberries, and maybe figs, if there are still some left that haven't been picked yet.

My Anatole has been gone for a week, herding the sheep to new pastures. His prophecy came true, there's been no rain for months, and he had to move the sheep to the west where his uncle lives and farms, and where the wind had brought a few showers in from the sea. I'm restless and fidgety because I miss him so much. I wish I could still believe in the gods, I really feel like praying for rain, so he can come back. But the gods never answered even one of my prayers, so I quit trusting them when I was about eight.

I don't believe it when they tell me the queen is the daughter of the sun god, either. It's just the old people who keep this silly notion alive, they're in awe of her, they revere her, they kiss her ass. Well, I might perhaps do the same if my father hadn't told me some of the stuff he knows about her. Yes, she's a powerful sorceress, and she's a strong and willful creature, but according to my father, there is nothing divine about her. Maybe she's the offspring of one of the lesser and more petty gods, that I could believe, but the mighty and beneficent sun god? No way.

The only figs I find are rotting on the ground. I pass a mulberry tree where I see some dark berries almost hidden in the foliage close to the trunk, and I climb up to get them. They're almost too ripe, the juice runs all over my hand when I grab the first one. I take my loincloth off and cover the bottom of my basket, then with as much care as I can, I pick them and put them gingerly on top of the cloth. It amuses me to think I'll probably have pink underwear for some time, the mulberry juice stains cloth with pale but persistent shades of red.

I'm just sauntering along, wondering if I should look for chestnuts ready for roasting, when I'm suddenly aware of the sound of flapping wings. Not moving upwards, though. I move silently to where the noise comes from, and there it is: A partridge caught in someone's snare. I put my basket down and sneak up. The bird is caught by its foot, it's struggling and scuffling to fight free. I throw myself at it, get hold of its neck and wring it, then I watch its flapping wings gradually go still. I look around, see if anyone has seen me; this is after all stealing, since it's not my trap. I loosen the noose and get the bird out, set the trap back as it should be, and hide the bird under the berries in my basket.

 

Back home I see why my father wanted me out of the tower. There are short boards of oak and pine in a small pile outside the entrance. I run up the stairs, carelessly slamming the basket against the wall in a thoughtless moment. Inside I see he has dismantled my old bed and is measuring and marking some of the new longer planks. He looks up when I enter.

"I thought I'd be done by now", he says, "but they were slow in bringing the wood over."

I tell him I don't mind, I can sleep on the floor. I show him the berries and the partridge, he frowns when he sees the bird.

"How did you catch that one?" he asks suspiciously. I tell him.

He doesn't look too happy. He looks mad, in fact.

"You shouldn't have done that. Are you sure no one saw you? If they caught you, they'd have you whipped. Don't ever tempt destiny like that again!"

I look at the table where his tools are laid out. There is something new I haven't seen before, a chisel and a knife made from a dark greyish metal, the sharp edges polished shiny, like silver. I pick the chisel up, look at him quizzically. He's diverted away from his scolding.

"Ah, yes", he says. "That's over from the mainland. They call it sidero. It's stronger and sharper than our bronze. I got this too."

He fetches a small object, a blade curved and shaped like half a cup.

"This is for shaving, the vendor told me, but I think it will be great for finishing wood as well. Never mind. Let's cook that damned bird for supper. I really had planned to have your bed ready. By midnight it'll your birthday, you know, and I thought it would make a nice gift. But I guess you'll have to wait another day."

* * *

 

We've eaten, we've drunk some wine, I can tell my father feels satisfied and mellow. But I want us to do something.

"Look!" I tell him and point to my upper lip. "I'll have a moustache soon."

 

"That's overstating it a bit", he laughs. "Four hairs?"

 

"I don't want them! Take me to the baths and shave me. You have that new knife and everything!"

 

"Well", he muses, "we could do with a bath. Get the brushes and the oil, I'll get the rest."

 

The guards are reluctant to let my father out, but it seems he has some sort of hold on one of them, and after some squabbling, we enter the steamy bathhouse. There are quite a few people in here. The pool is occupied by two fathers and five small boys, and there are several men sitting around on the benches with their buckets and their bowls of soap.

The slave brings us warm water and soap, my father asks for another bucket of warm water and a rag.

"Know what I'd like for my birthday?" I ask. Silly question. How can he know? "I want you to wash me like you did when I was little. You know, all over. Like for a last time before I'm grown.

He looks a bit uneasy. He's silent for quite a while.

"All right", he finally agrees. "You wash my back first, then."

When I'm done with him, he dips the rag in the warm water and puts it to my upper lip. Tells me to hold it there, it will soften the hairs for the shave. Then he soaps up my back and my legs.

"All of me", I beg. "Just for once." He knows what I mean.

His soapy fingers slide down my crack, I spread my legs. He rubs soap into my anus, the tips of his fingers probe the opening, but fleetingly. "Turn", he says, his voice sounds strange, like he has swallowed something. I turn to face him, still holding the rag to my face. He soaps up my throat, my chest, under my arms, down my belly, my thighs and my feet. Then he looks up at me, as if to ask me if I'll let him out of this now. "All of me" I whisper.

His slippery hands come up between my legs, he rubs my taint, my balls, my sparse pubic hairs, and then he takes my cock in one hand, pulls back my foreskin, and with his other hand cleans it. And I'm rock hard, my knees are about to buckle under me. I have to support myself with one hand on his shoulder. Then he's suddenly upright in front of me, he kisses my forehead. " Happy birthday", he almost giggles. I look down, and yes, his cock has lengthened considerably. I feel an odd kind of happiness from the sight. My whole inside feels like it's slowly smoldering.

"Ready for your first shave, then?"

He tears me out of my reverie. He remoistens the rag and rubs a little soap into it, then lathers up my lip. His hand comes up, holding the curved knife. Tenderly he scrapes my lip with short, light movements. He scoops warm water up with his hand and rinses my lip. A little bit of soap gets in my mouth, the taste is foul. But I'm not through with this yet.

"I want you to shave me down there, too", I beseech him. "Please!"

I can tell he's torn. Part of him wants out, part of him wants to see this through. Eventually he gives in. He works up lather in his hand, rubs it into my crotch.

"You have to hold it down", he says, "unless you want it off."

I try to hold my dick as far out of his way as possible, but it's so very hard, almost hurting, and it wants to stand straight up against my belly. I force myself to think of distracting things, like the winter winds, and old people, and the sound of wild boars eating acorns, and my dick finally goes down. The scraping stops, and warm water is splashed over my crotch. I look down. I'm as smooth as a baby boy down there. I'm like Anatole now. It pleases me.

 

* * *

 

I wake up. I'm cold on the floor, even with the sheep skin under my shoulders. The moon seeps in through the cracks in the shutters. I sit up and hug myself.

I totter over to my fathers bed. He's on his side facing the wall, I crawl in and snuggle close to his back. It's a warm and smooth back, not hairy like many other men's. I put my nose to his skin and inhale the scent of the oil we put on after our baths. I sneak my arm around him and let my fingers lightly touch his nipple. He grunts a little in his sleep, rolls over on his stomach, and I have to move my arm. I fall asleep with my hand resting on his buttocks.

 

* * *

 

I sit cross-legged on the paved ground. In front of me I have a rug spread out with a collection of my father's wooden toys on display: Miniature cranes, catapults and battering rams, and also birds and animals. They all have a mechanism in them that sets them in motion by either winding string or pulling them along. Kids love them. Adults too, when they're honest. The toys are not only ingenious, they are exquisitely beautiful as well. My father has the most gifted fingers in the whole world.

My eyes search the agora for Anatole's stall. I can't see him or any of his family anywhere. Maybe it's too early. Only it's not that early, in an hour the sun will be at the height when we all pack up and leave, the midday heat driving us into the shadows. So I guess Anatole is still on the west coast with his uncle. His absence stings my heart. I miss his voice, I miss his face, I miss his silky skin. I miss his tight hole with my cock in it. Oh, Anatole, come back to me!

I pull off my chiton and cover my head with it. But the heat is maddening now, I don't want to be here anymore. I get up, I load my merchandise into my small hand cart. I put my tunic back on, roll up the rug and sling it over my shoulder. Crossing the market square, I feel an increasing annoyance that the corner of the slave market is the only shadowy place here. Why do they always have the best space? It's not fair!

I see there are some Nubians on offer today. Tall and proud, not a hair on their shiny black skin. Hands and feet tied, and still there's defiance, almost insolence in their faces. They all have linen cloths wrapped around their hips, but their bulges are prominent. I see lust in the faces of the women from the upper classes as they slyly glance at the slaves. I wonder if there's truth in the reputation that they have such inhumanly monstrous cocks. Impossible to tell by the bulges, but I see there's food for fantasy here. I imagine being speared by one of them, and my virgin asshole tingles and tightens just thinking about it. The hurt it must cause! The damage! But how incredibly exciting! I shake my head back to reality and trot along homewards.

The guards block our door. They step aside to let me in, the nice one even helps me carry the toys inside. His free hand squeezes my buttocks as we ascend the stairs. "Delicious", he breathes into my ear. But I don't like him doing this, even though he's friendly and amiable. He's coarse and gross with his furry arms and thick fingers. I hurry on to get away. When I enter the first room, he tramples down again.

"What's with the guards?" I ask my father. "Why are they at the door?"

He smirks. "Just the usual stuff", he says as he puts the toys away.

"Why now? Is something happening?"

 

"There's a ship from Byblos on the way in. And as always, the king's terrified that I'll sneak out and hide in the hull or something, and escape with them when they leave."

I run up to the top of the tower, I throw open the shutters and lean out to watch the harbor. And I see it, still at a distance from shore: A majestic Phoenician ship, its red striped sail billowing, its curved stern, its sleek lines. It's beautiful to watch. A sudden desire takes hold of me, I want to be on a ship like that, to sail away to new horizons, to be free to discover the world outside this island. And for the first time in my life the confinement we're in, the limits on our movements, the lack of freedom, feels like a weight in my chest, a clamp at my throat. And I understand the full burden of my father's predicament.

I scamper down again, find him bent over my new and nearly finished bed, and I throw my arms around him.

"I love you!" I almost sob. I run out before he's able to react.

 

* * *

 

The Phoenicians have set up stalls on the wharf. I dawdle without purpose among the colors and the smells: Stacks of purple and scarlet cloth. Richly patterned, shiny material from far away. Colorful kilims and intricate rugs. Tubs of spices with their strong and fabulous aromas, mysterious dried fruits and unfamiliar nuts. Jars of scented oil or perfumed fat, fragrances of foreign lands and smells of adventure. Necklaces and bracelets of agate and sard beads, golden chains with inlaid amethysts. Figures carved from sandalwood with its intoxicating smell. I linger by this stall, I see a small carved deer that I burn to own.

The man behind the covered table is tall and dark, his angular and sharp face could have been carved from the same wood as his small sculptures. He is enormously attractive in his colorful garb, so unlike the garments we use here. He observes me, he can tell I lust for the little deer. He says something I don't understand. I ask how much for the deer, guessing he knows enough of our language to run a real business here. He signals 15 with his fingers, then points to his copper bracelet. 15 pieces of copper? No way, I have 6 bronze coins in my purse. I shake my head, but I can't stop looking at the deer. He smiles at me. And sucks his thumb slowly into his mouth and out again. His eyebrows ask the question. A cold shudder runs down my body. If I suck him off, the deer is mine. Mine.

And then Anatole seems to move into my brain, his sweet face, his taut little body. I let out an involuntary whimper. I run from the wharf, I run from temptation, I run from the danger inside me. I throw myself panting at the foot of the horned bronze god by the sacred hall.

I can't figure out what goes on inside me. Why would it be such a big deal to suck that man off? It would be just a cock in my mouth, nothing more, nothing less. But I've never done that before. So? There's a first for everything. And it would earn me the deer. But Anatole? It wouldn't be like doing it to Anatole. I want him to be my first. I want him to be my lover! I hide my face in my folded arms. Oh, help me gods, I think I really am in love with Anatole!

Later in my new bed, I cry myself to sleep. I cry because I do not understand myself anymore. I cry from loneliness. I cry from confusion. I cry because my childhood is leaving me.

 

* * *

 

Today is the Harvest Festival. The whole world seems to be out in the streets this evening, watching and cheering the parade. I heard them a long way off, and here they are: The dancers in front: near-naked youngsters handpicked for their beauty and grace, long colored ribbons wafting from their wrists. Then the drums and the cymbals, followed by the priests and the soothsayers in their flowing, gold and purple bordered gowns, carrying statues of the earth goddess with her hands holding snakes and her nipples painted scarlet. Then follow more of the akolouthos, with lambs and calves on leads. They are all young beardless men, their hair braided with golden ribbons, their naked chests painted with sacred symbols, the last four of them are pulling the bronze cart with its big, gilded sundial, filled with clusters of grapes and sheaves of barley and wheat.

Behind me is my father, his wrist chained to one of the guards, the other close behind. Some people stare at them, some spit to the ground as they pass, but my father is used to this now, he just laughs and wriggles the chain at them. Like it's all a joke.

My heart leaps as I spot Anatole with his father and brothers. I jump, I wave, I holler, but they don't see me, and soon they're lost in the throng. I leave my father and his captors, squeeze through the mass of people across the agora, to the far end where the vendors' stalls are. I don't see Anatole's stall. Maybe if I hang around here for I while, he will come by. I stop by the man who sells crispy, fried crickets. I give him one of my bronze coins, and in return he hands me a plane tree leaf full of the tasty snack.

There's a noise coming from behind the crowd that fills the street leading to the merchants' quarters. I hear shouting, angry voices, a brawl is obviously starting down there. I try to push my way through the masses, curious to see what this is about. Then a piercing scream. And through a small gap in the crowd Anatole comes running like a flash of lightning; he bumps straight into me, almost knocking me to the ground. His eyes look wild, his mouth is wide open. I hug him, his body is stiff with fright, he's panting and heaving. He sees that it's me there, and he clings to me like there's no tomorrow. Then he finds his voice.

"Take me away!" he screams.

I grab his hand, hold on to it with all my might as we push our way across the marketplace. We pass my father on the way, he holds up his free hand to stop me, but I shake my head and squeeze further, Anatole in tow. I'm going to take him home to the tower with me. Halfway there, the crowds are thinning, and I sit down on a stone marker by the road. I pull him close to me, in between my legs, mumbling soothing little sounds in his ear.

"What's happened?" I finally ask.

He just holds on to me, shudders, gasps. I can't get a word out of him. So we remain like this for a long time: me holding him, him clinging to my chest. Eventually we start moving in the direction of the tower.

 

We sit on my bed, I'm rocking Anatole in my arms when my father returns. Anatole still hasn't said a word. My father's face looks concerned and serious as he watches us. He seems to be about to speak, but then holds back. I look at him questionably. What does he know that I don't?

In the end he comes over, sits down and puts his hand on Anatole's knee.

"How are you doing?" he asks softly. Anatole sighs and rubs his cheek against my shoulder.

My father searches my face to see how much I know, my blank look tells him I'm totally in the dark.

"Anatole's father's been killed in a bust-up", he tells me. "He witnessed it all."

I hug him tighter, feel him shiver slightly.

"Anatole", my father says, still holding his knee. "Your brothers revenged your father. The man who killed him is now gone. It may not make you feel better right now, but I want you to know that justice has been served. And you can stay with us until you feel safe again."

He wraps his arms around both of us, and I feel, I know, that everything will be all right; my father is here for us, Anatole and me. To protect us and care for us. We just sit like this as night falls and shrouds us in darkness.

 

The stove is lit, as well as the oil lamps. My father is roasting chestnuts, the room is bathed in the golden glow from the lamps and the embers in the stove. We eat the chestnuts and some dried apricots we got from the Phoenicians. Anatole is still dazed and quiet, but he eats a little. My father gives us watered wine with honey. And now Anatole surprises me as he climbs into my father's lap and hides his face in the nook of his neck. And starts to cry.

My father holds him and sways slowly back and forth. He shushes and mumbles into Anatole's ear.

"It'll be all right. Everything is going to be all right."

Anatole clings to him and moves around until he sits astride him. I hold my breath. I recognize his move. And I am right, he starts a slow rolling motion, softly grinding his lower body into my father's crotch. I look at them, mesmerized. My brain seems to close off everything else but the sight in front of me: My beautiful Anatole and my handsome father. And I realize I want to watch this go further, I want to watch my father make love to my Anatole. My dick aches in anticipation of what is about to happen.

My father has stopped swaying, he sits very still with his arms around the boy in his lap. Anatole continues his rolling hip movement. I can't stay myself, I need to get closer to them, need to see everything. I remove my loincloth from under my chiton, hoping they don't see what I'm doing. My dick stands straight up. I shiver as I move in beside them.

I hear my father's breathing is getting strained. Heavy. Anatole lifts his head, bends his neck backwards, his mouth opens as his eyes close. And my father's hands shake a little as he pulls Anatole's chiton up over his head. Anatole tugs at my father's clothes, wants them off, out of the way. My father rises, Anatole wraps his legs around his waist and clings to him as he removes his perizoma, and his cock springs into view. I stare bewitched at it: Long and sleek, curving upward, the head halfway out of his taut foreskin, his balls are beginning to draw up against his groin. My mouth is so dry I can't swallow, my knees tremble.

My father sits down again, Anatole's tight little buttocks slide down and push against the hard cock, it looks huge against his small body. My father gasps as he rubs his cock up and down Anatole's crack, his hands caress the small buttocks, then his finger circles Anatole's little brown hole, feeling, probing, then pushing in. Anatole moans against his neck. I can't hold back anymore. I move in between my father's legs and take his cock in my hands. It's so hard, and so silky to my touch. His cockhead is oozing slick moisture, I remove his finger and steer his cock to Anatole's hole, I rub his juices into it. My father opens his eyes and looks straight at me, a flicker of embarrassment passes over his face, then he lets his inhibitions go. I hold his cock in my hand as Anatole pushes down, his hole opens and lets my father in. Slowly he lowers himself down, more and more of my father's cock disappears into him. My father holds his breath, then lets out a long moan. He's in all the way. Blood pounds in my ears. I have never seen anything so crushingly exciting, so devastatingly beautiful. The two people I love the most in my life, joined together. I can't help myself, I shoot my sperm like an archer shoots his arrows, without even touching myself once.

Anatole moves on my father, back and forth, lifts himself up, then slides down. The sight of my father's long cock going in and out is incredible and magnificent, my dick is still as stiff as it was before I came. I step closer, I rub my cock against Anatole's buttocks, then, when he's lifting himself up, I rub my cockhead against my father's now exposed cock. My whole being is centered in on this: My Anatole's beautiful ass and my father's mighty cock. Then Anatole's voice comes through:

"I want you both. Inside me."

I almost black out just from the thought. This is impossible, his small body can't accommodate both of us, even though my dick is thinner than my father's. But he asks again. I move even closer in, my balls meet my father's balls, I steer the tip of my cock to the opening where my father's cock seems to fill out all possible space. I slide my rock hard cock up along my father's cock, I have goosebumps all over, my whole body feels like it is going to explode when my father's hand closes around both our cocks and holds them together as Anatole pushes down. And again. And again. And now I feel us slip inside, it's such a tight squeeze, the warmth envelopes me, my mind goes blank. My father's hands grab my buttocks and hold on to them, and I feel his cock start to pulsate hard next to mine and I almost pass out as my orgasm hits me and I shoot, and I shoot, and I shoot everything I have into this unbelievably hot, moist and tight cave. I collapse with my forehead against my father's forehead, my mind is in the greatest turmoil ever, I can't fathom what just happened. I cry out: "Is this Elýsion?"

 

We slowly, slowly come down from our high. My father kisses Anatole's forehead, I kiss his lips. He seems calm now, content, maybe even happy. We lay down on my father's bed, Anatole in the middle, and drift off into sleep, holding each other, belonging together.

 

 

* * * * *

 

2

 

 

"Father! Come look! The ships are coming in!"

I'm sitting naked in the upper embrasure, latticed shutters open, my feet dangling on the outside. I'm getting a bit too tall for this now, but it's still the place with the best view. My father calls out for me to get the hell down from there. Like always. This time I humor him. I hastily pull on my chiton, but leave my loincloth, and run down the stairs.

He sits at his work table, his skilled fingers busy modelling grey clay into yet another small set of figures. He's been doing these little sculptures for a month now, and they're all the same: A man and a boy. In various positions of lovemaking. We never talk about it, but I know he's still in love with Anatole, even though the boy's been gone for almost half a year now.

Strange. Strange that he should fall so hard for him. His love grew in proportion to my falling out of love. I sort of went off Anatole, probably because he seemed to prefer my father to me, and my jealousy quenched my first love. The situation also threatened to disrupt the closeness and the trust my father and I shared, but once I got over my initial jealousy I realized that Anatole didn't love any of us, he just wanted to be fucked. And my envious grudge vanished. But my poor father, he took it so hard when Anatole moved on to fresher pastures. Well, actually he moved on to the combination of a more well filled purse and a bigger cock. Hah. The little gold-digger!

I hug my father from behind, lay my head against the back of his neck, just to show him I care.

"I'm going down to the harbor to watch", I tell him.

He lifts his head, his eyes are distant and sad. His index finger, muddied with clay, smudges my cheek. I wipe it off with the back of my hand.

"Have fun, then," he mumbles, then gets back to his work.

 

The guards are not on our steps, which they usually are when ships come in. I wonder why. I'm sure the king will punish them if he finds out.

I hear muffled noises from within the guards' shelter. I get curious, I walk stealthily closer. The wooden door is pushed almost close, but there is a narrow crack, enough that I can peep in. I sense I have to be careful not to be discovered.

Two guards are in there, two I haven't seen before. They're both naked, and from what I can see, they look younger than the ones we usually have guarding us, but the room is quite dark. Their bodies are close together side by side, they both puff and snort, and I see the beautiful buttocks of one of them move slowly forward, and I hear a small voice give a moan. I can't see who's there with them, but the sounds they make sends a tingle to my groin. I want to see more, but how? I put my face as close to the opening as I can, and my fingers find my stiffening dick.

Now one of them moves forward, and turns. And I see what they're doing. They have a girl in there, a very young and skinny girl. I see the moving guard slap his cock across the girls face, see him rub it against her lips, but she turns her face away. His cock isn't the biggest I've seen, far from it, but his body is so perfectly shaped. Long, taut muscles, I can even make out every ridge and ripple in the semi-darkness. He doesn't force the girl to suck him, he seems quite content just to rub her face with it. The other guard moves his hips faster, I only see him from behind, and the girl whimpers. I forget myself, I lean in on the door. The door gives, and I fall into the room.

The guards both jerk their heads up, their muscles tense as they lift their arms in defense. The one with his cock in the girls face snatches me up before I can scramble to my feet, my body shivers like a leaf in his iron grip. And then he laughs, a harsh and guttural laugh.

"What have we here? A peeping Tom? Come to join us, have you?"

My voice has gone, my mouth feels like parchment, I try to swallow, but can't. The guard pushes me forward, close to the girl on the table with the other guard, and what I see sends goosebumps down my spine.

The girl fingers and tickles her small breasts, her eyes are wide open, her skinny legs are spread out wide. The guard is pushing his cock into her hairless pussy, it looks terrifyingly big there, I can see the rim of her hole pulled in and out with his cock. I can also see she is not as young as I first thought, probably my age, she's adapted the Phoenician custom for women to shave their pubes. I guess she's from one of the pleasure houses down town. Strange, but that turns me somewhat off.

"I'm sorry", I whisper. "I didn't mean to. Please let me go."

I tear myself loose. The guards laugh, but are too into what they're doing to bother with me. I scramble out the door and run down towards the harbor.

 

* * *

 

I elbow my way through the throng. I want to get close to the wharf before they disembark, I want to see up close who's been sent from Athens this time. I can't get past the soldiers, though. They're like an impenetrable wall in front of me, shoulder to naked shoulder, bare thighs and calves spread. Several boys my age or younger crouch behind them, trying to get a view of the pier from between their legs. I sneak up behind one who hasn't already got a spectator occupying the space between his feet. I squat and stick my head forward, almost touching his legs just above his knees. He senses I'm there. He opens his legs slightly, as if to welcome me in between them. When I crane my neck through, he starts to rub his thighs almost unnoticeably against my ears. Very tentatively I put my hands to his knees, as if to steady myself. He doesn't seem to mind. I get braver, my hands move softly just a little up his muscled legs. His skin is so smooth and sleek under my fingers. The hem of his tunic tickles my neck. He mumbles something to his neighbor, they both snigger.

"Go on, boy," he says, and lowers his shield so my left hand is hidden behind it.

I couldn't wish for a clearer signal. My hand creeps up the inside of his thigh, I feel his muscles swell under my touch. I reach his perizoma and I hesitate. He moves his pelvis slightly, like an invitation, and I feel my way across the fabric to his hidden balls. I close my hand around them, they feel big and heavy. He pushes ever so faintly backwards into my grip. I want inside his loincloth. I slip my fingers in past the folds and feel the silky skin of his sack. And as the gangway is laid out and the people begin to leave the ship, I caress his balls and listen to his soft murmur.

Here they come, the Athenians. Same number as always, seven young girls and seven young men. The last of them is a stunning creature, taller than the others, with muscles to rival the soldiers, wavy locks of jet black hair that dance around one of the most beautiful faces I've ever seen. I hold my breath and fumble my way past the balls I've been playing with and grab the root of the soldier's fat, half hard cock. His body gives a small jerk and his cock grows in my hand.

Much too soon the passengers from the ship have filed past, the soldiers get ready to follow. I withdraw my hand, my own cock is raging hard behind my chiton. The soldier turns his head and winks at me before he leaves. I am beside myself from horniness, I need to get away and take care of my cock. I stumble across the quay to the other side of the wharf, hide behind the half-built ship that sits in the shipbuilders' yard, pull my cock out and three strokes is enough to send my juice flying.

 

* * *

 

The guards are blocking the door when I come home, but it's a late shift now, so they're not the ones I spied upon earlier. I try to push past them, but they grab me. Hard, not nice at all.

"You can't go in. Your father has company."

I ask who, but they won't tell. I tear loose from the one holding me and try to slip under his arm, but he is too fast. I am lifted off the step and thrown to the ground.

The fall hurts. I mean, really hurts. I clutch my knee, it's bruised and grazed from the gravel in front of the steps. I groan and I swear, but I'll be damned if I cry, even though it stings like hades. I scoot away from them, limping and holding my knee. Into the thickets, hidden from them. And I swear I'll find a way to see whoever comes out of the tower, who it is my father is so secretly consorting with.

Flat on my stomach and hidden behind the bushes, I wait. And I'm rewarded: A figure, cloaked and hooded, passes the soldiers on guard at the entrance, hurries along the paved path that is a shortcut to the palace. The figure glides past me, but a golden mask hides the persons features. I can make out it's a woman, though. And a fairly young one at that. I need to decide whether to follow or go home.

Curiosity is one of my vices, so the decision is easy. The masked woman walks fast, I have to be careful not to be heard as I crawl through the undergrowth with my bad knee, trying to keep up with her. Why doesn't she take the main road? This path only takes you to the dungeons at the back of the palace. Is that where she's heading?

It sure is. Almost there, she removes her mask, and even with her hood halfway covering her face, I get a small shock from recognizing her: She's the king's daughter!

She sneaks her way to the back of the building where there's hole in the wall close to the ground, barred with thick bronze rods. She kneels in front of the opening. She makes soft, birdlike sounds. I move as close as I dare.

A face comes into view behind the bars, they whisper together, she swiftly hands something to the person in there through the grating, and then quickly gets up and hurries off. The face remains.

I creep forward, I want to see who is in there. There isn't much light that finds its way to the barred hole, but it's enough: I see the handsome face of the prisoner I saw coming off the boat, the tall one, the gorgeous one. What on earth is his business with the king's daughter? Is some sort of plot about to unfold?

My preoccupation betrays me, I forget to be careful. The face turns straight in my direction. I am about to bolt, but he surprises me by calling softly.

"Boy! Come here!"

I crawl tentatively forward. Should I? What does he want with me?

"Closer!" he hisses. "I want to talk to you!"

There is something about him that get's to me. Like I have to do what he says. Like I want to do anything he tells me, that's the power he seems to have. Also, the closer I get, the more I'm captivated by his beauty.

"Little spy", he smiles. "How much of that did you pick up?"

 

"Nothing." And I'm being honest. "Except that she's the king's daughter."

 

"And why were you spying on her?"

His eyes are such a light color, they seem luminescent. I'm hooked. I'm ... I'm ... I'm almost in love.

"I followed her from my father's. She was secretly visiting him, so I got curious. What's going on?"

I know you shouldn't ask questions like that, you never get the right answers. I should have waited until he trusted me. Then maybe. But as always, my nosiness gets the better of me. He moves even closer, his nose between the bars.

"Closer", he whispers. "Lend me your ear."

I comply. Of course I do. My ear to his lips.

"She wants to marry me." His whispering voice sounds amused. "So she wants to help me."

 

"I could help you!" The words fall from my lips before I have time to think. I instantly regret them.

He withdraws his face. I dive into those golden eyes and feel like drowning. He still looks amused.

" You don't say! And why would you do that?"

Suddenly it's important to be taken seriously. Because I know I can help him. And he's so, so very handsome.

"Because you're too beautiful to die", I blurt out.

His slow smile lights a fire deep within me. I bite my lip, I clench my fist.

"You're not so bad yourself. You're prettier than her, that's a fact."

Which isn't saying much, to be honest, but I lap it up. I blush and my skin tingles. My pulse is suddenly very loud in my ears.

"Just hypothetically, as a thought experiment, exactly how do you think you could help me?"

I turn my head, make sure no one is listening.

"I know the labyrinth. I know it's secrets", I whisper.

His eyes light up even more. He's made the connection.

"Ah!" he breaths. "Your father! Yes, I know about him. What's your name, boy?"

I tell him. He tells me his. I want to touch him, feel his skin. And I want him to know that's what I want. The gap between the bars is slightly wider on the right side of the hatch. I get my hand through, and my arm almost all the way up to my elbow.

He moves. My hand touches his jaw, then the side of his neck, I feel strong muscles move under his warm, slick skin. He grabs my wrist and leads my hand under his chiton, I feel his firm pectorals, I feel his nipple. My mouth goes dry, my hand trembles. I try to get more of my arm inside, I want to go lower, but my arm won't go further in. I have to be content with feeling his chest. I play with his nipple. It stands out hard like a tiny dick. He sighs.

"Maybe you should have been my ally." He sighs again. But now his grip fastens, and he removes my hand. His face is suddenly grave.

 

"I'm not going in there to die", he says. "Quite the opposite."

 

"But even so, how will you get out again? No one has made it so far!" I almost whine.

 

"She gave me a ball of string to lay out. To find my way back. Advice from your father."

I think this over. There's still a problem.

"There's the gate, you know. Did she tell you how to open it from the inside?"

He looks, if not crestfallen, a bit despondent. He shakes his head. Suddenly there's a commotion inside the dungeons, he turns his head as I hastily withdraw my arm. I have to leave now.

"Don't worry", I tell him breathlessly, "I'll be there!"

 

* * *

 

There's a whole roast goose on our table for our deipnon. It must have come from his high class visitor, but I don't ask. I can tell from his face he wonders why I haven't shown my usual curiosity, but having a secret of my own makes me feel almost powerful. In the end he's the one who becomes a little inquisitive.

"This is not like you," he says. "You haven't asked a single question. And if I know you right, you're dying to know who was here, and why, and where the goose comes from."

 

"If it's a secret, you won't answer my questions no matter how much I whine. If it's not a secret, you will tell me eventually."

He regards me with an approving smile.

"Good. You're learning."

We clear the table, wash the dishes. My father is silent, preoccupied, distrait to the point of forgetful. He leaves the leftovers from the goose on the windowsill, he puts the stopper for the amphora of wine with the waste. I rescue the stopper, I cover the meat with salt in a dish with a lid and take it down to the storeroom at the bottom of the tower, the coolest place.

When I come up again, he's sitting on his bed, slowly scratching his short beard.

"Come sit with me."

I saunter over to him and sit down with him.

"What happened to your knee?" he asks, having finally noticed the scratches and my slight limp.

 

"Guard threw me off the stairs and I fell. It doesn't hurt that much anymore."

He examines the wound. Gets up, rummages through the chest by his bed and comes up with a small jar, then fetches a piece of cloth and the wine.

"It should have been cleaned right away", he scolds.

He moistens the cloth with wine and carefully starts to rub the dirt from my grazed skin. It stings a lot, I grit my teeth. At last he decides it's clean enough and rubs ointment from the jar into the scratches. The pungent smell of mint and resin tease my nostrils, and the stinging pain goes away.

He leans back against the wall, pulls me in beside him, an arm around my shoulder. I snuggle closer, rest my head against his chest.

"I know who was here", I tell him. "And I know why. At least some of it."

He grabs my chin and tilts my face up. Looks at me with great concern.

"That, my son, is very dangerous knowledge. Promise me you will not disclose any of this knowledge to anyone. No one must know I have anything to do with this. That could lead to very bad things."

I wriggle my chin out of his grip. Put my head back on his chest.

"I won't say a word. But you can't stop me wondering what's really going on."

 

"You'll find out", he says. "There will be a great change soon, and everyone will know."

He suddenly smiles and ruffles my hair.

"You think your father is a smart guy, don't you? I always thought so myself too. Only I'm not so sure anymore." He lets out a scornful chortle. "But then, I'll do fucking anything to spite the king!"

 

* * *

 

It's a cloudy and sombre morning, the heat and the humidity feels oppressive. A downpour is imminent, any minute now. I crouch in the thicket, hiding and waiting for the soldiers to leave. I hope the rain will come, maybe that will speed them up.

I feel the first drops, then the skies open. Heavy rain that roars like drumrolls on the paved road. The soldiers curse, the lokhagos shouts orders, and then they hurry off. I stay sheltered under the chestnut tree, waiting for the worst to pass. I need to stand up, my knee hurts from bending. Finally the rain subsides into a mere drizzle, and I scoot over and open the massive gate. I'm in. I close the gate as quietly as I can.

I prick up my ears, alert to any sound. Try to figure out where everyone is. He can't have got all of them yet, it's not more than half-an-hour since they were chased inside. The reddish dirt ground is wet and with puddles scattered all over, I see tracks and footprints in all directions. And suddenly I see it: The red string, laid out close to the stone wall.

I follow the string. Some places it's almost hidden between the roots of the vines and the ivy that cover the walls. I move cautiously, attentive to any disturbance and sound. And suddenly there's a piercing cry and a growl and a thud, but it comes from the far end of the maze. At least now I know where the bull-man is.

I tiptoe along the string. My ears pick up a gasp. It sounds like it comes from where I know there's a recess in the wall, almost hidden behind the hanging vines, just beyond where the passage splits in three. I sneak closer. I part the vines, and I see them. A girl and a boy.

She is leaning against the wall, eyes closed, legs spread. He is squatting in front of her, his face buried between her legs. Again she gasps, she seems oblivious to the danger they're in. Her eyes open, and she sees me. I hold my finger to my lips, and I take one tentative step closer. She beckons me with a small backwards nod. I move in.

The boy senses my presence, he turns his head. I signal for him to hush. He gets up, and with a question in his eyes makes room for me. His chiton is tied up around his waist, and his slim cock sticks straight out in front of him. I whisper as close to his ear as I can get:

"I just want to watch. Please?"

He smiles. The girl takes his cock in her hand, jerks it slowly as he starts to finger her pussy. I find my own hard dick, pull it out and caress it softly. He wets his fingers in his mouth, and first one, then two of them disappear into her. She squirms, and his other hand covers her mouth. Her hips gyrate against his hand. She guides his cock down to her pussy, he pulls out his fingers, grips his cock and rubs the head against her slit. She puts her open palms against the wall and pushes her pelvis forward. He bends his knees, aims his cock at her hole and slowly pushes it in, one inch, two inches.

I'm mesmerized. Without thinking, I reach out and touch them, feel the way his cock slides into her, feel the softness of her pussy and the hardness of his cock. I stop jerking myself, I don't want to come yet.

And then a crash, a loud howl. Several thuds. And closer this time. We stiffen, all three of us. The magic is broken, panic takes over. I whisper to them urgently.

"Stay here in the corner! I'll cover up the entrance!"

I leave them, pull as much of the hanging vines as I can across the opening, and I manage to hide them. He won't find them unless he hears them or knows exactly where they are.

I steal on through the passages of rough-hewn stone and greenery. I follow the string in the direction I believe leads to the center of the maze, although I'm now in an area I've never been before. I'm not afraid I'll be lost, I know the principles of this structure, but there are so many traps, so many places where he may come unexpectedly upon me.

There's an odor that's getting stronger, an extremely unpleasant one at that, one that makes my gut wring and I almost retch. I pull up the lower part of my chiton and cover my nose and my mouth with it. But I can't stray from the course. The string is leading me on, and I know I must find the man I've promised to help.

The passage gets darker. There's a roof of dense vegetation over the narrow aisle, I can't see the red string anymore. Suddenly my foot hits something, I stumble and almost fall over the bodies of two girls slung across and blocking the passage.

Has he heard me? I stay as still as I can, listening intently. My heart pounds in my chest, the rush of blood almost deafens me. I climb over the bodies, they are still warm. The bull-man must be somewhere close. Panic hits me. Numbs me. I can't think clearly, I must get away! I break into a run.

I've lost direction. My only thought is to get away, away from the stench, away from the darkness, away from this terrible danger that I fear is so close at hand. I sprint haphazardly through the darkness, and finally I see a square of light in front of me. I aim for it. I'm almost there. Run! Run!

A sudden noise behind me. I scream in fear as my feet leave the ground and I'm lifted up in the air and a growling howl reverberates in my ears. This is it, I think. I'm going to die!

But I'm not thrown to the ground or against the wall. The terrifying howl dissolves into hoarse chokes, and I follow the bull-man down as he sinks to the ground and I lay on top of him, his coarse hands still clasping my waist. I shake like a leaf, I whimper and I sob, and then a face looks into mine, a pair of golden eyes that bore into mine and take what little breath is left in me away.

When I come to my senses I see I've peed all over the bull-man and myself. Embarrassment almost drowns me. Why did he have to see me like this, this devastatingly handsome and now surely unreachable man? I hide my face in my hands.

And then I'm softly and caressingly touched by warm hands and a deep, melodious voice:

"I quote you: You are too beautiful to die"

He pulls my hands away from my face. Lifts me off the huge corpse by my wrists, and puts his arms around me. I cling to him and sob the rest of my fear out against his naked shoulder.

"Come, come, now. It's over", he murmurs in my ear.

His hands stroke my back, lower and lower, now they're lifting up my tunic and now they're fondling my buttocks. I'm torn between a longing beyond all thought and the harsh reality of my predicament.

"Don't!" I gulp. "I've pissed myself!"

He looks me over. Then those spellbinding eyes find mine again.

" It's nothing, really. Most of it's on the carcass of that creature." He indicates the bull-man with a gesture. "The small stain on your chiton ... Well, let's remove it."

I'm lost for words. His face comes closer, his lips touch mine. I can't believe this is happening, I tremble like a butterfly as he lifts my chiton over my head. His hands roam all over my body, his tongue forces its way past my lips and I open my mouth to his ravaging kiss.

He turns me around, now his tongue moves down my back, over my ass, into the crack and before I can think a single sensible thought, the tip of his tongue finds my hole, teases it, pushes at it. I'm in shock, I am dumbfounded, I never thought this was a possibility. And by all the gods, I never, ever could have imagined how incredibly aroused I become from this, how indescribably good it feels. My legs give way, I fall down on my hands and knees and I almost lose my mind from the way he mauls my hole with his tongue.

He kisses his way up again, all the way to my neck, and I feel his naked body cover my back, his long, hard cock between my ass cheeks. His lips graze my ear, his voice is husky.

"I want to put my cock in you."

I've never been hornier. I want this too, more than anything, I want to know what it feels like to have him fill me and make love to me. But it's scary, too.

"I've never done it before", I confess, "but I so want my first time to be with you!"

He nibbles at my earlobe. "I'll be as gentle as I can."

I trust him. I trust him with my life, he's my hero, my savior. He spits in his hand, and wets my hole. One finger rotates and teases, and pushes. Caresses, tickles and pushes again, and as I sense I need to relax, he slips the tip of his finger in past my clenched muscle. Holds it still and lets me get used to the feeling. I sigh deeply, the feeling is strange and little uncomfortable, but I want this. I want him. His finger moves, turns and pushes, and I start to really like the feeling. He pulls it almost out, then I feel him try to add one more finger. I do my best to open up, I want all he can put in me now, and his two fingers slide into me. And oh my, what is this? Suddenly he hits a spot in there that feels sensational and terrible at the same time, my cock hardens more than ever and I yelp.

He pulls his fingers out, turns me around and lifts me up. I wrap my legs around his midriff and my arms around his neck. I feel like I swim into his brilliant eyes.

"You're such a beautiful boy", he says softly. "I have to have you now."

Oh, but he's the beautiful one. His face, his body, his skin. One thing is missing in my mind, though.

"I want to see your cock", I whisper. "Please?"

He kisses me and lets me down. Stands in front of me, legs spread, hands at hips. I take in the sight of him, from his beautifully chiseled chest and abdomen to his powerful legs, and my eyes feast on his cock. Not dangerously thick, but very, very long. I measure it along my arm, it reaches from my wrist and almost to my elbow. I grip it with two hands, a fourth of it is still visible. My knees shake, my whole body trembles.

"Put it in me!" I wheeze, all out of breath.

He lifts me up again, and with my legs and arms embracing him, he holds my hips and lowers me down on his pole. He is past being gentle now, he pushes in regardless of my resistance, and the pain cuts like knives. I cry out. He holds me tight and stays still in me. Little by little the pain subsides as he moves slowly in and out, and here it comes again, that wonderful, almost unbearable feeling when his cock rubs against that certain point inside me. I forget the pain, this is heaven, this is what I was made for. I call out his name, and my whole body convulses as I shoot between us, my sperm hits his chin and then my nose and I feel my ass tighten around the gorgeous cock that throbs and pulsates in me as he pants and moans and holds me in an iron grip.

He sinks to his knees, me in his lap. He looks deep into my eyes, strokes my hair a couple of times.

"We must get out of here."

He's all business now, finds the string he's laid out and hurries along it, me at his heels. At the gate he stops. Holds my face between his hands and speaks hastily.

"God, I want to take you with me, but I can't. I have to honor my promise, I'm running away with her tonight, it's all been arranged. Please don't forget me, I'll come back for you! Now please, you know how to open the gate, don't you?"

He kisses me hard. I find the secret mechanism and the bronze door swings open. He runs out, doesn't wait for me. A little further down the lane he stops, turns around and stares at me, then he disappears.

I leave the gate open. In a daze I walk homewards through the woods. I can't believe all that's happened, can't believe the monster is slain, can't believe I've been so gloriously fucked for the first time in my life. Is this the change my father spoke about? The killing of the bull-man, I mean? Because there's no way he could have foreseen what had just happened to me.

 

 

* * * * *

 

3

 

 

The soldiers watch as the masons close the opening where the gate used to be. So now, instead of the massive bronze door, there will be an impenetrable stone wall. My father and I watch from the inside, see how the wall grows, bit by bit hiding the view of the outside.

So this is our new home. Our punishment for crossing the king. Our prison.

I have no idea how we're going to survive this.

 

* * *

 

Our third day of confinement: My father is still seething with rage. He walks restlessly about, fists clenched, eyes flashing, murmuring black curses. I stay out of his space, I don't want to make things worse by pestering him. But I miss our former closeness so much, I long for his touch and his caring voice. I hide in the green recesses, and I hate to admit it, but I cry a lot when I'm alone.

The few of my father's friends who have remained faithful have manage to smuggle a few items of comfort and some extra food in to us. It's difficult work, the walls are the height of two men, but we have a few sheep skins now, and some blankets. It gets chilly at night, before we had the blankets we had to stay awake and move around to keep warm all through the night.

There's a spring of water in the center of the maze, and close by there's a hive of wild honey bees. Yesterday my father lit a fire under the hive, and covered it with leaves and green twigs. The smoke drove the bees into lethargy, and we stole some of their honey. Some small pleasure to smooth our hardship.

Our undeserved hardship, I should add. Curse the king! Of course he found out my father had been instrumental in the killing of the bull-man and the disappearance of his daughter, but hey, he hated his wife's bastard and bestial son, so what's his problem? He should be glad that thorn in his eye was gone! It's not like he's lost honor or prestige by this. But he's a stubborn bastard, and a vindictive one, and anyone who goes behind his back has to pay dearly.

 

I find a couple of blackbirds caught in the net my father's friends managed to throw in to us. It's not much, but the little bread we get hoisted in by the guards in the morning is not enough to keep our hunger away. I wring their necks and pick them loose and go looking for my father.

I find him sitting in the recess where we keep our skins and blankets, his head between his knees and his hands clasping his ankles. I come up to him, he lifts his face and I see he's been crying.

"I'm so sorry about this", he mutters. "How you must hate me."

I crawl in and sit beside him. Touch his cheek.

"Don't say things like that. I love you. You know that."

He sniffles and snorts.

"You have your whole life in front of you, and I've put you here! I don't deserve your love. I've ruined all your chances."

He gets up abruptly, determination and willpower suddenly chasing his despondency away. He threatens the sky with his fist.

"I'll get us out of here!" he shouts at no one. " Do you hear me? I'll find a way!"

And he's off.

I pluck the feathers and skin the birds. Skewer them on a stick and light a fire with sparks from hitting stones together. It takes time, but I'm getting better at it. Soon I have the right embers to roast the birds.

My father comes back, restless and aggrieved as he has been since we were put here. I hand him one of the birds, he just shakes his head and tells me to eat both of them. He sits down and stares at the waste I left from cleaning the birds. Suddenly he's up like an explosion, grabs me and hugs me to his chest, kisses my cheeks.

"Of course!" he exclaims. "Of course! Oh, my wonderful boy!"

 

* * *

 

It's been two weeks now. The isolation, the hopelessness has got to me in a bad way. And the hunger. My father hides from me most of the time, and I'm just too depressed, to sick in my soul to go look for him. I see him at night when he comes back to the place where we lay out our skins and our blankets, but he seems so distant and preoccupied, and our words are few and far between now.

I'm through with crying. I guess there are no more tears left in me, all I find inside me is this hollow darkness, this nothingness that's slowly eating my energy, my soul. My father is now the one who brings the captured birds to our meals, and I mechanically prepare them and cook them, but there's no life in what I'm doing.

Here he comes now, bringing of all things a duck, already plucked. I try to muster some enthusiasm, at least we won't go hungry to bed tonight. He looks searchingly into my eyes, concerned, worried.

"I know this is hard on you", he says. " I shouldn't leave you so much to yourself. But there was something I had to do, something I had to find out."

I avoid his eyes. "I'm fine", I mumble. Even though he can clearly see that's not the case.

"Your not fine", he says. He lifts my chin, won't allow me to look away.

It's like he's piercing me. It's like I'm being torn into little pieces. And I guess I was wrong about there being no more tears left, because suddenly they pour from my eyes. I throw myself down on the ground, my body is shaking, I feel like I'm losing my mind. My torn and dirty chiton feels like rough sand, it's hurting my skin. I pull at it, try to remove it, and it turns into shreds in my hands.

My father simply picks me up off the ground, carries me in his arms, through the green aisles, past mossy stone walls and vines, around the spring where water trickles, into a square space where two Kermes oaks grow against the wall.

"Look", he says, still holding me.

There, in the corner, something that looks like a heap of black and brown feathers. My dulled senses find no point in this, see no joy or beauty in this bunch of trash.

"Why?"

 

"Because this is our way out", he states.

Some place in my dark mind there's a flicker of light. What can he mean? A way out?

"We'll try them on tomorrow", he says. "These are the wings that will get us out of here!"

I'm dumbfounded. Wings? Is it possible? To turn ourselves into birds and fly out? I stare at him, gaping, incredulous.

His laughter rings in my ears.

"Yes, my dear Icky! Yes, my lovely boy! We're going to fly!"

 

* * *

I can't sleep. I'm too disturbed, too tense. All I can think of are those wings. The promise of freedom. But it also seems so impossible. And dangerous. And what if it doesn't work, what's left for us then?

My father turns around with a heavy sigh. "Will you please stop squirming and try to sleep?"

"I can't! I'm too excited. And frightened as well."

He lifts his blanket. "Come over here. I'll hold you and calm you, like I did when you were little. Ok?"

I crawl over to him. When I was smaller, I fit so nicely in his arms, close to his chest with my face buried in the crook of his neck. It takes some adjustment now, but I want that old, safe feeling. I wiggle and worm myself as close to him as I can, find that nice place for my nose just under his jaw. He lies very still. So do I now. For a long time. But there is something, something ... My heart pounds. I have to say it.

"Father?"

He breathes deeply in and out. "Yes?"

"You're hard!"

Again his breath is all I hear. Rhythmic, deep and calm,

"So are you", he finally says.

I hesitate, but something urges me on.

"Should we do something about it?" There, I said it.

Silence. No movement, just his arms around me, his body close, close to mine. I feel all of him. Then after a long time:

"Is that what you want?"

 

"I don't know ... no, because I want to stay like this, just like this. Only ... yes, because I don't think I can sleep when I'm this ... excited."

He doesn't speak again. His hand slides in between us and wraps itself around both our cocks. Holds them firmly together. My heart races, pumps blood hard through my veins. I tighten my arms around him. His hand starts to move, slowly and softly at first, we breathe in time with each other, both a little faster, a little more unsteady. His grip tightens as he speeds up, his breath is heavy now, almost panting. I'm sure so is mine, but I'm so into listening to him, feeling him, being one with him, I hardly notice myself. He draws his breath sharply in between his teeth, then holds it, and I feel the contractions start in the cock next to mine, and as he shakily exhales, we both spew our seed up between us in a perfect duet of twitches and jerks. We stay glued together without moving or changing positions, we sink down in the afterglow.

"Thank you", I whisper against his neck.

He tightens his embrace a couple of times before his hold relaxes a little.

"I love you, you know", he murmurs in my hair.

 

* * *

 

"Stand still, will you?"

 

"Sorry. But they're itchy!"

The stiff ends of the feathers prick my skin when I move. My father has torn his chiton into strips, and use these to fasten the wings to my arms and shoulders, the ends cross in front of my chest. The wings are huge, the bee's wax he's used make them smell so nicely of honey, and my heart jumps a little when I see he's used the red string to weave the feathers together. But they feel very cumbersome, I'm not sure I'll be able to make them work. My apprehension grows.

"Now raise your arms and spread them out", my father commands.

I try. They're not heavy, just large, but they make me feel clumsy and very nervous. I let my arms down again and watch my father fasten his wings.

"Help me tie the ends." He turns his back on me. I pull the strips of fabric together across his back. "Tighter!" And now we're ready.

We climb the Kermes trees that grow against the wall. It's not easy with those big flappy things attached to you, but finally were on top of the wall. It's windy up here, a sudden gust tugs at my wings and almost tips me over. I'm more frightened than ever. My father tries to sooth me.

"You'll be fine!" he shouts. "Now face the wind and spread your arms out. Let the wind take hold of you and flap your arms like a bird and just let the wind lift you!"

My knees shake. Blood throbs in my ears. I look desperately at my father, he is so beautiful where he stands, naked and confident, a big reassuring smile spread over his face. I turn against the wind. I lift my arms. My heart pounds in my chest as I feel the power of the wind take hold of me. I leap into the air. My father's voice follows me:

"I love you!"

The wind sways and tips me, I cry out in fear. But suddenly it's like I have an instinct for this. Without thinking, my movements adjust and stabilize me, and I float in the air. My fear turns into exhilaration, this is the most fantastic feeling I've ever had! I look down and see my father take off from the top of the wall. I let out a whoop as ecstasy and joy surges through my body,

The sun breaks through the clouds. The wind lifts me. I soar upwards.

Upwards.

I'm free.

 

 

My other stories:

"My Blood Sings in Bendik" https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/incest/my-blood-sings-in-bendik/

"The Sound of his Footsteps" https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/the-sound-of-his-footsteps/