Date: Thu, 7 Feb 2019 21:05:31 +0200
From: Zaggy Norse <zaggynorse@gmail.com>
Subject: The Quest

"Can you lift your leg a little higher, misthios?"

Alexios adjusted his foot on the tree stump, raising his upper
leg. "Better?"

"Yes, thank you." The artist frowned, eyes flicking between the posing
mercenary and the wooden board before him, before diving inwards with a
charcoal stick to make a few strokes. Alexios watched him, seeing the slow,
meticulous movement of his hand. So very slow.

"Remind me: how long did you say this would take, Antisthenes?" the
mercenary asked. The painter -- his tongue partway out of his mouth as he
concentrated -- mumbled something inaudible. "You need to speak up,
friend," Alexios said, his heart falling a little. Antisthenes looked back
up at him in surprise, as if he'd already forgotten he was there.

"Oh! I'm sure we'll be done before the end of the day." His eyes were
dropping again even as he spoke, and his words trailed off. "At
worst... hm... tomorrow..." The tongue came out again, and the charcoal
scratched against the wood. The mercenary sighed, glancing up at the
position of the sun. It had barely cleared the mountains behind the
house. Sunset was a terribly long way away.

Alexios wondered if he should have asked for more gold.

He had agreed to pose for the artist to help him create a modern
masterpiece -- in exchange for payment, naturally. The mercenary had been
walking through the market of the local village, looking idly at wares he
couldn't afford, when a shrill scream behind him had had him whirling with
spear and sword in hand, ready to fight. Instead of a brigand assaulting a
shopkeeper, though, he'd been greeted by a short, fat man holding his hands
to his cheeks and looking at the misthios with delight.

"Oh, by Ares, you are magnificent!" The man had held his hands out in
disbelief, fingers spread wide. His voice was high and feminine. "Surely,
the gods have crafted you as an example to all men of the perfection of the
form!" He'd walked around Alexios, alternately putting his fingers to his
mouth, and reaching out to stroke the man's body. "You are like a statue,"
he'd said in disbelief. "Hard as marble... yet warm as flesh..."

When he'd finished circling and probing the suspicious man, he suddenly
slapped his hands to either side of the mercenary's stubbled face. "You
shall be my muse!" he squealed, and Alexios looked at him, wide-eyed. He
had met no shortage of insane hermits in his travels, but this man had been
richly dressed and spoke with an air of education. His body had been soft,
though, and he'd clearly lived a life of excess. If he was a madman, then
he was also no physical threat. The mercenary had sheathed his sword and
pushed the spear into the leather straps across his broad back.

"Slow down," he'd said. "Who are you, and what are you talking about?"

The man was Antisthenes: once-famed painter -- not that Alexios had heard
of him -- but now disgraced. It had been years since he had produced
anything of note, and in the -- apparently -- cutthroat world of painted
murals, this was unacceptable. He claimed to have searched the world for
something to inspire him, travelling all about Greece: after many months,
he'd had to return home empty-handed. He had consigned himself to being a
nobody for the rest of his life. "But now I see that the gods have taken
pity on me!" he'd cried, almost crying as he looked at Alexios. "For I
travelled far, and found nothing -- yet no sooner do I go for a walk
through my very own village, than I see you!" He'd clapped his hands
together in excitement. "It is fate, misthios, is it not? I will paint you,
and your valour will live forever, and my name will be known once again."
He'd sighed, looking up at the sky in happiness.

Alexios could not give two figs for the man's name, in truth. "Immortality
sounds nice," he'd said, "but I cannot eat it. Is there coin in it?"

They'd arranged payment, and Antisthenes had instructed him to come to his
villa, on the slopes of the mountain, at daybreak the following day. The
mercenary had nodded as his client rambled on about the glory of the drawn
form, jingling the bag of gold and eyeing a nearby tavern. "Together," the
artist had gushed, "we shall usher in a new age of Greek art!"

"Absolutely," Alexios had said, distractedly. A soldier was resting outside
the tavern, a round shield resting against him. He looked slim, but strong;
just as Alexios preferred. In his seated position, the mercenary could see
the tip of his cock hanging down below the leather strips of his belt. It
made his own swell a little with anticipation. As soon as the artist paused
to take a breath, Alexios had smoothly interjected. "All that, and more, my
friend," he said charmingly. "I shall see you in the morning." Without
waiting for a response, he'd wandered off to say hello to the young
warrior.

The night had passed quickly -- not much of it in sleep -- and as the
unrisen sun lit the horizon, he'd awoken. Habits of an experienced
fighter. He'd slipped out of the embrace of the sleeping soldier, made his
way to the stables, saddled his stallion, and ridden for the painter's
villa. It had taken perhaps an hour to reach, and the sun was up when he
arrived. The painter -- who looked as if he had not slept all night from
excitement -- had brought him through the luxurious house to an open,
grassy area at the edge of the slope. The early morning sun had illuminated
a single tree stump, chopped down years before, and it was this that
Antisthenes had asked the mercenary to pose against.

Alexios had donned his full armour -- helm, muscle cuirass, leather belt,
and sandals -- and struck a pose that had him staring out at the slopes
below them, sword held aloft as if offering it to Zeus. From his vantage
point, he could see the path snaking up through the olive groves towards
them, and on a grassy verge below, Phobos grazed contentedly. The faint
cries of fishmongers and the clink of blacksmiths had carried far in the
still morning air, keeping him company as he posed.

That had been two hours ago, and he was getting a cramp in his bicep.

Alexios was used to the discomfort of standing in one position for a long
time, though. He ignored his body's complaints, and let his mind drift into
Mnemosyne's domain, recalling the fun he'd had the previous night with the
young soldier. It had gone very well.

The young man's eyes had widened when he'd spotted Alexios approaching him,
and the growing smile on his face had told the mercenary all he needed to
know about how easy it would be to lure the man into bed. Alexios had
leaned against the wall, crossing his arms and tensing them a little to
make the muscles stand out, and struck up a conversation. One soldier to
another. The man was an Athenian, it had turned out; recently returned from
the mainland, visiting family on the island. He and Alexios had exchanged
battle stories, tall tales of foes vanquished. In another life, Alexios
might even have faced him across a battlefield. That would have been a
terrible shame, though; he hated killing the beautiful ones.

They'd sparred a little, in the training area, after the Athenian boasted
of the speed of his parries. He was nimble, yes, but his footwork had been
poor. Alexios had stood behind him, showing him where to place his heels,
how to pivot when needed. Whenever the mercenary's crotch pressed up
against the young soldier's ass, the man had looked back at him with a
knowing smile, until -- after some heated exertions that left them both
breathing heavily -- he'd faced the mercenary, the flat of his sword
resting on his shoulder.

"Are you as good with your spear as you are with a sword, misthios?" he'd
asked. His face was as young as Hermes; his body was that of Heracles. It
was a joy to see. Alexios had breathed hard, smelling their sweat. Good,
clean male scent. He'd reached behind his back and pulled the spear loose,
whirling it unnecessarily in one hand.

"Oh, I'm much better with my spear," he said confidently. Holding it, he
could feel the power of the artefact soak into him: a warmth that had
soothed his tired muscles and empowered him. It made him feel like a
demigod. It made him feel horny. "I just thought I'd give you a chance."
The soldier had thrust his sword into the dirt and crossed his arms, one
edge of his mouth curling upward.

"I'd rather have a chance with your other spear." His eyes had dropped to
Alexios' crotch, and the mercenary reached down to lift his belt for a
second, flashing his genitals at him. The soldier's eyes had grown wide as
the moon at what he saw, and Alexios had grinned, sheathing his weapons and
walking closer to the soldier.

"And so you shall," the mercenary had murmured, running his fingers along
the soldier's cheek. He'd been so soft...

A sudden, unexpected clatter interrupted his happy reminiscing, as the
art-board flew to the ground, struck by the artist's own hand. "No!"
Antisthenes yelled, his wet eyes tearing up, his hands balled into
fists. "It isn't working!"

Alexios lowered his foot back to the ground and adjusted his armour where
it had grown tight. "What isn't working?" he asked. "Can I assist you?"

The artist shook his head unhappily. "No, my muse. This is no trouble that
strength of arms can solve." His eyes slid across the mercenary. "Even
those arms. Pah!" He tossed the charcoal to the ground. "I simply cannot
see through to the vision of the piece. There is some basic element that
does not fit..." He stared at Alexios intensely, and then made the man
start in surprise when he gave the same shrill scream he'd made in the
market. "Of course!"

He dashed up to the mercenary. "The piece -- it is not a celebration of
your martial prowess! It is of your masculinity." He slid his hands over
Alexios' bulging arms. "It must be a heroic nude," he said confidently,
eyes wide, face aglow. "The universe must see the full glory of your
strength; a mark of Greek achievement, one for all the barbaros to aspire
to." He stepped back and pointed at various parts of Alexios'
armour. "Remove that, and that, and that. Keep that, and... that."

When the mercenary was done making the changes his client requested, he
held only his sword, stabbing forward and down as if to finish a fallen
foe. A Spartan helm covered his head, and sandals adorned his feet, but all
the other armour lay on the grass, along with his spear. The artist had
done a double-take when he'd seen him fully undressed, and Alexios knew
why: he was impressive.

Years of fighting had toned and hardened every part of him that moved. The
sun had darkened his skin to a deep brown, beaten only by the
charcoal-black hair scrawled across his chest, arms, and legs. He
maintained a short beard that highlighted his cheekbones and handsome eyes,
but let the rest of his hair grow as it wished. The scattering across his
upper chest wasn't much, but it thickened as it rode down his flat, muscled
belly into a line that merged with the thicket around his cock. That cock
hung loosely between his legs, like a sleeping beast in its den, and bumped
up against his thighs when the breeze caught it. His long foreskin was like
a sail, catching the wind and pulling the flaccid prick along with it. His
free hand, clenched into a fist, was held in mid-air; the wind stirred at
the hair under his arm, cooling him slightly. He could smell his scent in
the air, and it pleased him.

It was a less comfortable position than the last one, all told, but at
least his armour wouldn't now cause him discomfort as the day's heat
rose. The artist's charcoal scratched away, and the mercenary sighed,
enjoying the feel of the wind against his member, and letting his thoughts
wander again to the soldier.

The young man had been so eager to get to a room after seeing the weapon
the mercenary carried between his legs. No sooner had the door closed than
he was on his knees in front of Alexios. He'd put his head up under the
belt without waiting for Alexios to disrobe, and begun snuffling, licking,
and murmuring lusty phrases. His mouth had been warm and pleasant when he
took Alexios into it; the mercenary had particularly enjoyed it when the
man's tongue had slipped inside his long foreskin, licking the underside of
it and the glans at the same time. His member had begun drooling very
quickly at that, which had delighted the soldier. He'd sucked up every
drop, his soft voice thanking the older male for his offering. Alexios had
enjoyed that, too. When the young man eventually got back to his feet, the
mercenary had wasted no time in turning him around and demonstrating his
satisfaction with his effort. With only a spit and a rub he'd prepared the
man's hole, and begun to fuck the male's sweet warmth with a roughness and
intensity that made his mate invoke every god there was with screams of
bliss.

The soldier had been as tight as he was eager; the mercenary had finished
inside him twice -- and once upon his back -- before sleep claimed them
both.

"Happy memories, misthios?" came the artist's voice, drifting on the
wind. Alexios blinked away the memories and looked over quizzically. The
artist was staring at him from around the side of his wooden board, and
when he saw the mercenary looking back, he nodded down at the man's
crotch. Alexios followed his gaze and saw a long, transparent line of fluid
hanging from the tip of his foreskin. His arousal on display. Alexios
snorted, as if it was nothing noteworthy, and resumed his pose. Shame was
for the weak.

"I must say," Antisthenes continued, making a few more scratches on the
board as he looked intently at the mercenary, "you appear to have a sword
with you at all times." Scratch, scratch. "While other men have only
daggers." The smirk in his voice might as well have been drawn on his face
with his charcoal.

Alexios looked over at him again with a faint smile, but said nothing. If
the man wished to enjoy the sight of him, he was free to do so. The
mercenary was proud of his body. And while the artist might think the gods
had gifted him a satyr's cock, that was not entirely true. It was larger
than many, true, but not by much. It was merely that, while most other men
grew longer when their lust rose, he merely grew thicker. His full length
was always on display, hanging like a plumb above his virile balls. The
surrounding hairs were tightly curled: his young lover the night before had
pressed his nose into them and moaned, praising Aphrodite for his
scent. When Alexios had put a hand atop his head and pushed him deeper, his
moans had become so loud that other men in the main room below had called
out, thumping mugs on tables and telling him to "fuck that boy senseless."

The scratching paused. After a few moments of silence, Alexios looked over
again. Antisthenes was staring at the board with a frown, and the mercenary
gave a sigh and rolled his eyes. "What is it now?" he asked, dreading an
answer. The artist shook his head firmly.

"This is not..." He tried to find the words. "You are too perfect to be
wasted on anything less than perfection, muse! I must think..." He fell
silent, staring off into the distance, and Alexios shrugged and did the
same.

The sun was higher now, reflecting off the blue waters beyond the island's
port, and banishing shadows from all the greenery in between. This was a
particularly beautiful little island, the mercenary had to admit. After
seeing so many of them, it took something special to make him take notice,
but there was something about the way the slopes had been so carefully
tended, the way the olive trees grew -- straighter than others, he was
certain -- and the gentleness of the day's weather that was letting him
relax a little -- despite the forced pose. The war was far from over, but
for now, on this little spot of ground, he could pretend it didn't exist.

Below them, along the road, Phobos had wandered into the shade of a tree
and stood quietly, his only motion a shake of his tail now and then. He
seemed quite content to be spending a day standing around doing nothing
instead of thundering along the rocky paths of nameless islands. Alexios
smiled, thinking of the stallion, and how glad he was he'd picked him when
he'd bought his horse. His name was well-suited to a warhorse, but his
demeanour was not fearsome in the slightest. They had quickly formed a
close bond on their travels, and the mercenary could not imagine heading
into battle anymore without the feel of his powerful steed between his
legs.

The mercenary did not jump when the artist squealed once again. It appeared
this was simply how the man communicated. He lowered his limbs and gave
Antisthenes a level stare. "Speak, my intemperate little gadfly. Has Apollo
touched you?"

The man was almost jumping up and down with excitement, not noticing or
caring about the jab. "Your horse!"

Alexios looked down at Phobos. "What of him?"

The artist waved his hands about furiously, perhaps imagining he was
communicating something. When the mercenary didn't respond, he tried
words. "Heroic people need heroic forms. It is the principle of
pathos. What is more heroic than a soldier astride a warhorse!"

"You wish me to ride Phobos?"

"Yes!" The artist's eyes were welling up again. "It shall be perfect. The
forms, combined. Man, and stallion. Powerful, idealised, and potent. The
pinnacle of form becomes the pinnacle of art." He seemed to lose the
ability to speak for a moment, such was the strength of his
feeling. Alexios shook his head again, but put two fingers to his mouth,
giving forth a piercing whistle that echoed off the stony sides of the
mountain behind them. Phobos' head snapped up, and with a whinny, he dashed
off. He always knew how to reach his master.

When the stallion clopped to a stop at his feet, Alexios clicked his tongue
in greeting. Phobos responded by shoving his nose into the mercenary's
hand, making Alexios chuckle and pet the side of his head. "Do you wish to
be famous, Phobos?" he asked softly, and the horse nickered back. "This
artist says he can immortalise us both. Imagine that. Alexios and Phobos,
riding forever. I'd like that." He pressed his face into the horse's mane,
taking a deep breath of his familiar, pleasant smell. "I think you would,
too. Come then: let us pose for this tiresome fool and be done with it."

He removed the stallion's saddle and bridle, and with a practised motion
pulled himself up onto the stallion's bare back. He reached a hand down for
Antisthenes to pass him his sword, and then adjusted himself, easing out
his cock and testicles before seating himself fully. His sack was loose,
and large; he had learned -- through painful experience -- to take care
when sitting down. Then, with his manhood taken care of, he extended his
sword arm, pointing into the distance. "How is this?" he said to the
artist. Antisthenes' wordless squeals of delight were answer enough, and
for a little time, charcoal scratched on wood without interruption.

The heat of the day continued to rise, as Alexios had expected. Phobos'
dark hair absorbed the heat, growing hotter under him. Far from unbearable,
but enough to make him begin to sweat where skin met skin. He shifted,
finding that his buttocks now slid easily across the horse's back. It was
an interesting feeling. The stallion's rough hair felt good against the
underside of his member, and without realising it, he began sliding back
and forth slightly, lightly stimulating himself. His cock lay along the
stallion's back as if on display, and he looked down at the contrast of
their colours: sun-browned human skin and ash-black stallion hair. An odd
pairing. That such opposites could go so well together was an interesting
thing, one the philosophers might have time to think about. Alexios was
merely pleased that it was so.

"Ohhhh..."

He could not help but swear when Antisthenes spoke again. "Malaka!" His
head whirled to glare at the other man. "What now, artist? Shall I ride for
the sea, and fish for Scylla, that you might capture us locked in immortal
battle?"

But the artist wasn't looking at him. He was looking down, below the
horse. Alexios took hold of Phobos' mane and leaned across, looking below
his mount, and barked a laugh.

The horse had dropped his penis. His pitch-black cock hung from between his
legs, shaming Alexios' own, and it swayed as the stallion shifted under
him. Thick as his arm, and just as long, it was always impressive to
see. The mercenary wondered why the horse had dropped now -- not that a
beast needed a reason. Perhaps he had smelled his rider's arousal, or
enjoyed the feel of his weight upon his back. A slap sounded out, and
Alexios grinned at the sound of his stallion's desire. He could even feel
the shiver of the muscles when the great cock bounced off its owner's
belly. "Yes, yes," he murmured, stroking the horse's mane with his free
hand. "Forgive me, Phobos. There was another last night, but he
was... well, you would have liked him. And I have not forgotten you..."

"That's it." Antisthenes' voice was soft. "Yes. Of course." Alexios looked
over at him, surprised at the passion in his voice. The artist was staring
at him with wide eyes. "This is not a piece about human heroism or power --
it is about both of the most heroic forms, united. Their strength, their
masculinity. Human and horse, together." He paused, and then spoke with a
slight hitch in his voice. "You and your stallion are... close?"

The artist could not know how right he was. On the long nights of travel,
when they camped under rocky outcrops or in deep forests or on pale
beaches, Alexios always made sure Phobos was properly cared for. They were
both males, after all. They both had needs. Whether rain thundered down
outside a cave, or crickets called out in the warm night, he ensured his
stallion's carnal cravings were satisfied. It was a comfort to them both,
and the man had only to whistle once, low and slow, and his stallion would
walk closer, his cock already dropping, ready and eager. Alexios would stir
at the sight, knowing what was to come and desiring it greatly. He had come
to learn what Phobos enjoyed, and it was simple, fulfilling pleasure to
give it to him.

He stared straight at Antisthenes. "We are." The mercenary dropped the
sword he was holding and slipped off the back of his stallion. Phobos
nickered behind him as his owner stood proud before the artist. His cock
had grown thicker as he thought of Phobos, and hung heavier now, darkened
by blood. The artist's eyes were agog at the sight, and sweat on his brow
was not entirely due to the heat. "And if you wish to draw heroic forms,
then you may draw us. In union." He turned back to Phobos and paid no
further attention to Antisthenes. He did not matter anymore.

Alexios got down onto his haunches, squatting alongside the stallion. His
maleness hung down between his legs, smaller cousin to Phobos' godlike
cock. He stroked the stallion's belly with one hand, making his mount slap
his penis against it once again. It was such an arousing sound. It spoke to
the horse's need; his urgency. There was no room for patience between two
males, and especially not when one was a stallion. Their loins burned; they
must have release.

Alexios took Phobos' cock in his hands, the fat length standing stiffly out
from the horse's crotch. He could just about surround it with both hands,
and when he squeezed, it was as firm as stone. Such potent sexuality. He
never tired of touching it, and his own cock twitched in agreement. The
mercenary went down on one knee, leaning forward and tugging the horse's
sex toward him, sighing in delight when it was close enough for him to open
his mouth and run his tongue along it. The taste was powerful and unique:
sweat, and horse, and stale urine. He did not mind; it was the taste of
Phobos. Why would he try to change his lover's aroma?

His tongue roved across the flesh, his lips suckling and smacking in long,
wet kisses, cleaning every piece of skin. He felt the veins that snaked
across the surface, throbbing with blood as the great beast's heart pumped
life throughout his body. His hand stroked along the underside, where the
urethra ran, and he shivered with anticipation of the way it would soon
grow hard, and begin to pump the stallion's fluids. There was no sensation
like it. One hand slipped further down to stroke at his horse's balls as he
thought of them, alternately tugging the pomegranate-sized orbs down, and
hefting them in his palm. They were where the stallion's gift lived: the
semen that was the mark of his most masculine element. It was the gift they
shared most intimately, and Alexios gave a soft moan at the thought of
experiencing it once again.

Alexios whispered soft words to the stallion as he explored him, finding
the places he knew he liked. His flare -- already proud and firm -- was
squeezed, calling forth a nicker and a stamp of a foot. Alexios shuffled
further underneath Phobos' belly, pulling the cock towards him and sliding
it about his chest, feeling it pressing on his nipples and slipping across
his muscles. The horse's cock ran as freely with need as his own, and the
fluid began to drip down Alexios' body, soaking first the trail of dark
hair that led down from his chest to his crotch, and then his pubic hair
itself. He took his member in hand, rubbing the tip across the stallion's
flare, moaning with pleasure at the feelings and the juxtaposition. Man and
stallion, enmeshed in lust. He wondered if the young man last night had
known that when he breathed so deeply of the mercenary's crotch and moaned
in pleasure, it was not only Alexios he adored, but his stallion lover,
too.

Alexios could do the same to Phobos, and he did. His face pressed into the
cleft of the stallion's thighs and sniffed -- then gasped, and breathed
again, harder and deeper. The day's heat had made the stallion's smell
overpowering, driving the man almost mad with the strength, the sheer
potency of the horse. No mortal could resist this -- and which would want
to? He pulled back, unwilling but desperate, hands working rapidly along
the horse's shaft and flare. He felt the stallion's hips thrust, and
nodded. "I know, Phobos, I know," he whispered.

He repositioned, now staring into the wide, black eye of the horse's cock
as his hands continued to both stimulate it and hold it up. Phobos' muscles
were shivering now, and he was grunting and whinnying. Sounds of pleasure
and need. Alexios' mouth grew slack, sucking in air as fast as he could,
his chest heaving. The stallion was close now; his balls were rising. Their
churning, furious contents were ready, and it made Alexios as stiff as an
oar to know it. The man took his lover's flare in his mouth -- as much as
he dared -- and suckled, tasting the fluids of lust that came before the
true gift. His moans grew louder, and his cock stood firm: as much a horse
as a man could hope to be. Then, as the flare began to swell, he pulled
back and gasped the words he always said.

"Give me your seed, Phobos, horse-lord."

It was like a gift from a god, every time. The stallion's whinny echoed off
the valley walls, and with a half-thrust of his hips, his cock exploded --
or so it felt. The flesh grew hard as steel, and the flare blossomed, it's
eye opening wide. Thick, white semen gushed forth, splattering upon
Alexios' face with the force of a flood. His hair was soaked in moments,
and his beard with it. He cried out in ecstasy, opening his mouth to
receive some of the hot, thick fluid, swallowing it and glorying in the
taste. Surely, the ambrosia of the gods was the taste of stallion seed. The
gift continued to gush forth, covering his nudity, flowing down his skin
like the milk of life and soaking into his body hair. Spurt after spurt
burst from the horse, the last few even thicker and more pungent. Alexios
received them all upon himself, until the stallion's cock began to
soften. Then, he took it in his mouth, and sucked the last remnants out of
it, moaning and shivering with pleasure. And only when the stallion's
Zeus-given cock hung soft, and no more droplets of white stallionhood
issued forth, did he let it fall from his hands.

The misthios stood up with a groan, resting against the stallion's flank,
feeling the sun's heat mixing with the warmth of the seed. He had not yet
climaxed -- his penis aching for release -- but before he could even take
his swollen member in hand, Antisthenes was there. Alexios gasped and
leaned back against his horse as the artist gripped his soaking legs and
took his magnificent endowment to the root. The heat and softness of the
throat was all the stimulation Alexios needed: with clenched fingers, he
screamed an oath into the heavens, and emptied his prodigious and fertile
seed into the man's belly.

His legs shook after, and he slipped to the ground, breathing heavily. The
grass was wet with stallion, and he added yet more to it as the semen
dripped from every part of him. His hand came up, and he smeared it over
his form, covering himself fully in his lover's mark. Phobos nickered,
turning around and licking at Alexios' shoulder, tasting some of
himself. The man smiled and took the side of his muzzle in hand, tugging
the horse's head down and kissing him sensuously. "Thank you, great
stallion," he said sagely, and Phobos nickered again and licked his face,
making the man chuckle. He looked across at the artist, who lay on the
grass next to him. His cock was out, and a damp mark was on his legs. He
must have finished while Alexios was still servicing Phobos. The mercenary
dipped his head in thanks.

"Was that sufficient for your art, then?" he asked. The artist could not
answer; his eyes were wide, and his mouth hung open. Alexios smirked, and
played with his cock, somewhat softened and streaked with horse semen.

"Antisthenes." The artist looked at him with an expression that said he did
not quite believe what had happened. Alexios pulled himself to his feet
using Phobos, and walked over to the man, still smeared in stallion
fluids. His own cock drooled, and he cast a shadow over the artist as he
stood over him. "I was paid for my time, but Phobos was not." He licked a
line of semen off a finger. "Shall we renegotiate the terms of this
arrangement?"