Rated:  NC-17

E-mail: teavish@istar.ca

Pairing:  Hercules/Iolaus

Disclaimer: The principal characters are the property of MCA/Universal and Renaissance Pictures.  No
copyright infringement is intended, and no financial profit is anticipated.

Summary:  Hercules conquers and learns the meaning of surrender.

Warning:  BDSM

Note:  This vignette is the result of an idle response to a request on Hercfic.  Valentin wrote the first two paragraphs as a word picture, and Rudy liked it enough to want to see where it would lead. The two of us alternated ‘til Herc and Iolaus were done.
 
 

Dangerous
By Valentin and Rudy
 
 

The party is loud and joyful, the inn’s capacious common room crowded with villagers and well-wishers. Hercules and Iolaus are once again the guests of honour. Hercules is with the local magistrate, gravely nodding from time to time in a counterfeit of interest, although the magistrate is too busy enjoying the sound of his own voice to notice that Hercules’ attention is elsewhere.

Across the room Iolaus is flirting with the prettiest girl in the place, his eyes dancing with amusement, his face a little flushed from the heat and the good, strong ale he’s drinking. He looks up from the girl’s shyly smiling face to meet Hercules’ eyes and silently toasts him, smiling. The look he receives in return makes him catch his lower lip between his teeth. He excuses himself and slips out the back door of the inn; there’s no need to check that Hercules is following.

Hercules excuses himself with some mumbled inanity, pushing past one celebrant after another, finally exiting the inn, and allowing the door to ease closed behind him.

Iolaus.

Moving lithely up the gently sloped lane, the moonlight a fevered dance in his hair. He turns his head, offering the sweet line of cheek and nose to his lover’s view, then crouches, rising again with a cat lazing across his shoulders. A shift, ass muscles sliding under soft leather, and he’s off once again, chucking the presumably purring feline under the chin as he walks.

Hercules strains to catch him, strains not to try. Just to watch him, the dance of him, the teasing, graceful sway of him.

The knowledge of his taste, the music of his moans, the hard, pounding strength of his rigid cock.

The knowledge of him.

The golden hunter fades around a corner, and the beautiful demigod follows ...

Iolaus moves lazily, head tilted toward the cat, murmuring to it as it butts its head greedily into his hand. His soft chuckle floats back to his lover.  Those hands moving in his hair. He loves Iolaus’ hands in his hair. On his body.

The sounds of revelry have retreated. He hears only the pounding of his own heart, sees only the spill and fall of silver and the small, knowing smile his lover smiles for him. Iolaus pauses at the door of a stable, then disappears inside.

This morning Iolaus had pleasured Hercules to wakefulness, lips and tongue first gentle over sleeping flesh, then demanding as they urged the stretch and swell of his response.

This morning was a million years ago.

A torch flickers in its stand at the edge of the path; Hercules picks it up and follows Iolaus into the stable. He stands by the window, the cat in his arms. As Hercules watches, he dips his head to brush his cheek against its fur, and it extends a careless paw to feather against his skin. One more
murmur and he lifts the animal to the open sill, finally turning to meet his lover’s eyes for the first time since leaving the inn.

Blue treasuring blue.

A caress, that lingering contact. The hunter’s irrepressible warmth, coaxing Hercules’ shy soul into the light, until it glows from his entire being.  Hercules’ solid strength, treasuring and sheltering his companion’s wild heart.

A wicked smile curves Hercules’ tender lips, and Iolaus’ breath catches.

Hercules runs his hands up his own chest, pushing his buttery, suede tunic off of his shoulders, to hang from his waistband. One hand resting over his own nipple, Hercules looks a challenge at his beloved.

"Such a tease."

The cat blinks at the golden man, surely envious of the throbbing purr in his warm, liquid voice.

"Such a wicked tease."

Iolaus allows his vest to fall to the straw-strewn floor, his smooth chest gleaming in the torch light. One hand rests on the buckle of his sword belt.

Hercules sets the torch in a holder by the door. Another stable, another time, before his longing had a name. Shirtless then as now; broad shoulders squared, provocative grin creasing his cheek. Come at me, he’d said.

Be careful what you ask for, Iolaus.

Knowing even then there was nothing Iolaus could ask for that he wouldn’t give willingly, joyously; his heart, cradled and beating in his cupped hands.

"Don’t."

Iolaus’ hands at his belt still obediently, and the tip of his tongue darts out to touch his lips. Hercules sees the rise and fall of his chest. Iolaus chose this time, this place, for his lover.

How does he always know what Hercules needs?

The heat of the day’s battle still burns in him. It is always thus after an encounter with Ares, as though some small tendril of his Olympian half-brother’s darkness tangles itself around Hercules’ soul. He’d lived with it, badly, for all the wasted years until this vulnerable soul before him took his borrowed darkness into his own small hands.

They were demons, but they were his demons, and at first he surrendered them with reluctance. He held back, claiming he feared for Iolaus, but his maddening lover had prodded and provoked, cajoled and threatened and finally raged. You don’t trust me, he’d shouted. You don’t think I can handle it.

I don’t trust myself, Hercules had finally answered quietly.

I trust you. I need to do this for you, for us, his lover had said, and there was nothing he could ask for that Hercules wouldn’t give.

And, nothing Hercules could ask of him, that Iolaus wouldn’t surrender.

The potency of that knowledge glows in Hercules’ eyes, as he steps toward his lover.

"All right, let’s see these new moves."

Iolaus grins and moves back a pace, nearly against the wall.

"Actually, you have to attack me."

Hercules closes the distance between them, his hands gripping the window ledge on either side of Iolaus’ shoulders. He lowers his face, his honey-brown hair kissing Iolaus’ cheekbones as he whispers.

"Sounds dangerous."

"Well, you’re the hero."

Ah, that twinkle, the dimpling tilt of his head. Hercules’ hands drop to Iolaus’ hips, and he lifts his mortal lover effortlessly, resting his delectable ass on the windowsill, dislodging the disgruntled cat. A slight nudge parts Iolaus’ slim thighs, and Hercules steps between them, his hands returning to the ledge, this time framing Iolaus’ hips.

A nuzzle beneath Iolaus’ hair, a sharp nip at his earlobe.

"You know; I think you were right. This might be dangerous."

That purr again, edging Iolaus’ words, thrilling along Hercules’ skin.

Dangerous.

A hand tangles in his hair, and a sharp tug forces his head back to look into Iolaus’ darkening eyes. He can move his head, but only if he sacrifices the hair locked in Iolaus’ fingers.

It’s begun.

"Think you can take me, hero?"

Narrowed eyes blazing at him. Flush already mounting in the broad chest, peaking his nipples. Hercules closes his eyes and breathes in the sharp scent of his lover’s arousal, feeling Iolaus’ thighs flex and relax against his waist. The pressure on his scalp ceases, and he opens his eyes to see
Iolaus’ hands grasping the window sash above his head. He arches his back and spreads his thighs, the posture an offering, his eyes never leaving Hercules’.

Hercules clamps down on the urge to tear Iolaus’ trousers from him and reaches for the sword belt, his fingers shaking with anticipation. Glorious, heated flesh, sliding along his skin. He would have it, now.

A sudden, sharp movement and Hercules is staggering backward, fighting to drag air back into his lungs, a hand clamped over his chest where Iolaus’ boots have driven into it. He straightens as Iolaus balances easily, alertly in front of him, and his breath deserts him again.

"You’re mine." The low rumble a warning, and a fact.

"Prove it." Iolaus as breathless as he. Gods; they’ve barely touched each other yet, and he thinks he will come just from the force of the promise in that intent gaze.

He allows his own eyes to reveal the depth of his need, and suppresses a triumphant smile as Iolaus’ flush mounts. Letting his gaze speak of pounding, driving, loving, sweating, fucking, now, more, his body speaks for itself, a lunge forward, a feint, and a iron hard hand, driving against his lover’s breastbone, sending him sprawling on his back.

Only, he doesn’t. A liquid dip, a spin, that unforgiving boot catches Hercules in the small of his back, and he finds his own face buried in the straw. A powerful twist brings him back to his feet, his own kick whizzing past Iolaus’ ducking head.

Past enough. Unbearable, really.

Iolaus stands before him, shifting on nimble legs, his hands raised, his eyes gleaming with desire and mischief. Beauty. Strength. Dazzling.

Hercules drops and rolls, grasping Iolaus’ ankles and bringing him down.

Iolaus is up on hands and knees instantly, somersaulting just out of the reach of Hercules’ outstretched hand and scrambling to his feet. His eyes are huge and brilliant in the gold glow, his grin almost feral. Hercules can scarcely breathe against the pressure of his desire. He comes slowly to his
feet, and Iolaus takes a step backward, then another, until his back is pressed against the stable wall.

Hercules is on him before he can twist away again, a quick lift and tilt of hips pushing Iolaus’ ass against the wall, raising him almost off his feet.  He feels Iolaus struggling to get a leg between his own and grinds their loins harder together, capturing the hands that are splayed against his chest and pinning them to the rough wood just over his head.

"You’re mine." The words triumphant. He lowers his head to explore the familiar texture of that delicious neck. Iolaus is quivering under him, tension in every straining muscle; he cries out as Hercules’ teeth find purchase above the hollow of his throat.

Nothing can be as sweet as the sound of Iolaus giving voice to the passion Hercules arouses in him. It is Hercules’ greatest joy; sometimes he thinks it his greatest accomplishment. This man, fire and delight, life embodied, giving himself without reservation, in spite of everything.

Hercules can wait no longer.

Shifting his grip, he encloses both strong wrists in one hand. His free hand traces the lines of Iolaus’ face, his throat, brushes over his collarbone, and stills as Hercules’ mouth gently follows the same trail. Ah, sweet flesh, salt and sweat and heat. Under his lips, under his tongue. Under his fingers, and he runs a fingertip lightly across a puckered, brown nipple.

Iolaus moans again, arching under his hand, and Hercules lifts his head to meet his lover’s burning eyes.

"Still think you can take me, hero? Are you afraid to let me use my hands?"  Iolaus’ voice shakes with passion, but his words ring with iron.

Accepting the challenge, Hercules releases Iolaus’ wrists. Iolaus’ small hands rest for a moment on his lover’s broad, brown shoulders, then his fingers are at the fastenings of Hercules’ trousers, releasing his aching cock, capturing it. Ah, molten. And, brief; those teasing fingers melt away from his yearning flesh.

Hercules throws his head back, hearing his own wordless cry. Iolaus twists away from him, to stand by the window again. Swiftly disrobing, he pulls himself to the ledge, a wanton, golden vision, legs spread, one hand toying absently with his swollen cock.

Hercules sways on his feet.

"Well? Can you take me?"

Flames licking along the honey rich words. Glowing skin, tangled hair, ah, lips, and nipples, and cock.

Too much. Yet, not nearly enough.

Hercules braces himself and steps into the haven of his lover’s thighs, lifting that teasing hand and drawing its fingers into his mouth to savour the slick evidence of Iolaus’ readiness. A soft sound, no more than a breath, and Iolaus’ thighs tighten around his waist as his other hand strays to his pebbled nipple.

Hercules pulls Iolaus’ fingers from his mouth slowly, then unwraps his legs from his waist, ignoring Iolaus’ hiss of displeasure at the loss of contact between their groins, and forces Iolaus’ knees up. He must bend them or lose his purchase on the window sill, and he allows Hercules to spread his legs
wider and position his feet at either side of the sash. He steadies himself with one hand on the sash above him, and Hercules stops for a moment to admire his handiwork. His trousers are sliding down his thighs; he steps back to remove them leisurely, and Iolaus’ free hand approaches his erection again.

"Don’t," Hercules warns silkily.

Iolaus narrows his eyes, and his hand continues its defiant journey. "Come and stop me, hero," he taunts. His fingers drift down the rigid length of his cock to stroke the gold-crowned spheres below, then dip teasingly to circle his body’s tight entrance. His eyes roll shut and he moans softly, spreading his thighs wider to brace his knees against either side of the window as his hand moves upward again.

"Hercules," he says, soft as a sigh, and opens his eyes to stare dazedly when his lover pulls his hand away from his cock.

"I’m going to take you, Iolaus," Hercules tells him, knowing he wants the words. "I’m going to touch you when and how I want to."

Suddenly Iolaus comes alive under his hands, but Hercules quells his brief struggle effortlessly, pushing his knees apart again. Iolaus’ chest is heaving, and Hercules lays his hand over his breast to feel the wild rhythm there. He is besotted with this man, his knees weak from the rush of tenderness that overwhelms him. He cradles Iolaus’ cheek in his hand and gazes wonderingly at the blaze of love that shines in his achingly beloved face.

"Touch me, Hercules," Iolaus says simply, and Hercules is lost.

Obediently, he wraps his free hand around his lover’s cock, his other wide palm still cupping Iolaus’ face. He watches, rapt, as Iolaus’ eyes flutter closed, his lips parting, his moans brushing Hercules’ face as the demigod strokes him. Firmly. Slowly.

His hand slick with Iolaus’ need, and his other hand joins it, rubbing the hunter’s cock between his palms, the head purpling, swelling, Iolaus’ breath catching, his moans growing louder.

A kiss, tasting Iolaus’ voice, taking his mouth, sucking his tongue.  Hercules’ hands suddenly still, and Iolaus shudders beneath them.

"You want my mouth on your cock, Iolaus? You want to fuck my mouth?"  Hercules’ voice a sugared growl, and Iolaus’ gasp meets it, "You have to tell me, Iolaus. Tell me."

"Ah, gods, Herc. Suck it. I want your mouth on me." Iolaus’ eyes hot on Hercules’, both hands clutching the upper sill, his glossy arms rigid.

Hercules’ flicks his tongue nimbly across Iolaus’ shaking lips, then traces a wet line from the hollow of his throat to his navel, exploring the little cavern, teasing, sucking.

Both wide hands still wrapped around Iolaus’ cock, Hercules bends, his eyes on Iolaus’, taking the weeping head into his mouth.

Iolaus feasts his eyes, as the demigod begins taking him deeply into his mouth, one hand abandoning his shaft to weigh his balls. The honey brown hair, spilling against his abdomen, trailing between Iolaus’ wantonly spread thighs. The wide forehead, smooth, the blue eyes closing, as Hercules runs
his lips along the length of Iolaus’ cock.

His lips, so soft, so mobile. Pulling taut, treasuring each inch.

So beautiful, his divine lover. So beautiful.

Oh, more. More. Hercules is sucking in earnest, now, his cheeks hollowing, his head bobbing faster. Faster.

"Herc! Ah, yeah, Herc! Oh, oh, slow down. No! I’m ..." Iolaus’ words are bubbling into the little alley, dancing over the eaves. His head thrown backward, his trembling arms barely managing to keep him from tumbling into the lane. Hercules senses the problem, and abandons his lover’s gold-furred
spheres, to splay one hand across his sweating back, offering him purchase.

Iolaus’ legs slip from the sill to encircle Hercules’ swaying shoulders; a hand tangles itself in the hair at the nape of his neck, urging him forward.  It is the cue he’s been waiting for, and he pulls his lover’s blessed cock deeply into his mouth, his throat welcoming its thick slide again and again.

"OgodsOgodsOgods…" Hercules steals a glance upward to watch Iolaus’ ecstatic transfixion. His eyes are closed, his knuckles white on the sash as he thrusts brutally into Hercules’ throat, then freezes with a last rapturous groan. Hercules accepts the offering of his seed eagerly, holding still as
Iolaus rocks gently for a moment before slipping out and collapsing forward onto him. Iolaus’ legs and arms are wrapped around his neck, his softening cock pushing against his chest; he buries his face in the warmth of Hercules’ neck, making soft little sounds that Hercules strains to hear.

"IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou…"

For a second, Hercules is terrified of the payment the gods would demand for permitting him this much happiness. He pushes the thought aside and pulls Iolaus tighter against him, easing his legs down to wrap around his waist.  He loves to hold Iolaus like this when he’s spent, to feel his lassitude and
drowsy contentment slowly replaced by fresh arousal. Gods, was there ever a more exciting, more satisfying lover?

Iolaus’ breath blows warm against his ear, and he’s reminded that his lover’s plans for him are far from over. His half-erect cock suddenly rises to nudge Iolaus’ bottom, and a hand slips from his shoulder to locate and caress his nipple, then pinch it sharply.

"Are you ready, Hercules?" Iolaus purrs into his ear, following the words with a nip on his earlobe that mirrors the brilliant pinpoint of pain at his nipple. Warm fingers soothe his nipple, then twist it, and the flame runs straight to his already aching cock.

"You’re mine now. I’m going to make you mine. Are you ready for that?"  Iolaus slips out of Hercules’ loosened grasp to stand challengingly in front of him. That beautiful cock is already rising again, and Hercules knows a sudden stab of savage joy that he is the reason. He wants Iolaus to show him how much he wants him. He stares at his golden lover with hot eyes.

"Show me, Iolaus. Show me everything."

"I’ll show you. Everything. Let’s start with you."

"Me?"

"I’ll show you … yourself." Hercules finds himself backing away from the heat in Iolaus’ eyes, as his lissome lover moves toward him with serene determination. The hunter’s hardening cock sways with his steps, the muscles of his legs and hips bunching smoothly beneath his fair skin. The tumble of
his hair outshines the torch light, his swollen lips frame a lopsided grin.  Hercules stops abruptly as his ankles meet the thick-piled hay, and Iolaus’ grin widens.

Iolaus lifts a languorous finger to his own lips, licking it delicately, as Hercules’ breath quickens. He places the wet digit against Hercules’ breastbone, and pushes gently. Hercules falls backward onto the blanketed straw.

"The bigger they are …" a mad giggle, and Iolaus is straddling Hercules’ hips, devouring his mouth.

Tender, tart, and suddenly savage, the kiss burns into Hercules’ veins, into his soul, his hands gripping Iolaus’ buttocks, his tongue exploring, delighting.

The hunter pulls away, his hands behind his own back.

"Which hand?"

"What?"

Hercules is distracted by the nude bounty astride him, barely able to distinguish the words hiding behind Iolaus’ liquid voice.

"Come on, Herc; you aren’t that thick. Well, at least your skull isn’t that thick. Pick a hand, hero."

"Oh, gods. Please, Iolaus, just …"

"Pick."

"Fine. Left."

Iolaus licks his lips maddeningly, and holds out his left hand. A large square of black silk hangs from it.

"Nice choice. Close your eyes."

"A blindfold? Come on, Iolaus; you’re repeating yourself. Remember? The beach? The breechclout? The grass, which, by the way, had mites in it. I was itching for two days."

"Yeah, I remember; you were really hating life. Wish it hadn’t happened?"

Silence.

"That’s what I thought. So, I’m boring you, hero? Or, are you scared? Scared of what I’ll show you?"

"It’s not going to work, Iolaus. I want to be able to see you."

"Hmmm. Scared. Well, we can’t have that, can we? Want me to fetch another torch, Herc? Too many shadows?"

"Iolaus …"

Iolaus bends forward, his erect cock dancing against Hercules’ slightly softened member, his nipples scraping through the hair adorning the demigod’s broad chest.

"Whatever you need, Herc. Whatever you want."

And his mouth is on Hercules’, his warm body pressed sweetly against his lover’s, each inch of contact a kiss, a joy, a wildfire. His small hands wander, a pinch here, balanced by the softest caress, his tongue inside Hercules’ ear, his teeth nibbling none too gently along the demigod’s throat. A spark of pain, searing with pleasure, as his mouth finds a nipple, as his teeth claim it. One hand slips between Hercules’ legs, and away again.

A sudden rush of air against Hercules’ screaming skin, and he blinks up at Iolaus’ teasing face.

"Whatever you need."

"Iolaus…"

His voice is small, his eyes averted; Iolaus lies against him, his weight comforting, and tucks his head against Hercules’ shoulder, twirling a chestnut lock in a fruitless effort to curl it around his finger. The
recalcitrant strand slips away, as always, and Hercules relaxes, the familiar gesture reassuring him, as Iolaus knows it will.

As Iolaus knows his soul. Can he do this? He wants to, oh, that much he knows, but can he give himself away like this, even to Iolaus?

Iolaus sighs and rubs a thumb along the edge of Hercules’ collarbone. "I’m sorry, Herc. I shouldn’t have pushed you. I thought ?"

"Iolaus." His voice a little stronger. Yes. Oh, yes.

"Show me."

Iolaus raises above him again, searching his eyes. His hair is a nimbus of fire in the torchlight, his gleaming body wrapped in its aureate caress, and Hercules thinks he has never seen anything so beautiful. He aches to be touched by those clever hands, that talented mouth. What would Iolaus do to
him, if he had the chance? What wouldn’t he do? His cock surges again as he gives himself over to the thought, and Iolaus’ sudden delighted grin brings one to his own lips. He finds the scarf where Iolaus had let it slip from his hand, and holds it out to his lover.

"Time to put your money where your mouth is, mister ‘I’ve-spent-time-in-the-East’."

Iolaus draws his delicious lower lip through his teeth, and Hercules shivers.

"Is that a dare, Hercules?" he inquires softly. He runs the bit of silk through his fingers, then trails it gently above Hercules’ chest, barely stirring the curls there, and down across his stomach. Hercules is holding his breath, waiting for the delicate touch on his cock, but instead Iolaus abruptly snaps the silk. The sting against the head of his cock is shocking, and unexpected, and the tiny, focused pain is so arousing he can barely breathe.

"Iolaus," he groans, and his lover descends on him to kiss him voraciously, pulling the rest of the breath from his lungs, before tying the scarf around his eyes.

Iolaus sits back on his heels between Hercules’ long legs, studying the banquet sprawled before him, then bends forward, burying his nose in the musky, chestnut curls surrounding the demigod’s cock. He salutes one taut testicle with an almost-too-sharp bite, smiling at the startled hiss of Hercules’ breath.

Rummaging in the little cache beneath the straw from which he produced the blindfold, he brings a tumble of leather and gold into the light.

"Hands and knees, hero."

Hercules obeys instantly, arousal and apprehension warring for predominance, Iolaus’ voice velvet against his skin. He tosses his head, his hair a shifting, gleaming curtain feathering across his bunched shoulders, his nude body a living work of art cradled in the gentle light.

Iolaus studies him silently, worrying his bottom lip between strong, white teeth. He pushes Hercules’ knees further apart, and coaxes him down to his elbows, pressing a light kiss onto the back of one wide hand as he does so.

He nimbly binds a strip of leather behind Hercules’ scrotum, securing it with a sliding, golden ring. Hercules moans, and then gasps at the incredible sensation as his cock hardens further.

"What …?" Hercules’ hand gropes backward, trying to investigate the situation, and Iolaus firmly returns it to the blanket, pushing Hercules back onto his elbows. He covers his lover’s mouth with a lingering kiss, his fingers teasing at the demigod’s nipples. A caress becomes a pinch, and the
pinch on one nipple is suddenly replaced by a cold, metallic bite. Iolaus swallows Hercules’ startled oath, and gives the other nipple equal time.

Iolaus pulls away from Hercules, and runs his nails along the undersides of Hercules’ arms, up the insides of his thighs, along his corded throat, the soles of his well-shaped feet.

He’s on fire. All of him, all of him, yearning, straining for Iolaus’ touch, the constant, biting pressure at nipples and scrotum screaming for his attention, for Iolaus’ attention. A gentle twist of the clamp adorning his right nipple wrenches a growl from his throat, suddenly muffled by the presence of smooth, hard flesh against his lips.

Iolaus’ cock.

"Your tongue."

Iolaus’ voice.

He opens his mouth and tries to draw Iolaus in, but the object of his desire is pulled out of his reach.

"Not your mouth. Lick me."

He puts his tongue out obediently, and is rewarded with a velvet touch. He strokes carefully, gently, rediscovering with heightened awareness the exact shape and texture of his lover’s cock. He tries more than once to press his lips to it, but each time Iolaus pulls back and waits silently until he offers his tongue again.

Iolaus’ sounds of pleasure and encouragement teach him where to touch, where to linger, where and how to apply pressure, and he is increasingly eager to elicit those sounds. When Iolaus pulls away again, he reaches for him, but Iolaus presses his hands downward.

"If you can’t control yourself, I’ll have to do it for you," he warns, and Hercules hears his low laugh when his cock responds to the thought.

"Iolaus…" he groans. His need is becoming painful. He thrusts into the hands that touch him almost impersonally, checking and adjusting the restraint.

Iolaus tsks sadly. "I really thought you had more discipline than this. Sit back on your heels, and hold your hands out."

He sits back as Iolaus directs, but raises his hands to his blindfold.  Somehow the spell has been interrupted, and Hercules is no longer sure he wants to continue.

"I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. You decide what you want. But if you take the blindfold off this is over, and we never go here again."

There is no anger in Iolaus’ voice, only calm certainty. Hercules rests his hands on his thighs. He is terribly afraid, but he knows Iolaus understands this and believes he can accept it and move past it. Can he? For Iolaus, and for himself?

He holds out his hands.

Iolaus cups his face and presses fervent kisses everywhere, telling him over and over that he loves him, and he turns his face up to the kisses. He envisions Iolaus as he bends over him and his fear is subsumed by his arousal.

A final kiss and Iolaus pulls away from him gently, then moves his hands together so that his thumbs overlap. He winds a narrow leather thong around them, binding them together from base to tip, covering them completely.  Hercules cannot keep from testing his bonds gently when Iolaus is done;
breaking them would probably dislocate his thumbs. Very clever, his lover, he thinks with pride.

Iolaus urges Hercules forward a few paces, then raises his bound hands and, slipping another, heavier thong around his wrists, secures them just over his head as he sits back on his heels again. Iolaus presses himself against Hercules’ back and slides his hands up his quivering stomach to his nipples.
He alternately licks and nips Hercules’ neck until his head rolls back in pleasure, then with a sharp tug pulls one, then the other clamp away.

Hercules cannot contain the grunt that is forced out of him as the blood returns to his numbed nipples, setting them afire. Iolaus’ wet fingers return to soothe and rub them, twisting them gently, until he can no longer remember when the pain stopped and the pleasure began. He believes he would come from Iolaus’ touch if not for the leather that binds his orgasm within him. He bites back a whimper as Iolaus’ mouth returns to his neck, and the clamps are reapplied.

With the touch of Iolaus’ hands on his shoulders he becomes aware that he has risen to his knees, and he sinks back. He is breathing harshly now, his whole body focused on the pleasure and where it will come from next. He allows Iolaus to press him forward until his head is cradled between his bound arms, his cock between his thighs. He rocks shamelessly, rubbing his cock into the vee of his legs.

A firm touch stops his feverish motions, and he subsides reluctantly, moaning his frustration. Those same strong hands part his thighs, spreading his legs nearly to their limit.

An oiled finger probes his anus experimentally, and he pushes back, eagerly.  The touch fades, and is replaced by smooth, cool pressure, opening him.  Filling him. Almost too much. Almost. Too. Much.

A whisper of movement, and those hands push him back up to brace on his hands. Warm velvet slips between his legs, under his chest, and his lover’s cock bumps against his chin.

"Your mouth."

The quiet voice expects immediate compliance, and Hercules provides it. He gratefully surrounds the turgid flesh with lips and tongue. Ah, such texture. Such flavor. Bitter, salty. Iolaus. He swallows a groan along with Iolaus’ cock, jerking as the cool hardness inside him is moved. Further in.  Slipping slightly out. Back in, and wet heat surrounds his jumping cock.

Iolaus’ mouth on him. That cool invader inside him. Iolaus’ cock plumbing his throat.

Strangled whimpers color the air, and the blood screams in his trapped nipples as he recognizes his own voice. Begging.

He wants to scream, but he must continue pleasuring Iolaus.

He must.

His body has accepted and warmed the blunt length that stretches him. In a little more, then out till just its tip holds him open. He pushes back into it, his need desperate, and Iolaus allows the movement to pull his cock from his mouth. Hercules is nearly weeping from the strength of his despair, and he forces himself to stillness, pulling Iolaus’ cock deeper into his throat.

"That’s right, baby, let me do this for you." Iolaus’ voice slides across his ears like warm honey, and in some recess within him the hero is desperate to put a stop to the overwhelming, terrifying, wondrous thing that’s happening to him.

"Go away," Hercules tells it, closing his eyes behind the blindfold, and awaits his lover’s pleasure, and his wishes.

Oh yes oh yes oh…

It moves into him again, an inexorable possession, its presence like a blessing inside him, unfolding him, blooming inside him, and what it makes him feel goes beyond simple pleasure. He holds Iolaus deeply in his mouth, unmoving, and struggles to accept the inchoate flood of emotion that threatens to deluge him. Iolaus is whispering endearments to him, and only his lover’s faith keeps him from collapsing into a whimpering heap. His aching cock has become irrelevant; he wants to curl up in Iolaus’ arms while his lover works his will on him.

He begins to shiver, and his connection to his lover is eased gently from his mouth. He is not sure if he voices his moan of protest; he allows Iolaus to turn him over on to his back, knees bent and hips raised. He spreads his thighs, shifting to better sense the presence within him. Iolaus is nuzzling
him sweetly, delicately twisting the clamps at his nipples, trailing kisses along his neck and across his bound hands, telling him over and over how beautiful he is, how much he loves him. How much he wants him.

Yes. Iolaus inside him, hot, hard, touching him. Iolaus touching him.

"Fuck me, Iolaus." He barely recognises his voice; his need has scoured it to a whisper.

"Soon, baby, soon."

He is comforted. Iolaus knows.

Another gentle shift, and Hercules is lying at the edge of their fragrant platform; he can feel its edge under his heels. Iolaus’ hands leave his body, but he is learning, and remains silent. It seems forever until Iolaus starts to speak softly again.

"In the East," his lover says, running a slippery hand up Hercules’ trembling thigh to surround his cock, "Men are taught to relax and receive in order to open themselves to a new level of creative energy and pleasure.  The lingam is honoured as a channel to that energy."

As he speaks, he releases Hercules’ erection from its leather confines and begins to caress his thighs and belly. His voice and touch ease Hercules’ shrieking nerves and calm his racing heart, and he relaxes into his lover’s ministrations. He begins to breathe deeply to the rhythms of Iolaus’ voice,
allowing the words to flow over him as his hands moved over his legs, his belly, gentling off the clamps and soothing his nipples, untying his hands and caressing his arms, his shoulders. Warm wetness between his legs and Iolaus is touching him, releasing that which opens him, massaging his tight sac and the tender flesh behind it, another hand pressing gently into the mound above his cock.

His lover is massaging his cock now, squeezing the base and pulling up, then moving down from the head. He continues his rhythmic movements as Hercules’ hardness waxes and wanes, bringing him close to release over and over.

Iolaus’ hands and voice cradle Hercules. Iolaus will tell him when the time is right.

A warm hand slips between his legs again, and begins to press gently against the small indentation in the flesh that bridges his cock and his anus. The hand on his cock continues its hypnotic movements as the pressure between his legs grows stronger, and he shifts slightly.

"Trust me," Iolaus says, and there is nothing he could ask for that Hercules wouldn’t give.

At first the feeling deep within him manifests itself as pressure, increasing as Iolaus works his sorcery on his cock. The touch heats, igniting him, and Iolaus is stroking him, pressing up into his centre, and
it’s very nearly pain now.

"Come for me, baby," Iolaus’ rough voice croons, and Hercules cries out, the words and the hands and the suddenly white-hot pain blowing him wide open.  He shatters into a million transparent pieces, the ecstasy nearly as unbearable as the distant memory of the pain.

When he reassembles, he is sobbing in Iolaus’ arms.

Iolaus is surrounding him, kissing him, caressing him, soothing him with gentle words.

He feels the fine tremors running through Iolaus’ body, the weeping hardness of Iolaus’ cock pressed against his belly.

He wants to turn away, whimpering at the force of his need. Instead, he burrows forward, trying to speak with his lips, his hands.

"What do you need, Hercules?"

No words, please. Don’t make me say the words.

But, he opens his eyes, and Iolaus’ beauty is a blaze before him. That mouth, that mouth had taken his cock, those hands had brought him over the edge, tumbling into an abyss that was no abyss at all. An abyss that had become a pinnacle of ecstasy. He drops his gaze to Iolaus’ cock, so full, that thick, slick length. Quivering.

"Iolaus, please."

"Please?"

A whisper against his throat, small hands gripping his hips, strong teeth marking his collarbone, a brand, a promise.

"Ah, gods. Iolaus," he trembles, bending before the gale of lust, "Ah, Iolaus. Fuck me. I need you to fuck me. Fuck me."

"As you wish …"

And the tender hands draw him further to the edge of the straw, turning him.  The warmth of Iolaus’ body leaves him, and he sighs, bereft. His legs dangle from the edge of the straw, the woolen covering itchy against his stomach, and Iolaus’ hands are at his hips, at his anus.

He strains a look over one knotted shoulder; Iolaus stands behind him, and the blunt head of Iolaus’ cock finds the aching entrance to his body, still stretched and needy, and the warm hardness parts him, enters him, consumes him, and he pushes back, straining, screaming.

"Iolaus!"

He reaches out frantically, trying to brace himself to thrust, but the yielding straw beneath him offers no purchase. Iolaus’ cock stops just within him, hands skimming the trembling muscles in his back, voice caressing, telling Hercules how beautiful he is like this, how good he is, how perfectly he opens his body. He knows the moment of Hercules’ capitulation, and pushes slowly, insistently, then waits. Another caress, another whisper, another push, a little deeper each time, never withdrawing, until his skin burns against Hercules’.

His heat envelops Hercules as he bends to taste the gloss of his sweat-slicked back. Hercules can feel the careful flex of his thighs as they press tightly against him, then relax, the faint friction a delicate
offering.

Then, oh, Iolaus is telling him how it feels to be inside him, how hot he is, how like satin, how sweet the gift of his surrender, and Iolaus’ strong thighs are nudging his own wider, and Iolaus’ cock is so deep, so deep, so exquisite, that Hercules must will himself to drag breath into aching lungs.

Iolaus reaches for his hand and pulls it under his body to press it firmly against his belly above his quiescent cock. He keeps his own hand over Hercules’, and Hercules presses his cock against it; Iolaus takes possession of it briefly, comfortingly, then moves his hand over Hercules’ again.

"Feel me inside you, baby," Iolaus breathes in his ear, and begins the molten slide, his hand urging Hercules’ against his belly, and Hercules cannot control his panting groan at the feel of Iolaus’ cock under his hand as it moves inside him. His own cock lifts toward his lover’s hand and his low, wordless cries resolve themselves into an endless supplication, a prayer composed of his lover’s name.

"So sweet."

Another soft whisper tickles his ear, and he pauses in his litany, to turn his head for a kiss.

Gentle kiss, pounding cock. Smooth, and hard, and the sweat breaks out all over his body, prickles beneath his arms, drips from his nipples as his torso shudders beneath the loving onslaught of his lover’s relentless rhythm.

Iolaus’ hand grips his cock with just the right amount of pressure, squeezing, stroking, teasing. The abyss looms once again, and he wants this too much. Wants to be taken, wants to be plundered, mastered. Wants to be owned.

By Iolaus. Iolaus. Iolaus. And, the prayer begins again, a trace of a whimper darkening his voice.

"Take me. Take …"

And Iolaus groans, and graces his ear with the wildest of words as his hips slow, maddening slide, leisurely lunge, ah so deep. Deeper, then the endless shift back, and he pushes against the withdrawal, trembling, sobbing with delight. And he knows that he is hot, and tight, that his body is a paradise, an erotic symphony, that his hair is satin and his skin amber, his eyes the purest blue, his cock so huge, his scent so thick and maddening. He knows, because Iolaus is telling him, and Iolaus loves him. Iolaus is loving him. He knows that he belongs to Iolaus, that Iolaus will fuck him until his screams crack his father’s throne, until Atlas loses his grip on the wildly rocking earth. He knows, because Iolaus is telling him.

The fear grows, to be so vulnerable. To be so desperately in need.

And Iolaus’ hand shifts from his hip to his mouth, and he takes Iolaus’ fingers into his mouth, sucking them, scraping his teeth against their slender strength, moaning around them as Iolaus quickens his thrusts, and slips his other hand over the pearling head of Hercules’ cock. And the fear is changing within him, turning to triumph as Iolaus pants against his shoulder, his voice an instrument of matching need, telling Hercules that he is Iolaus’ world. All his world, and now Iolaus is past words, subverbal.  Grunts, and hoarse cries, and Hercules’ name is a scream to Olympus, and Iolaus twists his hand, pouring his hot seed into Hercules’ body as Hercules shudders beneath him, the abyss a pinnacle once again, and there must be blood in his cum, must be blood, heart’s blood. Shed for you, Golden Iolaus.

They are frozen together by heat, heat past enduring, fused, joined, and he is startled by his own grateful laughter, charmed by Iolaus’ answering giggle.

And Iolaus slips free from his body, stilling his dismay with embraces, climbing onto the twisted blanket and pulling Hercules with him.

Kisses, and teasing touches, and he nuzzles Iolaus’ sweaty throat, licking the salty nectar, sweetened by the vibrations of Iolaus’ renewed laughter.

"I love you, hero."

And he knows it’s true, because Iolaus is telling him.

Finis
 
 

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