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"Judaea" is the Roman name for what later became "Syria Palaestina", but at the time these stories are set, the Roman province still held its earlier name. There will be at least one other story in this series, and (I hope) others in the future.
This one is straightforward and sweet.
My other stories are many and varied, though I always write carefully, edit compulsively, and try to create interesting characters, no matter how kinky or taboo the story may get. You can find them all by searching `shahairyzad'.
And if you like this story . . . please let me know! shahairyzad@aol.com
GAIUS AND EZRA
When I first saw him in the marketplace, in his ragged tunic, I thought he was a beggar. His face was burnt brown by the sun, and he stared around him like the fruit and bread and olives were exotic treasures. He was thin, but he didn't look starved. His black curls spilled onto his shoulders, and he had the wisps of a boy's first beard.
Most of the locals avoid my eye, or give me hostile stares, but this boy looked at me openly, without fear, his dark eyes running up and down my armor before settling on my face. The way his eyes widened, I bet he'd never seen blue eyes before.
I offered him a date, plump and sweet. His eyes went even wider, and his mouth opened slightly. Such a sweet mouth . . . soft red lips, plump as the fruit on my palm.
"Take it!" I said.
I bet he didn't understand a word of Latin, but he took the date, eyes shining, and smiled at me, making the gesture the locals use to show thanks.
I smiled back and urged him, "Eat it!"
He nibbled on one end, closing his eyes as he savored it, rolling that bit of sweet flesh around his sweet mouth.
Seeing the pleasure he took in that simple morsel, seeing his soft lips curl into a smile . . . I felt my prick rise.
I wanted this boy. I wanted to kiss his lips and take pleasure in the sweetness of his body. I wanted to see his eyes shine at the pleasure that my prick gave him.
Two months in this shithole at the edge of the empire, and I hadn't fucked even one of the local boys. Septimus had fucked at least four, but he likes them younger than I do, and he's so rough with them they're always crying when he's done. It's no wonder we get hostile stares.
He had one in his tent last week and offered him to me when he was done, but the boy was sobbing so hard it turned my stomach. After I passed, he offered him to Marcus. He fucked the boy, but I doubt his heart was in it. Marcus would rather take it up the ass than give it . . . and thank the gods for that! I'd be going crazy here if it wasn't for his greedy hole.
But Marcus is old . . . nearly forty . . . and he won't kiss. He says kissing is womanish. I say to Hades with that crap!
This boy, with his eyes closed, savoring the last morsel of the date . . . this boy is young and sweet and beautiful, with lips that the gods made for kissing.
They say Jupiter once saw a beautiful boy, a shepherd or a prince or something, and swooped down in the form of an eagle and carried him off. Ganymede . . . that's what he was called. He ended up as cupbearer to the gods, and I bet Jupiter fucked him every day . . . and I bet he kissed him when he fucked him.
Well . . . I have my Ganymede right here in front of me, and I'm not losing the opportunity.
I take the boy's hand and lead him along, out of the marketplace, out of the town, to a grove of olive trees that has a stream trickling through it. This is my favorite place in this shithole, where I can lie in the shade and jerk off and dream of Liguria.
I won't be jerking off today.
The boy comes willingly enough, though warily. His face shows his wariness as openly as a child's . . . but like a child, he lets himself be led.
In the shade of the olive trees, I take off my helmet, unbuckle my breastplate and sword, and strip off my tunic. I lay the tunic on the ground and sit on it to unlace my boots, my legs spread. My prick is already fattening up, just from the thought of the boy and what I'm going to do with him.
The boy's eyes are wide again, and he stares right at me, not even trying to hide his interest.
Suddenly, he grins, and yanks off his tunic, and kicks off his sandals, and stands there naked in front of me. His prick is sticking straight out, stiff as a pike . . . stiff as my own prick. There's a little bush of black pubes around it, but otherwise the boy's body is smooth and almost hairless. The tip of his prick looks odd, like a helmet. I've heard the locals follow a cult that cuts off their foreskin, but I've never seen what it looks like. So strange!
I motion for him to come towards me, and he comes willingly . . . awkward and eager. I pull him down on top of me, and we kiss.
I am not the first person he's kissed. He kisses with enthusiasm, and with skill too. His tongue in my mouth, the softness of his lips . . . I can tell he's kissed before, and he loves doing it. My breath comes more quickly, and I feel the blood rise in my face and in my prick.
He smells of livestock. Strongly. This close to him, I can't ignore it. He smells of . . . sheep? It makes me think of Liguria . . . my father and my boyhood. The smell makes my heart twist, just a little.
I bet I smell too . . . of sweat, after a morning baking in the sun in full armor.
I sit up, then stand up, the boy still clinging to me, still kissing me. I walk carefully into the stream.
The water is cool on my ankles . . . refreshing in the heat. I find a deeper spot, where the water comes up to my calves, and I set the boy down in the stream. He looks confused, but when I squat down and start to splash water over myself, he giggles and does the same. Soon, we're splashing water on each other, laughing and shrieking like a couple of children.
We end up lying in the stream, kissing again, the water flowing around us. He still smells of sheep, but not as much as before, and the more I kiss him the less I care how he smells. He is so open with me, so giving, so sweet . . . this boy is special.
I grab his ass and stand up, still holding him, still kissing him. I set him down on my tunic, so he is squatting, his mouth a hands-width from my prick. He stares at it in wonder but doesn't open his mouth. Doesn't he know about fellatio? A boy who kisses like that?
This town really is a backward shithole!
I stick a couple fingers in his mouth, encouraging him to open up. I nudge the head of my prick against his lips.
He gets the idea, and opens his mouth, and my prick slides in. His teeth scrape the skin. Shit!
I tap his cheek, and his eyes turn up to my face. I look at him, pointedly, open my mouth, and curl my lips over my teeth. He's confused for a moment, but I see it in his eyes when he gets it.
His lips cover his teeth, and he slides his mouth farther down my prick, and I feel happier than I've felt since I first landed in this shithole town.
I grab his head and rock my hips, so my prick slides in and out between those sweet lips. I know he'll gag if I go too deep, so I keep it shallow as I fuck his mouth.
He's got one hand on his own prick, frigging away, and he puts the other hand on my ass, pulling my hips towards him. Then both his hands are on my ass, and he's forcing his mouth down on my prick, forcing my prick deeper. I touch the back of his throat, and he gags, but he doesn't pull off. It's like he wants all of my prick inside him. By Jupiter, this boy is hot!
He works my prick with his mouth till he really gags and has to pull off. He sits back on my tunic and grins up at me, eyes shining. Then he scrambles around onto hands and knees.
He settles on all fours on my tunic and wiggles his ass at me, inviting me to mount him. When I hesitate, he shakes his ass again, peering back at me like, `Isn't this what you want?' His black curls tumble around his face like a veil, swaying as he moves. I imagine grabbing them like reins as I ride him.
But I want to see his face as I fuck him . . . and I want to kiss him and stroke his curls, not grab them in my fist. So I roll him onto his back and throws his legs onto my shoulders. He looks confused, but he doesn't resist.
I grab my little flask of olive oil and rub some onto his hole . . . work a finger or two in, tickling his insides. I rub oil onto my prick as well. I'm grateful for how expressive his face is . . . I can see what he likes, and what he's not sure about.
Looks like everything I'm doing is something he likes, even when I oil up my prick one more time and press into his hole.
It resists for just a moment, but then my prick pops through, and the boy sucks in his breath . . . slowly breathes out . . . and my prick slides in a little deeper. His insides are smooth, and hot, and he's panting, and his eyes are wide again, looking straight into mine.
He smiles.
I slide my prick even deeper inside him, pushing in till the full length is buried inside him. He closes his eyes, and his mouth drops open, and he says something I can't understand in his own language. But the language of his body is easy to understand. He wants me to fuck him, every bit as much as I want to fuck him.
I do it gently, staring into his eyes, leaning in from time to time to kiss him on the lips.
My prick feels wonderful, sliding into his tight, welcoming hole. But there's something more . . . something I can see in his eyes. They shine up at me, like he thinks I'm marvelous, and this fuck is marvelous.
This boy is special, and this fuck is special, and even though I've fucked dozens of boys . . . and men . . . over the years . . . and taken my share of pricks up my ass . . . this fuck is . . . unique.
I try to make it last. I try to stretch that special feeling out . . . make the fuck last for hours . . . but that's not how it works. I get too excited, and I start fucking harder, and the boy's eyes are locked on mine as I pound my prick into his hole . . . and suddenly I'm shooting my semen inside him, so much sooner than I want to . . . and he's grinning up at me, as excited as if he'd just shot his own semen . . . and his chest is rising and falling, and he's breathing more heavily, and his eyes close, and his hand goes to his prick, and now he is shooting his own semen all over his chest and belly.
I hug him, his semen like glue, joining our bodies together. I kiss his sweet lips and hold him in my arms, and we stay like that for a long time.
But I need to take my turn at patrol . . . I can't stay here with this beautiful boy forever.
He sits and watches me as I buckle myself back into my gear. The armor makes me feel strong, but also vulnerable. It reminds me of the fear and hatred in the locals' eyes. Fuck it . . . nothing I can do about that. At least I didn't get those looks from this beautiful boy.
I want to show him my gratitude . . . offer him something solid to remember me by. I pull a coin from my purse . . . nothing valuable, but still better than nothing . . . and press it into his palm, closing his fist around it. His eyes go wider than I've seen yet, and he opens his palm and stares at the coin in wonder, as if I've given him a precious jewel.
I'm glad he doesn't think I'm treating him like a cheap whore.
I tilt his chin up so we are eye to eye. I gesture to myself,
"Gaius."
His brows knit, and I repeat the gesture.
"Gaius."
He gets it, suddenly, and breaks into a smile. He gestures at himself,
"EZRA! Ezra . . . EZRA!"
His enthusiasm makes me smile . . . or is it his sweetness?
"Thank you, Ezra."
He says something back, in which I hear something that sounds like `Gaius'.
Who could ask for more?
I leave him smiling by the stream, and head back into the shithole town.
And I realize I'm smiling too.