The Fall of the House of Sippar Part 6


Bathed, perfumed, oiled, fed and 'arranged' on a bed of pillows, Methos waited in the king's chambers with his stomach fluttering and knotted. He did not know what was expected of him this evening, but from the thorough preparation he'd received, he could guess. Ordinarily, the fact that he had a tool as powerful as the king's apparent attraction to him at his disposal would have pleased him excessively. That he felt such ambiguity about the prospect combined with a niggling doubt that he could even bring himself to take full advantage of it spoke loudly of how well Ragnar's indoctrination had succeeded. He was afraid to want sexual contact anymore, to follow the dictates of his body, to trust his own instincts. Too often in the past cycle he'd been wrong and had suffered for it.

Gods, how ridiculous he was being! How much effort did it take to roll over, relax, and just take it? He'd done it any number of times in the past, for Tirigan and for other men, ones more brutal than Tirigan ever imagined and others more exquisitely skilled and gentle than Methos could have wished for. With all that experience, he'd become good at pretending and lying and finding pleasure in the strangest circumstances, proficient in wielding the talents of the most base whore. Why could he not put that all to good effect for him now? He'd told Yavanel that survival was the most noble thing there was, and if that meant becoming a whore, so be it.

Of course, he reminded himself, he had no way of knowing what the king had in mind. It could be nothing more than conversation about the Gutians for all he knew. That was pushing the bounds of credibility, given that he could still feel the brusque efficient fingers of the slave woman who had coated her fingers with fragrantly scented oil and carefully stretched him while smoothing her free hand over his flanks and back as though he were a wild animal she needed to gentle. It had felt good, those strong fingers easing a path into him, the callused tips striking sparks with every light brush against that special place inside that sent tingles radiating out from his groin.

He crammed a pillow into his mouth to stifle the moan of pleasure that threatened to escape, but could nothing about the involuntary thrust of his hips. She continued to stroke him lightly and murmured soothing sounds until she was satisfied that he was as loose as she could manage, then she withdrew her fingers, patted his head as though he were a child, and left the room.

He lay there, sweating and remembering, trembling a bit against tiny surges of unspent desire, the slick glide of the fabric beneath him no help in calming his overheated body. He glanced at the door, his fingers curling into the pillows while he fought an uncharacteristically difficult battle for control, and wondered if he had time to finish this before the king arrived. He circled his hips, breath hitching at the friction against his swollen flesh - but no. He couldn't do that. He was a slave, his body did not belong to him and he hadn't been given permission to orgasm.

He clenched his teeth against the need that flowed so hot and free through his veins, and clamped his hand around the base of his rampant erection to keep from spilling all over the mountain of pillows. He rolled onto his back and just let his head fall, gasping with relief at the cessation of the friction against his skin. And for a moment, he thought he might be able to come down, but another wave of need rippled through him, and he could feel the sweet caress of the air flowing over his heated body drawing him up off the pillows in search of a more solid touch. Ba'al Hadad, he was so hot...hot to the point of being feverish, and he needed ...oh yes, he needed so bad he hurt with it.

What if....what if he took himself over the edge now and then when Iszkur-ba-ni came he could focus all of his attention on pleasing the king? Surely that would please his majesty....wouldn't it? He drew his hand up the rigid shaft once, with a terrible gentleness, not nearly hard enough to satisfy, and bit back a groan. Yesss....surely that would be acceptable....he allowed his eyes to slide shut and drew a picture of the king in his mind's eye, practice for when he would be expected to run his hands over the smooth bronze skin to feel the suppleness of the clearly visible muscles rippling beneath the skin.

Ah, yes, he needed practice. Needed to imagine how that sweat slick skin would taste on his tongue, how the dark nipples would peak against his lips when he nibbled at them, how the exquisitely delicate twin sacks would smell and taste and feel in his mouth and on his chin, how far the hard cock would reach down his throat, how Iszkur-ba-ni's salty essence would taste, spilling into Methos' mouth....he writhed against his own touch, his entire body united in a single sensation, the heat spiraling up out of his groin.

He was close...so close he could feel the orgasm coiling around the base of his spine, tightening to an unbearable point until suddenly the image of Iszkur-ba-ni melted into Ragnar's sharp countenance and more slender body and Methos fell back from the edge with a shocked, disconsolate whimper.

He tossed his head back and forth on the pillows in mute denial, reaching again for the peak, so desperate to tumble into ecstasy he didn't care where his mind took him. And truly, the memory of those familiar, finely carved features contorted with passion sent him spiraling to another plane of sensation, while the strong scent of his own arousal reminded him of the one time he'd been allowed to worship at the altar of Ragnar's body.

He drove into his own hand, his thrusts now forceful and urgent, the passage eased by streaks of pearly fluid leaking from his cock, memory a powerful aphrodisiac...but still it wasn't enough. A sob broke from his throat when his body trembled, suspended over the precipice, and he found himself unable to let go.

Yet there was no one here to see him, no one to stop him, or judge him. He was alone and desperate and it was all right. He could let go now, let his control slip free from restraint and allow his body to fly free. /Let go...oh gods....let go....let go...please, just let it go.../

The wave crested, crashed, and dragged overwhelming sensations through his body. He tried to cry out but the sound that emerged was more of a strangled yelp than the triumphant howl he'd intended. Still, the pleasure was so intense his body felt too small to hold it, and he needed to give it a voice of some kind. Long strands of semen shot across his heaving chest, burning hot against his oversensitive skin and he lay in the aftermath of the violent storm, tears pooling in his eyes from the sheer force of the experience.

His entire body felt boneless and so heavy he didn't think he would be able to lift so much as lift his arm to wipe himself clean. But he had. Somehow he'd managed to push himself up on his elbows and he looked down at the mess on his belly with a faint twinge of terror. This was not normal. This was nothing like normal. Had he ever felt anything like that before? If he had, he could not immediately recall it and that truly scared him.

He hadn't meant to lift his hand or to drag the tip of his index finger across the rippled muscles of his abdomen, and he definitely had not intended to taste his own essence, licking his hand clean with hot, delicate strokes. Was it the taste of himself or the sensation of his tongue against his hypersenstive flesh that made the pressure in his gut begin to rise again? Whatever the precipitating event, he felt the need pulse through his veins again, each throb intensifying the ache in his hardening manhood. Again, so soon....it wasn't possible. He was still gasping from the last time but there was no denying the heated flush burning through him again and he was helpless to fight the tide that carried him far a sea before smashing him back onto the rocks of shore with explosive orgasm after explosive orgasm.

Methos' entire body was soaked with sweat and exhausted by the time Iszkurba-ni finally returned to his chambers, exhausted but no less needy. The burning ache flared again, and Methos squeezed his cock and groaned. All he wanted was to sleep. By all the gods that were holy, he couldn't *do* this again. He was so immersed in his own misery, he failed to notice the king's arrival, only peripherally aware of the voices that rose and fell around him.

"Gods of Kurnugi!" Iszkur-ba-ni swore softly, fluently. "What have you done to him?"

"We gave him the exilir, as you requested, your majesty" a woman's voice replied hesitantly. "There was some question since he was from the urg about his - experiences, so we put a bit in his beer and Callah massaged some into his body with the oil."

"I said to give him a *little*. Enough to loosen his inhibitions. I didn't tell you to send him into rut!"

Methos felt a cool hand hover over his brow and he twisted his fevered face avidly toward it, wanting nothing more than to feel the blessed benediction, the relief of flesh stroking flesh. He opened his eyes and looked into King Iszkur-ba-ni's molten amber eyes, so far into himself he did not recognize the rueful regret stamped on the rough hewn features nor did he immediately recall his position in the palace hierarchy. He pressed his burning cheek against the proffered hand then caught the extended thumb gently between his teeth, licking the callused pad and reveling in the fantastic, incomparable taste of salty, masculine skin. He shuddered, his entire body heaving and straining toward the man kneeling over him.

"Majesty?" The woman murmured, her tone revealing a hint of distaste. "Shall I call for someone to take care of this?"

"Hmm? No." Iszkur-ba-ni shook his head, his voice slightly breathless and distracted. "I'll take care of it."

"But your majesty - "

"You may go." He snapped. "No, wait. Bring me a bowl of cool water first and several towels."

The woman sighed. "As your majesty commands."

Methos felt it when he had the whole of the king's attention, and he scrambled to his knees on legs that trembled with fatigue, bringing them face to face. The predatory hunger raging in his belly robbed him of the ability to speak but there were better things to do with one's mouth in his way of thinking. He growled, low in his throat, muscles coiled to pounce, but Iszkur-ba-ni seemed to read the intent in his eyes and chuckled softly.

"Not yet, Methos. You're a mess. Let me clean you up first and then...."

No, there was no time to waste on such things. What did it matter when Methos fully intended to smear his fluids from Iszkur-ba-ni's head to his toes before they were finished? A dim and distant warning sounded from the back of his brain, something that said he couldn't do that to this man, had no right to and further, shouldn't. But he was too far gone into his animal self, too lost in want and need to heed the voice.

"Methos - " Iszkur-ba-ni held his hands up, palms out to ward Methos off. "You've been drugged. Do you understand what I'm saying? My slaves gave you too much and you'll - "

Methos pounced. He didn't care what he'd been given, didn't care who had given it to him, didn't want to know. All he wanted was to bury his hard, aching cock as deep inside this man's body as it would go for as long and hard as he could. More important, he didn't care even care what soul belonged to the body as long as he could possess it and be possessed by it in return.

The impact of Methos' body overbalanced the kneeling king and sent them both sprawling. Iszkur-ba-ni protested again, with a laugh, but only half his heart seemed engaged in the endeavor, while the other half was fully immersed in obtaining the pleasures of the flesh. A broken gasp whispered hot and damp across Methos' ear, accompanied by a sinuous arching shift of the form pinned beneath him that made him shiver in response. Unmindful of the semen smeared liberally across his chest and belly, Methos mimicked the gesture, nearly undone by the sensation of their bodies sliding together.

/At last....oh gods, at last..../ Sweat soaked his hair and trickled down his face, a fine tremor shimmering through his biceps, a testament to power of the four times he'd already traveled past the peak of pleasure. But not like this, not with someone and that would make all the difference in the world. It had to because he didn't think he would survive much more of this debilitating craving.

His muscles trembled on the very edge of collapse but he immediately caught Iszkur-ba-ni's wrists and pinned him to the floor. It was anyone's guess whether Methos retained the strength at this point to hold the king down should he have decided to struggle in earnest but it wasn't really an issue. Iszkur-ba-ni simply relaxed back and let Methos have his way.

Methos zeroed in on the full, sensual lips and, not bothering with the niceties of preliminary seduction, he claimed his prize, sweeping his tongue through the hot, dark velvety softness. The urgent need to orgasm again swept up through him just from that simple taste, so powerful he nearly lost control right then but he wanted more. Gods he wanted so much more and he couldn't touch, couldn't taste while holding on like this.

He pulled back and glared down at Iszkur-ba-ni's passion twisted features, the rough planes oddly flattened with a tense control he could feel trembling through the king's body, unreasonably angry with the man, simply because Methos couldn't bury himself inside and still hold on the way he wanted to.

"I'm going to have you now." He murmured, his voice raspy, in an ancient language that had not been spoken in at least a century. It was his first language and the only one he could remember well enough to formulate coherent sentences just now. Iszkur-ba-ni's eyes flew open wide without a trace of comprehension, only a hint of fear and uncertainty in the liquid amber depths that made Methos' blood sing with triumph. Yes, oh yes.

With a single, fluid movement that relied on a strength and speed he had not been sure his body still possessed, he released his captive's wrists and hooked his arms under the man's legs, simultaneously shoving them back and open. A high pitched cry of distress momentarily checked his abrupt assault but the tide of passion was too strong and too overwhelming to be stopped and he shuddered as he pressed his sweat and semen slick erection against the unprepared opening, desperate to be sheathed.

"Methos - wait!"

The panic in the voice dragged at him, and he shook with the effort it took to keep from plunging full length into the body beneath him. He wanted to ignore it, to feed on the terror and just take what he needed, but he wanted more than that somewhere deep down and in spite of the desperate craving tearing at him, he knew that to give in now was to lose that chance forever. Drawing deep, tortured breaths, he released the muscular thighs and threw himself backward, away from temptation, the shock of cold stone against his overheated skin constricting his lungs, robbing him of breath, and pulling him back away from the brink of insanity.

Chest heaving, he struggled against the raging torrent of desire that simply would not abate and finally spread his thighs and took hold of his own penis again, beginning a quick, uneven rhythm that he knew would bring him over the edge and out of this madness. He knew he was crazed, utterly crazed. He rolled his head against the wall, eyes closed, and drew his other hand down to cradle his balls, nearly sobbing with frustration.

It was a shock to have his hands pushed away but that was nothing compared to the almost terrifying sensation of having his cock engulfed in hot, wet heat. He cracked his head against the wall, clenching his teeth so tight and balling his hands so fiercely he was almost surprised that he didn't break his own bones.

"Please..." The broken plea was half sob half whimper. He fought the instinctive urge to hold this blessed receptacle still so that he could thrust and plunge at will. It turned out to be unnecessary because suddenly he was there and the orgasm exploded out from the center of his being, tearing him apart and scattering the pieces to the four winds.

He screamed and howled his throat raw just as a curtain of darkness descended to steal his consciousness and he fell, willingly, gratefully, into the abyss.



Methos surfaced from the black pit of his subconscious with a lingering sense of well being, the beginning tremors of sexual excitement shimmering through his body, a nagging, trembling ache in his muscles that spoke of overuse and the persistant feeling that something was wrong. Very wrong.

He lay still for a long moment, trying to pinpoint exactly what the problem was. The fresh clean scent of burning sage layered atop a light sandlewood fragrance teased his nostrils so he thought he probably wasn't alone. He analyzed the conflicting sensations battling for dominance in his body and tried to recall exactly what sequence of events he was missing since the past was undoubtedly the place to start unraveling this mystery. It was a good plan, but didn't work out as he'd expected.

He kept his breathing deep and easy but waves of tension coiled and spread out from his abdomen, a most distracting turn of events, and one that struck him as somehow odd. Then a cool cloth passed over his forehead and his eyes flew open involuntarily, his gasp of surprised pleasure loud in the quiet room. King Iszkur-ba-ni knelt beside him with a bowl of water and a damp cloth, wearing nothing more than a concerned, sheepish expression.

Methos fought against himself, frowning with confusion. "Master?" He whispered, eyes widening at the sound of his own raw, hoarse voice. Images, sensations, hot and wild and uncontrolled began to flood back to him and he gasped with the knowledge. "Master..." He searched the etched features, reading the truth written there, the bitter truth that it had all happened, that he, a slave, had attacked the king of the city and nearly raped him.

Iszkur-ba-ni turned his face away, dipping the cloth into a pan of water beside him and squeezing the excess water out with a strong, efficient twist of his hands.

Methos struggled against the lethargy in his limbs, forcing himself up on his knees, to bend forward in a posture of complete supplication.

"Master, my most humble apologies. I do not know what came over me."

"Shh...Methos, shh...no." The king lifted Methos and eased him back onto the mound of pillows with a gentle, inexorable pressure against his shoulders. "I am the one with the apology. I asked my servants to provide you with a - ah - an herb to help you relax."

Methos narrowed his gaze on the mobile mouth, concentrating less on the words spilling from them and more on the purely sensuous motion. He had never realized how erotic an activity talking was, but suddenly, his quiesscent flesh was pulsing, hardening along with a tiny, ecstatic rush of pleasure that throbbed into the extremity on a fresh surge of blood. He caught his breath and stifled a moan, trying to make his body remember that he had already done this many times already but the urgency swelled and pressed against his skull, making his brain feel three sized to big for his body.

"....I never meant for this to happen." Iszkur-ba-ni finished, brushing unruly strands of dark, damp hair off Methos' forehead with a tender stroke.

"M-majesty." Methos gasped, twisting his hands in the fabric of the pillows to keep from reaching out and pulling that talented mouth down onto him. "You must bind me before it is too late. I cannot stop myself when - when - " He paused, clenching his teeth against a powerful wave of desire. "Please. I cannot control this." The words came out as a desperate plea and he used his eyes to beg as well.

Iszkur-ba-ni recoiled in horror, shaking his head with no hint of doubt, and the firm decisiveness of the motion sent a overwhelming stab of despair through Methos. "I'll not do it. I only wish to help ease your pain."

"But, master...I nearly raped you!" Methos bit his tongue hard, using pain to force any further words back while panic warred with his immediate instinct to obey. He struggled to lift himself up on his elbows, needing to impress upon the king the importance of this but Iszkur-ba-ni pushed him back down and lay a hand across his lips to keep the words at bay. Methos wanted to say more, needed to, but the words were taken from him, washed away on another surge of sensation. He licked the cool, rough skinned palm against his mouth, seized by the uncontrollable need to taste, then dug the back of his head into the pillows, trembling and gasping with need.

"You must trust me," Iszkur-ba-ni soothed, running the cool damp cloth over the skin of Methos' burning chest. "That's not so hard, now is it?"

His body arched, twisting under the caress and he gave a hoarse, involuntary cry, wondering if it were possible for his brains to boil from the internal heat. Not so hard....if his face hadn't been so set with passion, if he'd been able, he would have laughed. Trust had not come easily to him before he'd arrived at the temple, now it seemed nothing short of impossible.

More water cooled the unbearable heat of his flesh and seemed to mitigate the power of the turmoil roiling within him, making it easier to handle.

"I will take you through this, and we will begin anew tomorrow. Now relax and let me give you ease."

Methos hadn't thought there was a single other thing in the world that could be more arousing than the rippling sensations passing through him, but he had been wrong. The words brushed against his ears like the tender kiss of butterfly wings, so unbearably sweet and arousing he could scarcely stand it. He squeezed his eyes shut, body quivering, touched to the quick by the genuine compassion that rang in the husky voice, by the barest hint of an emotion he didn't dare examine too closely. How long had it been since he'd felt cherished? A hundred years? Two hundred? Gods....The words were coated with honey, that much was true, but he couldn't afford to believe in myths anymore.

"I can catch you, Methos. Trust me...I am strong enough. Let me, please?"

Oh angel....demon....tempation ripped through his stomach in the wake of the wet cloth trailing across his abdomen, his choices rapidly dwindling, winnowing down to the aching throb between his legs.

He felt the hot kiss of moist breath in his ear, the sinuous stroke of a damp tongue tracing the delicate curves of his inner ear and sliding down his neck. He shuddered convulsively.

"Easy, Methos." Iszkur-ba-ni whispered. "Be easy. There is plenty of time for us."

Methos released a broken moan, half sob half plea, and trembled under the tender onslaught, his insides turning molten. No, Iszkur-ba-ni didn't understand, he didn't know. He had survived being raped and raped and beaten and raped, but this gentle seduction threatened to undo him with scarcely an effort. It was an evil, insidious kind of control, but one he had no defense against. First the king would take him apart and then he would flay him, from the inside out. He braced himself mentally, emotionally, for the pain but there was no preparing for the feel of the open mouthed kisses dragging along his shoulder or the light but firm strokes on the center of his universe.

"Please..." he begged. "Please..."

"Shhh..." Iszkur-ba-ni soothed, brushing the hair away from Methos' neck and pressing his open mouth the sensitive nape. "Shh...."

"I need - I need - " Methos broke off, unable to get enough air to speak. /I need to touch you./ He longed to say. He writhed and moaned, trying to turn to face the king, wanting to taste him, but he couldn't find the leverage he needed.

The final wall of his resistance toppled over with the sensation of gentle fingers delving between his legs to gather the twin velvet sacks in a searing caress, and he could hold out no longer. He gave his body over to King Iszkur-ba-ni. abandoned all semblance of control, falling with an overwhelming sense of dread into the strong embrace that promised salvation.



TBC



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