In His Arena 1: Slave Eternal by Nasia Maksima Page B

against the man’s ass. “Take it. Take every fucking inch of me.”
    “Yes,” came his conquest’s panted whisper.
    One more sharp plunge, and Hektor exploded, spilling his hot load deep within the man’s quivering hole. He pumped, driving his cum deeper with a wild desperation.
    Three more lunging thrusts, and Hektor pulled out. A rivulet of cum ran down the man’s thigh. Hektor watched it, the pearly liquid trickling to the dust where it would be lost forever.
    The man sagged, but his cock was still heavy. “We’re not done.”
    Hektor’s words came out raw and rough. “The Abyss we’re not.” He was under no obligation to do anything but plow his conquest. Clearly the man had enjoyed it. They were finished. Hektor felt guilty enough without having another man’s cum on his hands, in his mouth…
    “You’re Hektor Actaeon.”
    “And?” Hektor struggled to keep his voice steady.
    “You wouldn’t want me telling anyone it wasn’t good now, would you?”
    A bolt of fear shot through Hektor and then anger swept after it, taking his sanity. Without thinking, he brought his open palm down on the man’s ass. Smack! The sound carried in the small, hollow space.
    The man grunted. “Fffuuuuck.”
    The sound of his lecherous moan drove Hektor beyond reason. He slapped the man again and then again, harder, the headiness of the act, the noise of the slaps making him hard again. His cock stood up stiff as an iron rod. Doomsayer in the Abyss, what is wrong with me?
    The man’s ass was a pretty pink, more enticing with every moan and roll of his hips. Hektor could not keep his hands from his own cock—the sight of that pink ass, the glide of his rigid pole through his fingers driving him to wantonness. The implication that he was somehow deficient rolled through Hektor like a storm.
    He stepped forward and, in one jab, speared the man again with his cock. He grabbed without ceremony, taking the man’s hips and pounding him so hard the chains’ bindings rattled.
    Hektor’s lust was mindless, boundless. He was shouting with each thrust, fucking that tight hole, using its owner. Reaching around, he palmed the man’s cock and jerked him in time to his rutting. The man moaned, leaning his head back on Hektor’s shoulder and thrusting himself into the gladiator’s hands.
    “Yeah, that’s it. Pump my cock. Fuck!”
    Hektor went harder, faster, plowing the man until he had no breath to speak. It was easier that way, easier when his face was turned, when all Hektor could hear was breathy moans and guttural groans, the slap of cock and balls and ass coming together.
    His eyes rolled back into his head, and on the hazy edge of orgasm, he thought again of Leander. Every pump, every dark thrust, into Leander’s ass or the clasp of his throat.
    “Leander,” he whispered.
    “Yes,” the man managed, riding him. “Fuck me. Fuck me hard!”
    And Hektor did—taking him, fucking him, his fingers biting into the man’s hips as he rammed him. “Leander, Leander, Leander,” he cried until his throat was raw and his cock ran dry, pumping load after sweltering load deep into his conquest’s tight ass.
    He withdrew, sweaty and hot and confused. And as his cum ran down the man’s thigh, Hektor tucked himself back into his loincloth and fairly fled the cell.
    * * * *
    The sun beat mercilessly down on the Grand Palestra, and it wasn’t yet midday. Stratos stood at the edge of the theatre’s training field, closing his eyes as a stray wind blew sand and grit about like dervishes. He brushed dirty-blond hair back from his face and looked over to where the novice gladiators labored against one another with spear and net and trident.
    Some of them fumbled and stumbled about like newly born colts just finding their legs. They were all young, eager, strong, not yet tainted by Arena and her whorish ways. He watched the sweat roll off taut, rippling muscle and flesh. His mouth felt dry, and he lifted his wineskin to his