Ch. 01: The Spoil of War

This story is a myth-inspired, literary erotica drawing from Homeric tradition. It contains themes of consensual BDSM, ritual degradation, emotional domination, and power exchange between male characters. All scenes are grounded in mutual desire and mythic intensity.

"Now all the other gods and warriors on the plain lay sleeping, wrapped in shadow and silence,

but not Zeus, whose mind stirred with plans to honor Achilles, son of Peleus."

Iliad book II

But in his tent of stitched bull-hide and bronze-fastened wood,

Achilles, breaker of ranks, swiftest of foot, beloved of Thetis the silver-shod,

lay not in sleep but in submission.

He was beneath Patroclus, son of Menoetius, tamer of horses, beloved of men.

The breaker of men, scourge of Troy, had his thighs spread wide,

his back arched like a bow drawn tight,

his breath ragged from the mingling of pain and delight.

Beside the central pole, the lamp flickered--its tongue of flame

casting trembling shadows upon the bright curve of Achilles' shield,

where Hephaestus' cunning had etched scenes more living than dream:

the high walls of Ilium, the Scamander choked with bodies, and chariots wheeling in dust.

And in the shadow of that bronze prophecy, Patroclus possessed him.

He seized Achilles by the hair, golden like beaten wheat,

and forced his gaze upon the shield--his own image warped and wet with sweat and shame.

> "You fought like Enyalios today," said Patroclus,

his voice thick with wrath and something darker, older.

"You took Briseïs, you sacked Lyrnessus,

you laid waste the sons of Dardanus, breakers of horses."

He thrust again--deep, brutal, measured like a war-drum.

Achilles gagged around two fingers pushed into his mouth,

silencing any cry, any prayer, any plea.

> "You dragged them behind your chariot," Patroclus murmured,

the words each falling with the weight of a spear.

"Thrice around Troy. τρὶς ἐρύσας περὶ ἄστυ."

Achilles shuddered like a poplar struck by storm.

> "I saw the dust rise red, mingled with blood,

beneath the axle of your divine wheels."

Then Patroclus changed.

He groaned, his eyes rolling back like storm-wracked skies,

and when he moved again, it was with a force no longer mortal.

Priapus entered him then, swelling his loins with the vengeance of gods,

making his manhood a weapon--monstrous, divine, a curse borne in flesh.

Achilles whimpered beneath him, suddenly small before that swelling wrath.

He--whom Ares blessed in battle, whom no blade could touch--

felt now the heat and pulse of something vaster.

Patroclus' cock, thick as righteous fury, burned inside him, too large, too alive.

Achilles, for all his god-born blood, was not large--his phallos a thing of service, not spectacle,

pleasing enough for bed-slaves and captive maids.

But Patroclus, filled with heaven's madness, was huge--his shaft thick as a warrior's wrist,

longer than honor's reach.

When he withdrew, it glistened with oil and the shame of conquest,

leaving Achilles open, cleft like a wound.

Their lengths met--Achilles' smaller shaft now laid atop Patroclus' divine column.

His sack, tight and curled, rested on the god-warmed bulk below.

The difference was obscene.

Patroclus' glans jutted past his by a full three daktyloi, thicker by two.

Then came the blows.

As an eagle strikes a hare mid-leap--talons outstretched, eyes gleaming with hunger--

Patroclus' heavy phallos slapped down upon Achilles' loins.

Again. Again.

The god-cock crushed his smaller length, battered his tight scrotum with rhythmic cruelty.

Achilles cried out, his voice piercing the tent, pain and surrender mingled in one note.

When the head of Patroclus' cock struck his balls--just enough to ache, never enough to ruin--

he screamed, ashamed at how deeply the blow undid him.

He buckled, gasping.

But Patroclus pinned him like a lion over prey.

The son of Thetis could not rise. Could not resist.

He only trembled, knowing his body had been made not for war, but for this.

And he named it in his heart. Breaker of Sons.

That's what it was. The thing inside him. The instrument of his unmaking.

Patroclus had once caught him whisper it. He never let him forget.

> "Up," Patroclus commanded, withdrawing with a groan like thunder parting the sky.

Achilles sagged, empty.

But he was hauled upright--effortless, as a spear lifts a cloak from the ground.

Patroclus took the helm from the shield-stand--Hephaestus' forge-gift, wrought for battle--

and placed it on Achilles' brow.

The cheek-plates clinked softly.

The plume of black horsehair arched like flame.

The crown bore lions in chase, wolves at the flanks of cattle,

and Ker, Death, dragging a man by the throat.

It gleamed in the oil-light like augury.

Then Patroclus positioned himself again behind him,

still hard, still vast--and in one thrust like the fall of a tower, entered him anew.

> "Walk," he growled.

"You dragged them. Now bear that weight."

Achilles faltered, knees folding--but Patroclus held him fast.

One arm over his chest, the other caught the plume of the helm

and wound it round his wrist like reins.

He led him forward, step by slow step, thrust by thrust.

Once around the tent.

Achilles, swift-footed, the scourge of Trojans,

dragged his feet like a mule under yoke.

Each step marked a conquest, each thrust a reckoning.

> "Name," Patroclus barked.

> "Echephron... son of Nestor," Achilles choked, his voice splintering.

Twice around.

> "Adrestus... son of Merops..."

Thrice.

> "Demoleon... son of Antenor," he wept.

"I broke him. I dragged him in the dust."

On the third lap, Patroclus drove into him hard, the ritual sealed but not ended.

> "Say it," Patroclus hissed against his ear.

Achilles clenched his jaw, the pleasure too great to deny, the humiliation complete.

> "Your... Breaker of Sons," he whispered.

"Inside me."

> "Again."

> "Breaker of Sons!"

And then Patroclus cast him down--back upon the bloodied bedroll.

He mounted him face to face, helm still on his head, and entered him with full force.

Achilles screamed, the cry torn from his lungs like entrails from a dying man.

But even spent, even emptied, Patroclus did not cease.

His thrusts were not made for joy--but for dominion. For liturgy.

> "You do not end this," Patroclus said, eyes burning with divine fire.

"You do not speak. You do not rise. Not until I release you."

Achilles' fingers clawed the earth.

He trembled--not from torment alone, but from the dark sanctuary of surrender.

His cock hung useless, drained.

But within him, Patroclus moved still--methodic, slow, unending.

And this, Achilles hated most.

The afterlight of climax, when his strength fled and the shield mocked him

and Patroclus--divine and endless--kept going.

Not for lust.

But for cleansing.

And Achilles, son of Peleus, swiftest of all beneath Troy's high towers,

had no choice but to worship--naked, opened, conquered--

with his body alone.

Chapter two coming later this week. Let me know what you think--comments fuel the Muse.