this battalion of lovers

“Do you think it indecent,” Brutus begins — but his mind rebels, and his tongue can scarcely articulate precisely what it is they will not be doing. What two sober, freeborn Roman men might do together in the middle of the day must not be spoken of regardless of the niceties of form. At the least, he is sober, and Mark Antony is himself.

“Indecent? By the gods, no. Impractical, under present circumstances. I don’t like waiting, that’s all.”

Antony gives up groping at him long enough to brace against the painted pillar, tugging him in by the hand — it boggles the mind that the man can stand to despoil what was once Pompey’s property, but given Antony’s habits there may be no surface in this villa that is entirely innocent.

“You should practice it sometime,” Brutus says, but it’s difficult to be sulkish with a hard cock. “Patience.”

“Here, you know where to put it. You remember Greece, don’t you? Pretend I’m a lovely goatherd.”

Brutus stammers, but he does in fact know where to put it — his erection is already trailing seed at the tip, and if he doesn’t put it somewhere he is going to end up seriously inconvenienced. Antony guides him in between his legs, to rub a slippery line in the hot crease formed at the top.

The place is a welcome one, and his ardor makes the way slicker before long with the first swelling drops of seed — every thrust brushes past his testicles, prickling with hair, and the blood-heat of Antony’s own stiffening cock is not far away by feel alone. Antony is a hairy man, not coarsely so but in strategically placed regions, and the furred animal heat of him — the cleft of his arse, the backs of his legs — twines over Brutus’ own body like wildfire.

His hands grip tight around Antony’s waist, where the hard muscle eases into a softer plane of flesh — if he leaves marks the women of Rome will hate him for it. The two of them cleave together with garments bunched up or cast aside — the friction of their bodies kindles an urgency in Brutus that he scarcely knows what to do with, besides to pursue it.

The exertion leaves Brutus panting, but at least Antony seems to be enjoying himself.The enthusiasm is flattering, but the grinding of that tightly-muscled backside threatens to bring Brutus off before he has a chance to do much else— Antony tugs at his own cock with lewd abandon, letting Brutus do the work of exhausting himself against those thighs while still maintaining his own proper balance. Not for him the politely closed knees and distracted expression, as though the person presently subjected to such attentions would rather be elsewhere. The whole line of his body proclaims enthusiasm in the act — the way his arms brace for better leverage, and the pleasing grace of his bent neck as he turns his head.

Those thickly-muscled thighs ride back against him so prettily that he cannot keep from gasping aloud, or nearly from staggering backward — Brutus calls out Antony’s name, and he must sound comically scandalized because he can feel the answering rumble of laughter all the way down in the root of his cock.

“You perfect innocent — how is it that I’m the one debauching you from this position?” Antony is scarcely even sounds winded, but there is a wine-dark rawness in his voice that makes Brutus wish he were fucking that mouth.

“Nobody is being debauched,” Brutus says, through clenched teeth.

The sun-beaten nape of Antony’s neck is right there in front of him and he cannot help burying his face against it, steadying his thrusts and adjusting his grip. Antony smells like sweat and olive oil, entirely male and very nearly animal — he is altogether more substantial than those decorous fainting boys on the sides of Greek winepots. The fact that he is presently sporting a tremendous erection doesn’t hurt the impression of complete manhood.

When Antony climaxes he shoots his spunk all over Brutus’ hand. Brutus can smell the liquid heat of it in the instant it happens, bursting forth sharp and clear like sea water, and the raw helpless sound that Antony makes low in his throat at the moment he comes is nearly enough to send him to the edge of his own desire all at once then and there.

“Are you happy now? Does this satisfy your sense of practicality?” Antony’s spunk is nearly a taste in his mouth; he feels the sticky spill of it when he cups Antony’s softening prick in his hand, and the way his balls hitch. His own climax cannot be far behind.

“Oh, yes,” Antony says, nearly laughing. “Oh, yes.”