Addition to entry: May, 2005. I have friends-locked the rest of this fic because of the poaching of LJs by various feed services like feedster.com. If you liked it and want to read more, you'll have to friend me. Be warned: this fic contains homosexual erotica. If underage or that offends you, please DO NOT READ.
In honor of the opening of the new Alexander movie, (which I haven’t seen yet, maybe Friday)
I’m posting the first part of a new fic. This one is in the Mary Renault fandom based on her marvelous book, The Persian Boy. It's rated a soft NC-17. I envison this as a number of short pieces - maybe 4 or 5, all various stages of Oromedon's lessons. If you like it, please let me know as that'll give me the incentive to do more of them. Otherwise, this may be it.Thanks so much to fellow MRfan,Capella for giving it a quick betaread with good suggestions.
Enjoy! Happy Thanksgiving.
Oromedon's Lessons: Part I: A Glimpse into the Garden
A story by elfscribe
Rating: a soft NC17
Disclaimer: No disrespect intended, in fact quite the opposite. No money made from this endeavor.
Just a bit of background for those of you not familiar with the Persian Boy. Bagoas is a historical figure who became Alexander the Great's lover.The story is from the point of view of Bagoas, who as a boy witnessed his family's murder. He was taken, castrated (unfortunately, a common practice back then) and sold into slavery. At this point in the story he has been purchased by a mysterious new master who he hasn't yet seen but who, he learns later, is the Persian King Darius. An experienced young eunuch named Oromedon arrives to teach him how to be a proper courtesan. But first Bagoas must try to forget his former life.
"There is a pride in you, wounded but still unyielding; it is perhaps what shaped your prettiness into beauty. With such a nature, living as you have lived between your sordid master and his vulgar friends, you must have been holding back all the while. And very right. But those days are gone. There is a new existence before you. Now you must learn to give a little. I am here for that, to teach you the art of pleasure." He reached out his other hand and gently pulled me down. "Come, I promise you, you will like it much more with me."
- from The Persian Boy by Mary Renault
I lay back, tense and still wary, looking up into Oromedon's smiling eyes. He settled down gently by my side. I flinched when his bare skin brushed mine. He was right. I associated all this with my shame; there was no delight in such a touch.
The memories waited, right behind my eyelids and now they rose up again, a discordant mass of anguish that I remembered as through a kif-numbed haze. I recalled an unwashed stench and a mass of black hair harsh as wire that rasped against my cheek. He said, "Open up, boy," and thrust the thick flesh into my throat. I choked and then retched. There was a blow to my face, the sudden sting growing hot. "Whelp! Next time swallow it. Get out!" I fled down a narrow alley and collapsed near a pile of offal, surprising a feasting pi-dog. It seemed I could sink no lower and I begged the gods for death. None heard me. My former master continued to send me out again and again.
My eyes stung and I turned my face to the pillow.
Oromedon did not move. When I ventured to turn back and open an eye, he was regarding me solemnly. "Gazelle Eyes," he said gently. "I understand . . . better than you know. But you must not think of it any more. That is all finished now. Believe me."
He picked up both my hands and looked at them, then interlaced his fingers in mine."Your hands are so fine, strong and yet delicate. Long fingers, a palm like a water lily. An artist's hands. Did you know that?"
I drank in his clear, light voice as if it were wine.
His lovely, dark eyes were half-lidded, lined with kohl. The golden earrings glittered and trembled as he lowered his head to brush his nose against mine. "You are so beautiful, Bagoas," he said. "Ah,I see your eyes shifting away. How often you must have heard that from those apes your master sold you to." He made a face, pursing his lips as if to spit at the memory. "But you must not blame your loveliness for the shame he forced upon you. Your beauty is your gift from the gods; it will be your gift to your new master."
He pushed my hair away from my face several times, as a mother might soothe a child. I found myself leaning into his hand.
"The first step in learning the art," he said, "is to be confident in yourself. You must know that you are beautiful. You must feel it here," he rested his hand lightly on my temple, "and here." He flattened a warm palm against my chest over my heart.His fingers gathered together and began swirling delicately across my skin. The touch was assured and strategic. He stroked my chest, along my collar bone, up the side of my neck. "Such grace in the arch, that of an impala." He traced along my jaw, across my cheekbones, over my brows and down along the bridge of my nose. "Perfection," he said, "in line and shape, the color, the texture, like fine porcelain. Your hair," he slid his hand under it, fanned his fingers and let it slide through them. "Like the softest flax. And those eyes, so huge and luminous, a starry Babylonian night. I've never seen their like! I swear, Gazelle Eyes, your beauty would move an ox to poetry! And here, such sensuous lips." He ran a thumb along my top lip and then the bottom. "A slight pout that curves upward and then down and back up at the corners. Perfect for laughing and," his voice dropped to a whisper, "for kissing."
Myself, I thought I had seen no lovelier lips than his, soft and plump, like a ripe fig, stained red as with pomegranate juice.
"May I kiss you?" he asked.
I had never been asked before. Always it had been forced on me, angrily, as if the taker despised his own lust. I must have nodded because in the next moment he had bent his head and touched his lips to mine, delicately, like a whisper of silk, like a promise of paradise.
There he rested, barely moving, until our lips began trembling together in anticipation. Slowly, as if opening a door to a room filled with treasure, his lips parted, gently forcing mine to follow his. As my mouth opened to him, so too did my will. I felt myself relaxing into his embrace. His tongue dipped within, brushed against my tongue, teasingly, in a soft back and forth caress. A pleasant honeyed sensation began tingling through me. Then his mouth possessed mine. Our tongues tumbled together, our lips grasped and held, and melded into one flesh.
He tasted of sweet cloves. To this day whenever I smell that spice, I think of him and the moment when I discovered that a kiss can bring pleasure rather than disgust. It was a revelation and a release; the first glimpse of the garden of delight.
I sighed and he laughed against my mouth. "Ah yes, my lovely. You will learn to enjoy it. That I can promise you."
A story by elfscribe
Rating: a soft NC17