Leonidas was Sparta. Stelios
had recognised this at seven years old as soon as he had entered the Agoge.
He’d watched with awe as the warrior had fought each battle and
learned each lesson with pride, respect and honour.
Growing older, he had spent more than just strength fighting man to man against his King. He’d offered himself in every way but had been refused with a gentle shake of the head. Leonidas was majesty. Leonidas was Sparta. Now Stelios kneels at Leonidas's feet, head bent forward in respect. This is the last, for soon they shall dine in Hell. He reaches out a hand, blood of the sacrificed staining the dirt around them, and with eyes lowered, he takes his King into his mouth and honours him, rising and falling onto his phallus as if it is a sword. His own seed is spent as he swallows the offering Leonidas makes to Eros and he sleeps with a smile on his face knowing that tomorrow he will have a glorious death. With arrows raining upon them he looks to his King. “It is an honour to die at your side.” “It is an honour to have lived at yours.” |
DONE