The Orient Express train had left Vienna Station at dusk, and there was no longer anything to see out of the coach window, the lights of the towns flashing by having been extinguished hours ago. Magnus the Authenticator was weary, and the clacking of the iron wheels on the iron rails as the train thundered toward Belgrade lulled him. But the unfamiliar noise of the speeding train and frequent lurch from side to side robbed him of sleep. He’d never ridden a train before;
the Orient Express had only been in service for two years in its Paris to Istanbul route. Heretofore he’d always taken the sea route from London to Istanbul en route to Heinrich Schliemann’s excavations at the ancient—mythical until Schliemann’s finds—site of Troy near the Turkish coast.
This time Magnus was traveling alone—for Schliemann, but without Schliemann, his long-time employer having worked himself into a corner. He could not raise money for a fourth excavation attempt at Troy without substantiating in some why his previous claim of having uncovered a hoard of golden coins and artifacts, known throughout the world now as Priam’s Treasure, in the Troy ruins; but yet he could not, himself, return to Turkey until he accounted for the treasure trove to the Turkish authorities. The rub was that what he had found had been stolen from him and still rested, so rumor had it, somewhere in Turkey. Magnus, Schliemann’s authenticator, was his emissary in this delicate situation, rushing to Istanbul while Schliemann and his flashy wife, Sophia, played for time and support in Vienna.
Magnus laid his head back against the hard, leather-upholstered seat and willed himself to sleep. But although he was exhausted, sleep did not find him. He was waiting for something else too. He knew he was being followed. He’d sensed it on the platform at Vienna Station—in fact he had counted on it. All of Europe was abuzz with the newly coined legend of Priam’s Treasure and the possibility that the Trojan War had not been myth; they all wanted something to keep their minds off the Serbo-Bulgarian war that threatened to spread wider in southeastern Europe. And then there was Turkey itself. Talks with Britain were not going at all well, and Schliemann was afraid that if he didn’t make some headway on the Priam’s Treasure issue quickly, hostilities between the Ottoman Turks and Europe would close down his access to Troy for years to come.
Maybe if he thought of something else he could drift off to sleep. Magnus thought hard, but what floated up in his mind was bitter sweet—his parting from his Greek Adonis, Paulus. Magnus’s weakness. Young, willowy Greek men—not young so much as small and vulnerable to his heft and strength. Spreading their legs for him. Paulus had been his for the past three months in Vienna, as Magnus attended Schliemann in his attempt to wrest support for a new expedition to Troy from the German princes as soon as the Turks lifted their ban. There had been little for Magnus to do while waiting, so he had frequented the baths, fucking the young men who had congregated in Vienna from all parts of Europe—and finding the young Greeks most satisfying. A mammoth Norwegian himself, of huge, but sturdy and well-muscled proportions in all respects, he delighted in splitting young men of slight, almost feminine stature. The small, dark Paulus, of the heavy pant and little squeal in the taking, had been a delight to Magnus. The Norwegian would have brought him on this journey if he could have. But a Greek would not last an hour in Turkey.
Magnus held his eyes tightly shut and conjured up the pouty lips of his Paulus, naked except for a golden vest, opening his mouth in a silent scream and throwing his head and arms back in surrender as Magnus lifted him up by his slim hips and slowly settled the panting Greek Adonis down on his prodigious phallus.
Magnus was licking his lips in lust and had his hands in his lap, unbuttoning and freeing his engorging cock and adjusting his cloak across his torso to hide what he was doing from anyone passing by the dimly lit train corridor beyond the window into his private sleeper compartment in the middle of the night.
Paulus was tight, as always, and was crying out at the taking, as Magnus’s cock slowly ascended up his canal and the slim hips slowly descendent into Magnus’s lap. The Greek was holding his legs high and spread up Magnus’s beefy arms. And as Magnus relentlessly filled him, he responded as he knew Magnus liked. He lifted his arms and beat ineffectually against Magnus’s bulging chest with his small fists and made moans and begging of involuntary taking, letting Magnus feel the full effect of the power he had.
Magnus was breathing hard, lost in his imaginings, his fist picking up the beating of his meat. But still, he heard the click of the compartment door as it closed.
He looked up warily, his eyes blurry from the deeply felt masturbatory fantasy of his taking of Paulus to see, not Paulus. But as near to the ideal of all of the Paulus’s Magnus had sought out and fucked. No, if anything, an ideal he had not attained as yet in the Vienna baths.
Magnus watched, his eyes slitted, a fist still encasing his hard cock, as a slight, slim, young Greek god put his finger to his lips and then turned and closed the shade on the window onto the corridor and clicked the lock to the compartment door home.
Was Magnus dreaming this, he wondered. In his reverie of fucking Paulus, had he conjured up and even more tasty treat? A mere figment of his imagination and lust? Was the rhythmic clacking of iron wheels on iron rails lulling him into a hallucination?
But this could not be a hallucination. He felt the full, pouty lips of the handsome young man close around the bulb of his cock as the Greek god knelt between his legs. And then the younger, smaller man was taking him in, slowly but fully. More fully than Paulus had ever been able to do. He had one fist around the base of Magnus cock and his other hand was moving over Magnus’s torso, pushing cloak aside, unbuttoning vest and billowy white shirt. And running small, soft hand all over the contours of Magnus’s heaving torso—across his belly up to his breasts.
Magnus’s eyes were wide open and his was looking down at an unruly mass of curly chestnut brown hair with golden highlights.
The young man’s mouth slowly pulled away from Magnus’s cock and Magnus gave a little lurch of regret in the parting. The apparition then lifted his head and gave Magnus a full-lipped Bryonic smile. Real flesh; no apparition. The Greek fluttered his hand up to Magnus’s thick-muscled neck and slowly brought the Norwegian’s head down to his. Rosy lips, pale blue eyes. Eyes full of invitation and wanting. A thick, curly frame of chestnut hair.
The Greek took Magnus’s lips in his. Sweet nectar. Spring fields in the foothills of Mount Olympus. A gift of the gods. Magnus was overwhelmed. He was trembling. The blond giant, putty in the hands of the slight, willowy Greek.
A deep kiss that took Magnus’s breath away, and then the young man stood and lowered and stepped out of his trousers and unbuttoned his white cotton shirt and pushed it off his arms and onto the pulsating floor of the carriage.
In Magnus’s eyes, his young lover’s body was absolutely perfect. Alabaster white, slim hipped, not an ounce of fat, lightly muscled. Deceptively so, though. A dancer’s body. Small, trim, boyish, but firm and promising a flexibility that was fuckable in so many positions. Small, perfectly rounded balls, thrusting out rather than hanging down, and a small, uncut cock.
Magnus was mesmerized by this vision of beauty presenting himself in the darkened carriage, the carriage swaying back and forth, almost imperceptibly and in small, jerky, nonpatterned lurches. But the beautiful vessel for Magnus’s lust, standing there in his full glory, maintaining a perfect balance on the balls of his delicate little feet.
Magnus couldn’t move, but the young Greek did. He knelt once more between Magnus’s legs and enveloped the monster cock in the sweet warmness of his mouth and gave expert suck.
It was the obvious expertise of his phantom visitor that aroused Magnus to action. Small and delicate this Greek god might be, but he was no stranger to the male fuck.
With the roar of an elephant in heat, Magnus wrapped his meaty hands around the young man’s waist and pulled him up out of his crouch. He suspended his prey over his lap, searching out the Greek’s eyes with his own, looking for the reaction. The Greek was giving him a knowing little smile, almost a sneer. A sneer that turned quickly into something more wild and surprised, however, as Magnus moved his hands down so that he could lace his long, strong fingers across rounded little orbs of butt cheeks and spread them apart while jammed the young man’s hole down on his bludgeoning cock head.
The Greek cried out and flung his body about and begged for mercy as Magnus entered him to the rim of his bulb.
The intensity of the midnight visitor’s response inflamed Magnus but it also frightened him. He made to withdraw, but the Greek leaned his face down to Magnus’s, cupped his cheeks in those delicate little hands, and gave Magnus a little welcoming smile before latching on to the Norwegian’s lower lip with his teeth. He drew blood and pushed rivulets of it into Magnus’s mouth with his tongue and moved into a deeply possessing kiss.
Magnus didn’t know how the Greek knew of what lit his fire any more than he knew why the young man was here in the first place, but he had caught the signal that the Greek understood what Magnus liked and was ready to accommodate him to the fullest.
Magnus thrust hard up into the tight ass and the diminutive Greek went back to writhing and moaning and whimpering and playing the role of a smaller, more delicate courtesan being ravished by an overlarge, supercharged fucking machine.
Hours later, as the Greek lay, spent and exhausted against the steadily rising and falling breast of an equally exhausted, but fully milked Norwegian, Magnus could feel tears against his chest.
“What is it, little one?” he asked, using what slight Greek he knew to try to communicate.
“I am afraid,” The Greek answered back in perfect German. “Will you protect me?”
“Protect you from what?” Magnus murmured.
“From them. From the ones who sent me.”
“Certainly. If I can. But what is your name and who sent you and why?”
“I am Andreas. The Turkish bandits sent me. They said they needed you to tell them whether something is ancient or not. They said they’d kill me if I did not bring you to them. In Istanbul.”
“Of course, Andreas. I will do what I can.”
It had started. Someone knew he was on the way. And they knew of his specialty. And, more interesting, they knew what he liked in his men—how to get to him; how to make him bend to their plans. Magnus willed his body to slow down, to grow calm, to seem relaxed and trusting even when all of his senses were keyed up, on edge, ready to react instantaneously.
“Something else,” Andreas whispered. And then when Magnus grunted his attention to the request, “Could you fuck me again? Now?”
Absolutely, his cock already rising inside the Greek to the challenge, throbbing to the beat of the iron wheels under them hitting the iron rails. Andreas moaning and sobbing; Magnus digging and exploring every square inch of his new lover’s interior.
* * *
They fucked again throughout the second night, Andreas’s knees thrust into crease where the seat cushion met the back cushion and then again with the small of Andreas’s back on the seat cushion and legs thrust up and out, as the Orient Express cleared Bucharest and streamed on to the southwest to Istanbul.
When the Express chugged into Istanbul Station at the break of the third day, Magnus offered Andreas shelter at the Turquhouse Hotel on the Golden Horn where he always booked when he was in Istanbul, but the young Greek said he must return to his masters immediately but would come for Magnus when he was needed. The squawking of a buxom European matron nearby who had never experienced a greeting of Turkish street urchins meeting the Express before drew Magnus’s attention, if only for a moment. When he turned back, Andreas had disappear through the teaming crowd.
Magnus took a carriage to Turquhouse in a cloud of blue funk. Andreas had, in the short time they’d had, become a necessity to him. He knew he was walking a thin edge here, but Andreas had been just too perfect. Magnus had looked forward—almost to the point of salivating over the notion—to fucking Andreas in the comfort of a four-poster bed on steadier ground that the slightly swaying, occasionally lurching, always grinding Orient Express carriage.
In fact he was so keyed up that when the Turkish room attendant bowed and scraped at the threshold of his room and asked if there was anything at all he could do for the honored Norwegian archeologist—anything at all—and gave him “that” look, Magnus took him straight to the bath and fucked him to whimpering jelly while cleaning the dust of Eastern Europe rail beds off his body. Then he dragged the wilted Turk to the four-poster bed and fucked him again into total exhaustion.
Well satisfying, as a trip to Istanbul always was—and the room attendant would be well satisfied with what he was receiving for the service—but nothing like Magnus had dreamed of doing with Andreas.
While Magnus was attending to the Turkish attendant, Andreas was also being attended to. Across the Golden Horn, deep in the maze of Misir Carsisi, the Egyptian Bazaar, behind a second-floor latticed window in the gold souk, Andreas, hands tied off above his head on a sturdy bed poster, was receiving attention and instruction from his Russian master, Oleg Tarasov. Tarasov, a dark, sinister, hawk-billed ferret of man, loved his riding crop—especially for the red welts it could leave on the alabaster skin of a young Greek’s posterior.
A short slash to Andreas’s flank as Tarasov drove his cock up into the young man’s canal from behind. Andreas moaned and writhed away from the lash, only to have the leather sting his other hip.
“Tell me you have the Norwegian enthralled,” the Russian hissed in Greek’s ear, as he pulled his pelvis back and then lunged deeply again, raising the small Greek’s feet off the Turkish carpet with the force of his upward thrust.
“Yes, yes, Master,” the young man answered through gasping breath. “Ahhh,” he exclaimed as the riding crop lashed across his belly. “Yes, he will come when you want him.”
“I will want him soon after dusk tomorrow,” Tarasov whispered menacingly before he let his teeth close over Andreas’s earlobe. The young man cried out in pain for him. Tarasov liked that. His cock liked that. He drove deeper up the canal. Andreas groaned at the attention. Tarasov was not very thick, but he was long, and his cock had an upward crock in it that brutalized Andreas’s tender inner walls.
“You will go to him in the afternoon and make him pant for you. When you bring him back, you will take him straight to the green room. The belt will be there, along with the authentication papers for him to sign. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master. Oh, no! Owww, ahhh.” Andreas was writhing against the merciless attentions of lash on flanks and cock in channel.
He cried out for supplication to the other man in the room, the squat, hirsute, and heavily muscled Turk standing inside the door, his beefy arms crossed on bulging chest and his eyes slitted in pleasure at what he saw Tarasov engaging in with the young Greek.
“Asil, please. Help. Please.” It was pure desperation. Andreas knew that there was no succor to be found from the direction of Asil Hanci. Hanci was devoted to the Russian.
The bulky Turk just stood there and smiled. And Andreas’s moment of insolence was rewarded with several lashes, in quick succession, across his tender flanks, the pleasure of which brought Tarasov to his climax.
“And after the Norwegian has authenticated the belt and signed the document, I want you to take him to the baths—and I want him to have his last breath there. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, Master.” Andreas let his body go limp, his weight dragging on the leather-bound wrists tied off high on the bed post. He had endured. It was over—for now.
But there he was wrong. As Tarasov turned to stride out of the room, he motioned to the Turk, who opened his robes as he approached Andreas, displaying a thick, thick cock in full erection and big, hairy, taut, cream-filled balls.
Tarasov shut the door behind him, and, with a slight smile moved down the corridor toward his bed chamber as the first screams from Andreas echoed off the hallway walls. He would leave this business to the Turk now. Once authenticated, Priam’s Belt, the prized piece from the Priam’s Treasure golden trove from the excavation of Troy, would bring a price that only the tsar could afford. Tarasov would be well on his way to the court of St. Petersburg when the Norwegian breathed his last breath in the baths of the Cagaloglu Hamami.
Later that evening the Russian gave the last instruction to Hanci before setting out on his journey to the north. “When the Greek returns from the baths, use him as you will and then kill him.”
The Turk grinned from ear to ear. His two favorite past times.
* * *
Andreas sighed with well-satiated satisfaction. He was stretched out, naked, on the silken sheets of Magnus’s massive four-poster bed in the Turquhouse Hotel room. The French doors to the balcony were open, and the gauze curtains were gently moving in the late afternoon breeze. A breeze from the Bosporus had filtered in to take the edge off the day’s heat. The shadows were lengthening across the tiled floor. It wouldn’t be long before they had to leave.
Magnus had taken him strongly and brutally, albeit not as brutally as the Russian and Turk took him, in the bath as soon as Andreas had arrived. It was as if the few hours they had been apart had driven the Norwegian mad.
But it was what came afterward that had caused Andreas to do what he had done. When they had dried off from the bath, Magnus led the young Greek to the bed and made long, languid love to him. It was unlike anything Magnus had done earlier, not at all like the Russian had told him the Norwegian would always do. The fucking was gentle and loving and fully satisfying.
And when it was over, Andreas told Magnus, in whispering tones as if someone beyond the side curtains of the bed were listening to them, everything. He told Magnus that he was being manipulated to authenticate the centerpiece of the Priam’s Treasure, a solid gold ram’s head belt buckle, with tatters of a woven gold belt attached that had been taken from Schliemann’s first excavation of Troy and that was fit for the Trojan king Priam himself. And Andreas told Magnus that once the belt had been authenticated, Andreas was supposed to lure the Norwegian to the Cagaloglu Hamami baths and kill him. But all Andreas wanted to do was escape—with Magnus now. He assumed that all he had to do was warn Magnus and they could disappear together beyond Tarasov’s reach and leave the belt unauthenticated.
But Magnus had listened to his tale and had shown no surprise at all. And more astonishingly, the Norwegian had said they would go ahead with the Russian’s plan—that it was reassuring that they would be permitted to leave the hidden house in the heart of the golden souk after the authentication.
Andreas had declared that he would not even think of carrying out the Russian’s plan for the Norwegian in the baths afterward, and Magnus had just taken the Greek in his arms and kissed his eyelids and turned the young man on his belly on the bed. Then Magnus had covered Andreas’s body with his own and fucked him gently and deeply again while kissing the hollow of the Greek’s neck and murmuring calming endearments in his ear.
* * *
Magnus’s eyes lit up with joy when he saw the gleaming Belt of Priam lying on the velvet cloth on the green room table. It was magnificent. And there was no doubt that it was the genuine article. He took up the pen and the authentication document lying beside it.
“No, you can’t,” Andreas exclaimed in a shocked voice. “You can’t sign that. That will be your death sentence. They won’t need you anymore.”
“I doubt whether we can leave this place if I don’t sign it,” Magnus answered with a sigh. “The house seems deserted, but you and I both know that we’re being watched—that our only hope is to make the bandits think their plan is being carried out.”
“And it is the honest thing to do. This, indeed is the genuine Priam’s Belt. And authentication is what I do.”
Andreas trembled in fear as Magnus signed the document with a flourish.
“Go check the corridor, Andreas,” Magnus then said. “This is the most dangerous moment for us—finding out if they will keep with the plan they gave you. I’ll follow along behind you.”
Andreas moved to the door and looked back at Magnus. The Norwegian was holding the gleaming artifact in his hands, lovingly stroking it and feeling the heft of the solid gold. Andreas stole through the door and looked both ways down the corridor. Everything looked clear. A quick shuffle down the nearby staircase and they could be out the door in a twinkle of the eye. Once in the souk, Andreas was confident they could melt into the crowd. He hadn’t been fully honest with the Russian and the Turk. They thought they denied him mobility in the neighboring streets enough that he was at their mercy in the Egyptian Bazaar. But Andreas knew the bazaar well. He’d been here long before he ever was bought in the slave auction by the Russian. All he needed to do was to have five steps advance on anyone the Russian sent to track them down.
Andreas looked back into the room. Magnus was drawing away from the gleaming Belt of Priam on the velvet-topped table and was already half way across the room. Then he was at the young Greek’s elbow, and they moved for the door in a flash. Wherever the Turk had been hiding in wait, he miscalculated how long Magnus would spend with the golden artifact. He heard—or spied—the two leaving the green room, but by the time he got to the entrance to the house, Andreas had managed to win his five-step lead, and the two had vanished.
It was one panicked Turk who realized by the next dawn that Andreas was not coming back. Hanci’s only solace was that the authentication document had been signed, with Magnus’s authoritative signature clearly discernible, and lay beside the gleaming gold Belt of Priam. He’d decide later whether the Russian need be told that the Greek hadn’t been disposed of.
* * *
The sailing vessel was well out into the Mediterranean, en route to Famagusta, Cyprus, following the same route that the victors of the Trojan War had taken after sacking the city, before Magnus left the railing and went below to be greeted by a grateful—and naked in his readiness to express his gratefulness—Andreas.
Magnus stood over his diminutive lover and started to disrobe. Andreas’s eyes opened wide in wonder as they caught the gleam of the golden ram’s head belt buckle that Magnus produced from the folds of his cloak.
“What? But I saw it. It was still there when we left.” Andreas was so surprised that he could hardly form the words.
“Something was there, of course,” Magnus answered with a smile, as he stepped out of his clothes and gently spread his new lover’s legs as Andreas laid back on the ship’s bunk on his back. “Your masters fell into Schliemann’s plans beautifully. I can’t wait to see how our Russian friend will fare at the court of St. Petersburg when the tsar finds that the replica of Priam’s Belt they buy from him at a premium cost is a fake, with just a thin veneer of gold over brass.”
“But, but—I don’t—” Andreas was saying as Magnus moved between his legs and the Greek took the strong, hard phallus in his hands and guided it to his hole.
“I could authenticate the belt because I was there when it was first found,” Magnus continued in a lust-filled hoarse voice. The knob of his member was at the Greek’s gate, and Andreas was covering it with his saliva to ease the entry. “Schliemann had a duplicate made. You thought you were pulling me into the Russian’s plan on the Orient Express, when I actually was ensnaring you, pushing my way into access to the real belt.”
Magnus was pushing his way into his diminutive lover’s channel now, gaining access to his own treasurer trove. Andreas arched his back and widening his legs as much as possible to take Magnus in. He groaned and moaned, and Magnus sighed his pleasure at the taking, as the swaying of the boat helped set a gentle rhythm for the fuck. They spoke no more as waves and waves of lust and ecstasy, enhanced by their sense of freedom and victory, covered them.
Much later, as Andreas lay safe in the Norwegian’s arms, he asked the question that had been on his mind for some time.
“Why Cyprus? Why are we sailing for Cyprus instead of returning straight to Vienna on the Orient Express?”
Magnus laughed and ran his fingers lightly around Andreas’s nipples for several minutes and leaned over and kissed him lightly there before he answered. “Schliemann indeed expects me straightaway back to Vienna on the Orient Express. But I haven’t quite decided yet whether I and Priam’s Belt—and you—will ever be making that trip. No one would ever suspect we were in Cyprus.”