Chapter 5: The Spartan's Claim
The Spartan's hand closed around Lara's forearm before the dust even settled, hauling her upright with a brutal jerk. Her bare feet scrabbled for purchase on the sun-scorched cobbles, but he gave her no time to balance. He barked something in rapid, guttural Greek, then yanked her forward by the arm, dragging her through the winding streets like a captured slave.
Lara stumbled after him, her long dark braid whipping across her shoulders, her bare tits bouncing with every jarring step. The townspeople stared openly as they passed. Women clutched their cloaks, men stopped mid-conversation, and children pointed, their mouths agape. Lara just grinned, letting the Spartan tow her along, her hips swinging with an exaggerated sway.
"You keep pulling that hard, you'll rip my arm clean out," she called to him, her voice breathless with laughter. He didn't respond, didn't even glance back, just kept his grip locked on her wrist and marched toward a squat stone building at the edge of the city.
The barracks rose before them, its walls rough-hewn and pale in the relentless afternoon sun. Beyond a heavy timber gate, a training yard sprawled, packed hard earth ringed by weathered pillars and stone benches. A dozen soldiers in bronze cuirasses and leather kilts stopped their drills, spears lowering, heads turning as the Spartan pushed Lara through the gate.
He shouted something, a single booming phrase that cut through the murmur of the yard. The soldiers erupted in laughter, a rough, appreciative sound. One of them, a thick-necked man with a shaved head and a scar that split his brow, bellowed a reply and tossed a coin at his comrade's feet. Others dug into their pouches, silver flashing in the sunlight.
The Spartan turned to Lara, his face unreadable beneath the ridge of his bronze helmet. Without a word, he shoved her forward, sending her stumbling toward a low stone bench that sat in the middle of the yard. She caught herself on the edge, her palms flat on the rough surface, and looked back at him over her shoulder with a lazy, hungry smile.
"Plain fuck, or do you want to make it a show?" she asked, her voice low and taunting.
He didn't answer with words. He grabbed her by the hips, bent her over the bench, and kicked her feet apart. The stone scraped her knees, but she didn't complain. She arched her back, presenting her ass to him, her cunt still wet and swollen from the samurai's cold, precise fucking.
His bronze cuirass clanked as he worked the strap of his kilt. Then his cock was free, thick and veined, already hard and glistening with pre-cum. He didn't tease. He didn't warn. He drove into her in a single brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt.
Lara gasped, her fingers clawing at the stone. "Fuck, yes. That's it, soldier. Use that cock."
He grunted and pulled back, then slammed into her again. The soldiers circled, their sandals scuffing the dirt, their voices rising in jeers and encouragement. Men clapped each other on the back, coins trading hands, odds being shouted. Lara couldn't understand the words, but she understood the game perfectly.
"Come on, you Greeks," she purred, pushing back against his thrusts. "Show me what Athens couldn't teach you."
The Spartan's hands clamped down on her hips, his grip bruising as he set a punishing rhythm. His thighs slapped against her ass, bronze greaves clanking with each impact. Sweat dripped from his brow onto her lower back, and the smell of him, salt and oil and bronze, filled her senses.
Lara took it, let him pound into her in front of all his men, her tits swinging beneath her as the bench ground against her ribs. She moaned, loud and theatrical, egging him on. "Harder. You're not fucking a virgin, you know."
He obliged, grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking her head back. She cried out, a shriek that was half pain, half pleasure, and he slammed into her with renewed fury. His breathing turned ragged, his rhythm stuttering, and then he roared, a deep animal sound, and emptied himself inside her with a shudder.
He pulled out, his cock slick, his hips glistening. Seed dripped from her swollen cunt down her thighs. He said something to his comrades, a short, gruff phrase, and gestured at her with contempt. The soldiers laughed.
The next man stepped forward, a younger soldier with dark curls and a wolfish grin. He'd already untied his kilt, his cock standing proud and ready. He grabbed Lara by the waist, flipped her onto her back on the bench, and spread her legs wide without asking.
"Careful with that thing, baby," Lara cooed, her voice a mocking drawl. "I'm delicate." But she pulled her knees toward her chest anyway, offering herself up.
He drove into her with a laugh, his thrusts quick and shallow, designed for his own pleasure more than hers. Lara took it, moaning and cursing in equal measure, her hands finding his shoulders and digging her nails in. The stone bench scraped her spine, the rough surface biting into her skin, but she didn't care. She was a rag doll passed from soldier to soldier, each one using her in his own way.
The third man bent her over a pillar at the edge of the yard, taking her from behind while the fourth knelt in front of her and shoved his cock in her mouth. She gagged, choked, drooled, and swallowed when he came, his seed thick and bitter on her tongue. The fifth laid her out on the ground, her body pressed against the hot packed earth, and fucked her missionary style, his helmet clanking against hers as he covered her mouth with his.
She lost count somewhere around the seventh. Each man was a variation on the same theme: a grunt, a rhythm, a flood of seed. They came on her tits, in her cunt, down her throat. Some finished and pulled out, leaving her dripping until the next man took his turn. Others stayed, swapping positions, laughing at each other's stamina.
By the time the sun began to bleed orange and red across the sky, Lara lay sprawled on the bench, panting, every muscle in her body aching. She was soaked, drenched in sweat and cum and the grime of half a dozen different centuries. Her thighs were streaked with white, her lips swollen and red, her hair a tangled mess.
The soldiers, satiated and laughing, filtered away toward their quarters, clapping each other on the back and trading crude jokes. The training yard emptied, the dust settling, the only sound the distant murmur of the city and the crackle of a dying brazier.
Lara pushed herself up on her elbows, then her hands. Her body protested, every joint screaming. She looked around, her eyes landing on a weathered column at the far edge of the yard, half-hidden in shadow. Carved into its surface were spiraling symbols, intricate and ancient, glinting faintly in the fading light.
She crawled toward it, her knees scraping the packed earth, her palms leaving smears of seed on the stone. She reached up, tracing the grooves with trembling, bloodied fingers.
The spirals began to glow, warm and familiar. The world twisted around her, the barracks dissolving into a swirl of orange and gold, and Lara let herself be pulled into the current.