How Hercules got his Bruise – now released as a stand-alone novella!
Greetings all. Just an FYI – the Mythologically Torqued anthology which features a ton of great stories is out from Toquere Press. In addition, each story is also released individually. My story, How Hercules Got His Bruise, is available as a stand-alone as well as in the boxed set.
After completing his twelve labors and earning a place amongst the gods on Mt. Olympus, Hercules finds himself lonely and unloved. When Zeus sends him on a special mission to stop Sisyphus from reaching his goal, he jumps at the chance, only to have his mission derailed by a staggering helping of lust.
Sisyphus has always worshipped Hercules’ manly perfection. When the two meet, sparks fly and both tumble into a night of first times. But in the morning, Hercules attempts to thwart his success and the two lovers swing fists.
When the dust settles, will their growing attraction survive? – and more importantly, will Zeus’ thunderbolt hit its mark?
Excerpt: Hercules first sees Sisyphus
Early morning found Hercules at the edge of the driest, least hospitable spot on Earth. A desert so far in the middle of nowhere, not many had ever passed through. As the sun beat down mercilessly on the parched dry soil, not a bird’s trill came to his ears. But he did hear one sound that repeated itself over and over. A scraping, rolling, and grunting came from up ahead. From this distance, he could just make out the figure of a man toiling with a giant rock at least ten times his size on a steep slope. Intrigued by the feat of strength, Hercules quickened his steps.
As he neared, the image enlarged, filing his vision with a sight so wondrous he dropped his parcel and watched, riveted. The man before him must be Sisyphus, but it wasn’t the Sisyphus he’d imagined. Far from a spindly, weak, lazy former ruler, the goliath pushing the boulder was neither pampered nor soft. He wore only a thin loincloth stretched across rounded tight buttocks. Underneath the fabric, thick muscles moved and bunched as Sisyphus bent to his task, both feet braced on the mountain. Above the finely sculpted ass, a narrow waist and sensuously curved back supported shoulders nearly as massive as Hercules’ own. The corded muscles in these quivered as Sisyphus wrapped his arms around the boulder and heaved. Hercules drew his breath and held it, mildly aware of a tingling low in his groin, as Sisyphus began his uphill journey.
Minutes stretched into hours as Hercules stood mesmerized, forgetting the heat, forgetting his thirst, focused only on Sisyphus’s supple grunting form as he pushed and rested, pushed and rested his way up the slope. About halfway up Sisyphus stopped, bracing the boulder against the side of the hill with a smaller rock that didn’t even appear large enough to hold its weight. But Sisyphus apparently knew what he was doing. He turned, leaned his back against the boulder, and wiped his brow. Then he lifted his face toward the sky.
For the first time, Hercules took in the full glory of Sisyphus. “Oh my god. He’s beautiful.” Pectorals swollen with work stood out proudly from his chest, leaving no flat planes from shoulder to shoulder. Effort-hardened biceps curved in muscular cascades from shoulder caps to elbows, tapering into thick forearms. Beneath his chest, six rows of abdominals rippled proudly with each breath and Hercules found his mouth watering at such perfection.
Even Sisyphus’ tree-trunk thighs were stunning. Each of his sculpted quadriceps bulged, competing with the others for space in a riot of masculine fervor. Hercules couldn’t help imagining those thunderous thighs trembling in passion, couldn’t stop himself from picturing what lay underneath Sisyphus’ loincloth nor what his groans of release might sound like. But the capping grace to the man’s beauty lay in his hair.
Sun-drenched a golden yellow, and as long as Poseidon’s, it billowed out around him in a silky mass. The color contrasted with the dark umber of his skin, creating a glowing halo that made Hercules ache to run his fingers through it. He’d never seen such beautiful tresses, not even on a woman. The fact a man bore the luxurious strands only turned him on more. Such hair could only mean the owner possessed strength and vitality nearly equal to his own. It was this thought, not that of any female, that engorged his cock.
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