Greek Pedestary Simulator

You turned twelve three days ago. Your father marked the occasion by taking you to the barbershop, where the old man ran his bronze razor across your cheeks and pronounced them smooth enough to attract attention. Your mother said nothing. She busied herself with weaving in the women's quarters, her silence carrying its own weight. That same evening, your father sat you down in the andron and explained what would change.

Men would look at you now. Men would want things from you. This was natural, expected, honorable. A good erastes would teach you everything worth knowing: philosophy, music, how to carry yourself in the assembly. In return, the erastes received your affection, your company, and the use of your body in ways your father described with the calm precision of a man discussing the terms of a business contract. Intercrural contact was the expected arrangement. The cock between the thighs, the oil, the thrusting against smooth skin until the man spent himself. Anything beyond that was the boy's private business, conducted at his own risk. Your father would say no more about it except to remind you that a freeborn boy who let a man inside his ass surrendered his future along with his dignity. The law was clear. The law was also, as your father well knew, a suggestion that wealthy men ignored whenever they could afford to.

You listened with your hands folded in your lap, feeling the word erastes settle into your chest like something warm and heavy. Your cock stirred beneath your tunic when your father described the physical act, a small treason of the flesh that you hid by pressing your knees together.

The gymnasium confirmed your father's words within the week. You have trained here since you were seven, running and wrestling alongside the other boys, naked and unremarkable. Now the air feels different against your oiled skin. You notice the men lounging against the colonnade, their eyes tracking you across the sand with the focused hunger of predators who have spotted young game. A philosopher with a graying beard watches you wrestle, his gaze lingering on the curve of your ass when you bend, his hand resting openly on the hard outline of his cock through his chiton. A wealthy merchant strikes up conversation with your trainer, asking your name, your family, whether you have been claimed yet. The trainer laughs and tells him you are fresh, unattached, and that your father is selective.

A soldier you have never seen before approaches you after your bath. He is perhaps thirty, broad-shouldered and sun-darkened, with the calloused hands of a man who has carried a shield since youth. He offers to oil your shoulders. His hands are large and warm. They slide down your spine slower than necessary, thumbs pressing into the dimples above your buttocks, fingers tracing the cleft between your cheeks with a familiarity that makes your breath catch. You feel his cock stiffen against your lower back through the thin fabric of his tunic, a thick, hard heat that he makes no effort to hide. He leans down, his beard brushing your ear, and whispers that you have the most beautiful thighs in Athens. That he would pay dearly to feel them wrapped around his cock. That he would oil you himself and fuck the space between your legs until you begged him for more. His hand cups your ass through your tunic, squeezes once, firm and possessive, his middle finger pressing the fabric into the cleft until you feel the pressure against your hole. Then he releases you with a smile and walks away, leaving your skin flushed and your own small cock half-hard beneath your tunic, the ghost of his grip still burning on your cheek.

Today, a formal delegation has arrived at your father's house. Three men sit in the andron drinking wine with your father while you have been summoned from your lessons to stand before them. They are here to make their cases, each one having requested an audience to present his suit.

The first is Theognis, a playwright of moderate fame, perhaps forty years old, with soft hands and a reputation for generosity. He is slender and pale for a Greek, his beard neatly trimmed, his chiton of fine dyed linen. He has already sent your family a collection of poems he composed about your eyes, your thighs, the way the light catches the oil on your skin after training. He reclines on your father's couch with the ease of a man accustomed to getting what he wants, his cup of wine held loosely in fingers stained with ink.

The second is Diocles, a military commander, scarred and broad-shouldered, with the heavy build of a hoplite and a voice that fills the room. He has sent your family two amphorae of fine wine and a bronze statuette of a wrestler. His thighs are thick beneath his short tunic, his chest broad beneath the fabric. He watches you the way a man watches a meal he intends to savor: slowly, thoroughly, with the patience of confidence.

The third is Lysander, a politician on the rise, young for his office at thirty, with sharp eyes and an intense stare that has not left your face since you entered the room. He has sent no gifts, made no prior overtures. His directness is either arrogance or strategy. His chiton is simple but well-made, his body lean and hard beneath it, his dark hair curling against his neck. His cock is visible through the fabric, half-erect, and he makes no attempt to conceal it.

Your father gestures for you to step forward. The men lean in. The play for you begins.

##The Suitor's Dinner

Three weeks of courtship. Lysander has been patient: gifts, poems, compliments delivered through intermediaries. Tonight he invited you to dine at his home. Your father accepted on your behalf without asking.

The andron glows with lamplight, the walls painted with scenes of men and boys in various embraces, some chaste, some explicitly sexual. Lysander reclines on a couch beside you, close enough that his bare arm brushes yours when he reaches for his wine. He wears only a short chiton that has ridden up his thighs. The dinner was excellent. The wine was better. Your head swims. Lysander has been touching you all evening: a hand on your shoulder, fingers grazing the back of your neck, his palm settling warm and heavy on your bare knee beneath the table. Each touch sends heat pooling in your groin. Your cock has been half-hard for an hour, pressing against the linen of your tunic, and Lysander has glanced down at it twice with a knowing smile.

"You refused the cavalry officer," Lysander says, his thumb tracing slow circles on your kneecap. His hand slides an inch higher up your thigh. "I heard he was rough with you. Pushed you against a wall like a common slave. That is not how a freeborn boy should be treated." His hand moves higher, fingertips resting on the soft skin of your inner thigh, inches from where your cock strains against the fabric. "I would never take what you do not offer. I only want you to want me back. Is that so terrible?"

He leans closer. You feel the warmth radiating from his body, smell the wine on his breath mixed with something herbal. His cock is fully hard beneath his chiton, a thick outline pointing toward you. The slaves have withdrawn. You are alone with him and his waiting hand and the question hanging in the warm air between you.

##The Symposium

Your father told you that you would be pouring wine tonight. He did not mention the rest.

The home of Euthydemus sprawls across the hillside above the Agora. Fifteen men recline on couches in the andron, faces flushed, chitons loose and riding up their thighs. Slave boys move between them with jugs of wine, but these boys are older, sixteen or seventeen, their eyes flat and practiced. You are the youngest here. You are the only one whose skin still holds that smooth softness, whose cock has barely begun to stir with the first whispers of hair above it. The men notice. You feel their attention settle on you like a hand pressing against your chest.

A hetaira arrives halfway through your second song on the lyre. She is beautiful, dark-haired, kohl-rimmed, sheer chiton revealing the shadow of her nipples and the dark wedge between her thighs. She dances slowly, hips rolling, then reaches for you. Her fingers hook into the neck of your tunic and pull you to your feet, drawing you against her. The men roar approval. Her hands move down your chest, your stomach, finding the hem of your tunic and lifting it upward. You grab at the fabric, face burning, but she whispers in your ear that you must, that your father commanded it, that the men want to see what they are bidding on. The tunic slides over your head and drops to the floor.

You stand naked under the lamplight. Fifteen pairs of eyes crawl across your body. Your chest is smooth and narrow, ribs visible beneath the skin, stomach flat and trembling. Your cock hangs small and soft between your thighs, the patch of dark hair above it still sparse, your balls tight against your body. One man licks his lips. Another adjusts himself openly, his hand wrapping around the outline of his hard cock through his chiton. Your own cock twitches despite the shame flooding your chest, a tiny stirring that does not go unnoticed. The hetaira spins you slowly, displaying you, and you feel the weight of their gazes on your back, your ass, the cleft between your cheeks.

"Three hundred drachmas," a man calls out. "Three hundred for one night with the boy."

"Four hundred," another counters, standing from his couch and crossing toward you. His fingers trail down your chest, over your stomach, brushing the soft hair above your groin. You flinch at the heat of his palm against your bare skin. "Look at him. Tight little body. I bet his thighs grip like a vice."

"Five hundred, and I want him for the whole weekend." This voice comes from the corner, from a man you cannot see, but the hunger in it makes your stomach clench.

The bidding has begun. Men argue over price and duration, over who gets you first, over whether you will be shared or claimed exclusively. One man demands to know if your ass has been trained or if you are still virgin-tight. Another insists on inspecting you more closely, his hands parting your cheeks before the hetaira waves him off with a laugh. Your father raises his cup from his couch and smiles. You stand in the center of the room, naked and trembling, your small cock now half-hard against your thigh, while men negotiate the price of your body.

##The Captain's Hold

Your father sold you to the captain for thirty drachmas. Two months of back rent. You serve as barrel boy on a merchant vessel sailing from Piraeus to Corinth. Six weeks at sea with fourteen crewmen who have not touched a boy in weeks.

Seventeen days out. Captain Eudoxos is six feet tall, broad-shouldered, with deep-set brown eyes that track you across the deck with unsettling precision. He never touches you during the day. But you feel his attention like heat against your skin. When you bend over a cask, his eyes fix on the curve of your ass. When you wash the deck on your hands and knees, he finds reasons to stand nearby. Last night you woke to find him standing at the opening of your sleeping space, silhouetted against the lamp, his cock hard and jutting from his chiton. He stroked himself in the dark, watching you, finished into his palm, and walked away without a word. You lay in the dark with your heart hammering and your own small cock stiff against your belly.

Tonight, the sea is calm. The crew sleeps below. You climb down to the hold to check the water casks as the captain ordered. The space is cramped and dark, lit by a single oil lamp. You kneel beside the cask and press your ear to the wood.

Footsteps on the ladder. Heavy. Deliberate. Captain Eudoxos descends into the hold, his bulk filling the narrow space between the casks. He wears only his chiton, hanging open at the chest, the mat of dark hair visible beneath. His half-smile curls in the lamplight.

"Checking the casks. Good boy." He moves closer until he stands directly behind you. The heat of his body radiates against your back. You smell salt and wool and the sour musk of a man who has not bathed in days. "You felt me watching you last night. I saw your eyes open. I saw your little cock stand up while I stroked myself."

His hand settles on your shoulder, fingers curling around the joint where your neck meets your collarbone. His grip tightens, pulling you back against his legs. You feel the hard length of his cock press against your shoulder blade through the thin wool.

"Stand up. Turn around. Let me look at you."

He turns you by the hips until you face him. Your tunic is thin, worn from weeks at sea, and the lamplight shines through it, silhouetting your legs and the small bulge between them. Your cock has hardened despite your fear. Eudoxos's gaze fixes on it.

"At sea, the old rules don't apply. What happens between a captain and his crew stays between them." His hand slides to your belly, palm flat and warm through the fabric, fingers splaying just above your waistband. His thumb dips beneath the linen, brushing the soft skin above your groin. Your cock jerks. A bead of wetness soaks into the fabric. "I've been patient. But I'm a man who takes what he wants, and I've wanted you since your father walked you up my gangplank."

He pulls the front of his chiton aside, freeing his cock. It juts between you, thick and dark-veined, the head swollen and glistening. He wraps his fist around it and strokes slowly, his eyes on your face.

"Touch it."

##The Temple of Eros

Your mother dedicated you to Eros when you were seven. The temple paid well for pretty boys. You have not seen her since.

Five years in the temple have taught your body what your mind only half understands. The senior priests trained your ass with oiled fingers and ivory rods of increasing girth, stretching you open inch by inch until you could take a man's full length with only a grunt of discomfort. They taught you to moan and writhe and spill your seed on command so that worshippers believe the god moves through you. They taught you that your stiffening cock and your involuntary moans are hymns to Eros, that the cum leaking from your tip is an offering.

Tonight marks your first official ritual. Thirty worshippers have gathered in the inner sanctum, men who paid the temple's steep fee to witness and participate. Incense burns in bronze braziers, filling the air with smoke so thick it stings your eyes. The marble floor is cold beneath your bare feet as the priests lead you to the altar, a raised platform draped in white linen. The high priest, Kleandros, stands beside you, his shaved head gleaming with oil, his white robes hanging open to expose his thick chest and the soft belly above his cock.

"The worshipper has paid four hundred drachmas for the honor of being first," Kleandros says, his voice carrying through the sanctum. His hand slides down to grip your ass, squeezing the cheek firmly, parting it slightly so the watching men can see the tight pink hole they have come to covet. "He is gentle, as the god requires. But you will still feel the stretch. You will still feel him push inside you. Do not fight it. Open yourself to Eros and let the god move through your body." He releases your ass and takes your cock in his hand, stroking it slowly to full hardness. Your shaft stiffens, the head flushing dark, a bead of pre-cum welling at the slit. Kleandros spreads the moisture across the tip with his thumb, making you shudder. "Good. The god is waking in you. Now kneel on the altar and present yourself."

The worshipper steps forward. He is perhaps forty-five, tall and lean, with a narrow face and thinning hair oiled back. His cock juts from his lifted tunic, circumcised in the Egyptian fashion, of moderate length but thick around, the head already glistening. He approaches the altar with the reverent expression of a man entering a holy place, though his eyes fix on your exposed ass with undisguised hunger. Kleandros hands him the ritual oil. The worshipper pours it over his cock, slicking the shaft until it shines, then climbs onto the altar behind you.

"Breathe, little one," a voice whispers from beside the altar. Philon, the senior initiate, kneels nearby, his naked body marked with the dried cum of last night's ritual. He is sixteen, dark-haired, his ass still red and swollen from use. His hand finds yours and squeezes. "The first push is the hardest. After that, it starts to feel good. I promise."

The worshipper grips your hips. The thick head of his cock presses against your entrance. The watching crowd holds its breath. The incense curls upward. The hymns begin.

##The Slave's Inspection

You were born a slave. Raised in the cramped rooms beneath the master's house, trained from age eight to serve in the andron. A Greek slave named Philippos taught you everything: how to pour wine without spilling, how to kneel between a man's thighs and take his cock into your throat without gagging, how to relax your hole when a stranger bent you over a couch and pushed inside. He trained your ass with oiled fingers and wooden rods until you could take a man's full length with only a grunt. He told you that your body belonged to your master, that pleasure was irrelevant, that a good slave moans convincingly whether it hurts or feels good. You learned to perform. You learned that sometimes your own cock stiffened while a stranger fucked you, that the friction against that spot inside made your thighs tremble, that shame and arousal felt identical in the dark.

Tonight, your master summons you to the atrium. A stranger waits. He is perhaps forty, with silver threading through his dark beard and the weathered skin of a man who spends his days outdoors. His tunic is fine wool dyed deep red, clasped at the shoulder with a gold brooch. His eyes move over your body with the practiced assessment of a man who knows what he likes. Your master grips your shoulder and presents you like a prize horse, listing your skills, your training, the tightness of your ass despite its use.

The stranger tells your master to bend you over the table. He wants to inspect the merchandise properly.

"Spread your legs wider," the stranger says, his palm flat against the small of your back, pressing you down against the cool marble. His fingers pull your ass apart, exposing your hole. You feel him lean in close, feel his breath warm against your most private place. "Tight little opening. Pink and pretty. You've trained him well." His thumb presses against your entrance, circling the rim, testing the give of the muscle. You force yourself to relax, to open, to let him push the tip of his thumb inside. Your cock stirs against the edge of the table. The stranger notices. He reaches beneath you and wraps his fingers around your shaft, stroking it slowly to full hardness while his thumb works deeper into your ass. "Responsive little slut. I like that."

He releases you and steps back, addressing your master. "I'll take him. My estate needs a new personal attendant. Someone pretty to warm my bed and service my guests." Coins exchange hands. Your master counts them with a satisfied smile. The stranger fastens a leather collar around your neck, marking you as his property, and leads you toward the door. You do not know his name. You do not know where he is taking you. You know only that your ass still aches from his thumb and your cock still strains against nothing.

##The Gymnasium

You came to the gymnasium to train, or so you told yourself. You stripped, oiled your body, ran a few laps with the other men in the morning heat. But your eyes kept drifting to the far end of the sand where the younger boys wrestle under their trainer's watchful eye.

One boy catches your attention. You have seen him before but never like this. He is perhaps thirteen, slender and smooth-limbed, with dark hair plastered to his forehead by sweat and a body that has not yet begun to thicken with manhood. His ass is round and firm, the cheeks flexing as he moves, the cleft between them dark with shadow. When he bends to grab his opponent's waist, you catch a glimpse of the tight pucker of his hole, the small sack hanging beneath, his cock swaying between his thighs. He is beautiful in the way that only a boy on the cusp of puberty can be: soft where a man is hard, smooth where a man is rough, his skin glistening with oil and sweat under the Mediterranean sun.

You lean against a column and watch. Your cock stiffens against your thigh, and you let it. Half the men here are hard. Half the men here are watching the same boys. The gymnasium is a marketplace, and the currency is youth.

The boy wins his match. He stands, chest heaving, and wipes the sand from his chest with the back of his hand. His eyes find yours across the sand. He holds your gaze for a moment, then looks away, his cheeks flushing pink. He knows you were watching. He knows what you were looking at. And the flush on his face tells you he did not mind.

His trainer calls for the next match, but the boy lingers, adjusting his hair, stretching his arms above his head in a way that arches his back and lifts his ass. He is showing himself to you. He may not even know he is doing it, his body acting on instincts older than the city itself.

His name is Ariston. You know this because you asked last week, casually, the way a man asks about any boy who has caught his eye. His father is a potter of modest means. He has no erastes yet. He is available.

The trainer dismisses the boys for the bath. Ariston walks toward the pool, his wet footprints dark on the stone. He glances back at you over his shoulder. The invitation is unmistakable.

##The Private Room

Six weeks of courtship. Six weeks of poems and gifts and lingering looks across the gymnasium sand. Six weeks of watching Nikias wrestle naked, his body glistening with oil, his ass flexing as he moves, knowing that every other man there wanted the same thing you did. But you were the one who was patient. You were the one who sent the silver mirror, the painted vase, the wreath of fresh flowers. You were the one who never pushed, never grabbed, never cornered him in a colonnade.

Tonight, Nikias sits in your andron. His father accepted your invitation on his behalf, as is the custom. The boy reclines on your couch, a cup of watered wine in his hands, his eyes darting around the painted walls where men and boys entwine in explicit frescoes. He is perhaps thirteen, slender and smooth-skinned, his dark hair curling against his neck. His tunic is thin, worn from the summer heat, and in the lamplight you can see everything: the small pink nipples on his smooth chest, the faint outline of his ribs, the soft curve of his belly. His cock rests small and soft against the linen, the head just visible through the fabric, and the first dark hairs above it trace a faint shadow. His thighs are smooth and slim, parted slightly where he sits, and when he shifts you catch a glimpse of the tight cleft of his ass beneath the hem.

He has not looked you in the eye since he arrived. The flush on his cheeks tells you he knows why he is here. His cock has begun to stir, thickening slowly against the linen, a small tent forming that he tries to hide with his cup.

"I have never... been alone with a man like this," he says. His voice is high, not yet broken. His eyes find yours for a moment, then drop to his lap. "My father said I should be grateful. That you are a good man. That I should... do what you ask."

You move closer on the couch. The heat of your thigh presses against his. He does not pull away. His breathing quickens. You can smell him: olive oil and boy-sweat and the faint sweetness of the flowers you sent him, crushed into his skin. Your own cock is hard beneath your chiton, and when your knee brushes his thigh, he glances down at the thick outline of it and swallows.

"Will it hurt?" he whispers.

##The Symposium Purchase

You paid five hundred drachmas. The boy's father shook your hand with both of his, grinning, counting the coins as you walked away with his son. The other men at the symposium watched with envy as you led the boy from the andron, his tunic restored but his face still flushed from standing naked before thirty men. His name is Alexis. He is twelve. He has never been with a man.

You bring him to the room the host has provided. It is small but comfortable: a couch piled with cushions, a table bearing a jar of oil and clean cloths, a single lamp casting warm light across the walls. You close the door. The sounds of the symposium fade to a murmur through the stone.

Alexis stands in the center of the room, arms at his sides, his fingers twitching against his thighs. His tunic hangs loose from where the hetaira pulled it back over his head, one shoulder exposed, the fabric barely covering the top of his thighs. He is shaking. Not from cold. His eyes are fixed on the floor.

You can see what five hundred drachmas bought you. His chest is smooth and narrow, the pink nipples stiff in the cool air. His stomach is flat, trembling with each quick breath. The tunic has ridden up in front, and the small patch of dark hair above his cock is visible, his cock itself soft and small against his thigh, his balls tight. When he shifts his weight, the fabric pulls across his ass, showing the round curve of each cheek, the cleft between them hinted at in shadow.

"What happens now?" he asks. His voice is small, thin. "My father said... he said you paid for the whole night. He said I should do whatever you want." His hands clench into fists at his sides. "I have never... I do not know what to do."

You sit on the edge of the couch and look at him. The oil is on the table. The boy is waiting. His cock, despite his fear, has begun to twitch, stirring against his thigh as if his body knows what is coming even if his mind does not.