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Pansexuality - An Abyssus Abbey Story Chapter 1

Kleanthes found himself almost home by the time his thoughts began to clear. His flock were eager, anticipating the comfort of the paddock and the promise of grain to fill their bellies, gamboling about him, hurried in their pace.

Surely none of that had happened, he tried to tell himself. Surely it had all been an idle daydream. Yes, that was it. He'd drifted into a sun-nap on the hillside, and dreamed that one of the lambs had wandered off. It was in that dream that he'd followed the lamb to a hilltop clearing, where he'd met a great, monstrous creature–something he had no word for: a giant armored in ruby scales, with impossible muscles, jutting black horns, great wings like those of a bat, and four glowing red eyes. That was the only thing that made sense. A monster like that in reality would not have been gentle and kind. Nor would it have been so deeply and irresistibly lust-inducing that Kleanthes would have… done what he did.

No. Only a passing afternoon dream. He wouldn't be the first shepherd who fell to flights of fancy wandering alone in the hills. Only–if it was a dream, then why did he still remember so vividly the hot flesh of the creature's phallus in his mouth? Why did his throat feel stretched, almost abused? Why could he still taste the creature's cream on his tongue? Why could he smell the rich scent of its maleness saturating his clothes, his hair, his short beard?

Shaking his head, he opened the paddock gate, herding his flock through with nudges of his crook, though the sheep knew the way and scarcely needed any encouragement. He counted them off as they passed–in late summer, he'd have called them all by name, but they hadn't named the spring lambs yet. Those that survived to summer would get names. The sheep were all there, even the little one that had definitely not wandered off and led him to a clearing with a–perhaps it had been a god of some kind?

No, a dream. Certainly a dream.

He closed the paddock, barred it, and made for his house.

It was a sizable house for their family–though once they had been larger. His father's brother and their family had lived with them, as well as his mother's father and mother. But Kleanthes' grandparents had died, and his uncle had moved his family away from Satyros, claiming the climate and fishing superior a half-day's journey away, in Agkistri. So for now, it was just Kleanthes, his parents, and his brother, Tychon.

His mother sat outside the house, enjoying the evening light as she painted, a pot of brilliant blue frit beside her, the wooden chair she decorated braced upside down between her knees. “Yassou," she called as he approached.

“Yassou, Miter. Is Pater back already?" He needn't have asked; the aroma of cooking fish wafting from indoors was already making his mouth water.

“Yes, he returned early. Big catch this time." His mother gave him a sharp look. “Everything all right, Kleon? You look dazed. Did you hit your head again?"

“No, Miter, everything is fine."

“Well, go and help your father." She flicked her brush at him, and he only barely dodged several drops of blue paint that sailed in his direction. “And go wash up first. You reek of sheep, I can smell you from here."

“Ugh, my feet hurt from walking all day."

“Then they'll feel better washed, won't they? Get on, you."

Grumbling, Kleanthes slouched to the back of the house where the washbasin was located and stripped out of his exomis. He gave it a sniff and wrinkled his nose–it did smell pungent. He balled it up and tossed it into the laundry basket, then took a fresh sea sponge from the sill and scrubbed himself vigorously with the soap his mother made from lye and ewe's milk fat, leaving his skin reddened and smarting. Fresh sponges were always a little rough at first, but they did leave him feeling clean. He rinsed with a ladle and water from the basin, shook dry, and wandered inside with a clean exomis clinging to his damp skin.

He immediately coughed at the oily cloud of smoke. “Pater, can't you cook outside?" he complained, waving his arm in front of his face.

“Like simple fishermen?" His father's face, ruddy from sunburn and windburn, grinned at him through the white smoke. “This is how they do it in Athina, son! All the–"

“Yes, all the rich merchants have their stoves indoors," Kleanthes incanted. “But Pater, you are a simple fisherman."

“And you are a simple shepherd boy."

“Just shepherd. I haven't been a boy for years now."

“But there is no reason why you should have to live as a simple shepherd! The gods gave the marvels of the world to all of us, if we just learn how to use them. Do you know," his father gestured with the point of his fish knife as his other hand deftly flipped the cooking fish, “that they have invented a device that can let you measure where the stars are?"

“But Pater, we can look at the sky. We can see where the stars are." Kleanthes pushed open the shutters and used a palm fan to help usher the smoke from the room.

“You are not a sailor. You wouldn't understand. It could show us where even the stars we cannot see will be. To never be lost, to know always where you are in the world, that is something remarkable." Oil sizzled in the pan. His father looked up at him, his eyes bright and watering from the smoke. “Is there not something like that that speaks to you, son?"

Kleanthes shrugged, settling back onto the bench and leaning his elbows on the table. “I know most of the places I take the sheep. I always know where I am." He let out a long sigh. “I'm happy where I am, Pater. I wish you could understand that. I feel the land around me, I smell the sea air, I guide the sheep and watch the breeze, and I'm at peace."

The heavy clomp of sandals announced his older brother's arrival. “More like he can't let go of Miter's apron." He threw himself at the table more than sat at it, sending it jumping across the floor a little. Three years Kleanthes's senior and a head taller, he carried a broad frame strengthened and weathered by days at sea, his face brown from the sun and windburned, like their father's. And he stank of fish and salt and wet.

“Ya, Tychon," Kleanthes said, layering his voice with feigned weariness. “How is the boat?"

“Challenging." Tychon poured himself a mug of wine–Antigonos, the owner of the vineyard across the island traded it generously for their cheese. “Real man's work."

“Shepherding is challenging," Kleanthes objected, but they'd had this argument before.

“You know what gets me up in the morning and back on the boat? Knowing that I don't know if I'll have the strength for the tasks of the day. Needing to test myself. To push myself harder than the day before."

“Yes. Fine."

“And you know what makes me sleep like a lotus-eater at night? Knowing that I gods-damned succeeded."

There were a hundred objections to this. What would Tychon know about the challenge of helping a sheep with a wounded hoof make it back to safe pasture, or about spending all night up with a ewe during a difficult birthing, or treating any number of animals for parasites, mites, or diseases? But there was no use raising these points with him; none of these could penetrate the bubble of confidence in his own manliness in which he strode, or, more often, floated. He sighed. “First Pater, now you. Did you spend the last two days planning to ambush me with this when you got back?"

“Oh, don't be like that, Kleon. I just don't want you to go through life missing out on what I've got."

“I'm not missing out."

His brother gave him a wide grin before swigging from his wine mug again. “You only say that because you don't know what I've got."

Kleanthes eyed him warily. “And what's that?"

Tychon's grin, if possible, grew even cockier. “I'm getting married."

“What?" That was a surprise, indeed. “To whom?"

“Sappho. Over on Rothos. We've been selling fish to her restaurant for a while. She likes my shoulders."

“Well." Kleanthes leaned back on the bench, feeling suddenly unmoored. “That… that is a surprise. I'm happy for you, Tychon. Really."

His brother came around the other side of the table and threw an arm around him. “Thanks, little brother. But, you know, it means I won't be living here anymore. And Pater needs help on the boat."

“The hell I do!" their father roared from the stove. “I can manage just fine on my own. Don't pressure him, Tychon, he'll make the choice when he's ready."

“But more importantly," Tychon said with a leer, leaning close enough that Kleanthes could smell the salt in his clothes, “that means it's your turn next. And how are you going to find a girl on this dusty, dried-up old island? The youngest one here is Xanthippe and she's got crow's feet."

“I–I–" Kleanthes stammered, the color rising to his cheeks. He couldn't recall ever thinking about girls that much. But the memory–no, dream, it had to be a dream, didn't it?–of that enormous, powerful creature standing over him, smelling of maleness, of sex, that kept rising unbidden to his mind, and making part of him rise unbidden.

Tychon certainly noticed, because he burst into laughter. “I don't think we have to worry for long, Pater. Little brother's ready for love. Let's just hope he doesn't just decide to get a little too friendly with those sheep."

Klean went hot with embarrassment. “You're disgusting, Tychon," he growled, and stormed off to his room until dinner.

#

He awoke in the middle of the night from dreams of something huge and red-scaled, heaving with barely restrained male power. The sheepskins on his kline were cool with his sweat, and an achingly hard erection jutted up from his loins. He panted, resting his fingers around the sensitive flesh. In the night, in the wake of his fading dream, his erection felt bigger, harder. He hadn't woken up aching like this since he'd been a teenager. There was no way he'd be able to go back to sleep like this.

He glanced over at Tychon's kline to see if his brother was awake, but only stillness and the sound of heavy breathing came from that side of the room. It was a moonless night anyhow, far too dark to see. Kleanthes tilted his head back and stroked himself slowly; precome had already been oozing slowly from his tip and the slickness of his fingers made his hips twitch on their own. He lost himself in the motion, his fingers seeming to move farther than they should, the taut, hot skin unusually sensitive. He tried to stifle his panting, gripping his shaft tightly–shouldn't his fingers be able to encircle it? His shaft was a hot, throbbing pole in his grasp, every pulse leaving it feeling a little bigger, a little more achingly hard, a little more–

With his free hand he grabbed a handful of sheepskin and clamped it over his mouth as a moan escaped with the rise of his seed in his shaft; he felt his balls clench so hard it actually hurt. His erection jerked, sending a plume of seed coiling up into the air before it splattered back down onto his chest and belly. He let go of his erection and it thwacked against his belly, the tip striking above his navel. Then it flexed again, firing another long rope of his seed over his head to splatter against the wall. Pleasure wracked him, making his hips jerk again, and he couldn't help another stifled moan into the wool. And the pleasure just kept rising and rising until finally, still wracked with climax, Kleanthes passed out.

---

“Kle, what in Hades?"

Kleanthes rubbed blearily at his eyes, blinking up in the early dawn light to see his brother standing over him. “What? What's wrong?"

“Look!" Tychon waved both hands at him. “Did you sleep outside? What is all this shit everywhere?"

Vague memories of awakening last night filtered through Kleanthes's sleep-addled brain. Careful to keep himself covered, he scrambled upright, worried about what kind of mess he'd left. He certainly hadn't expected what he saw. Greenery was sprouting from the wall–lots of fresh-smelling, delicate grass and vines, sprinkled with yellow and pink wildflowers. It grew down the wall from about three feet above his kline's headboard, which itself seemed to have sprouted a number of young saplings as though the wood itself had been resurrected. He stared at it in confusion and scratched at his chest, which itched, only to find that there were tufts of hair sprouting there, spreading across his chest and growing in a line down beneath the blankets. His heart sped up–he'd been barechested yesterday.

“I–I don't know," he stammered. “It wasn't there last night."

He leaned forward to sniff at the grass, worried it would smell like him, but it was just grass and flowers, smelling vaguely of springtime. Tychon gave him a shove backward. “Well, don't touch it. It's probably some kind of–of infestation!"

“I think it's just grass," Kleanthes said doubtfully. “Maybe I… somehow brought seeds in with my clothes, and it got on the wall?" Even he didn't believe that explanation.

“And it made the wood sprout like that?" Tychon shook his head. “That's something wrong, maybe some kind of fungus or something. Better get Miter to look at it." He pulled on his exomis and washed his face at the basin in the hallway. “Like I said, don't touch it. Just get cleaned up and come to breakfast."

Once he was gone, Kleanthes pulled back the covers to get a look at himself in the morning light. His once smooth torso had changed; light brown hair dusted his chest and belly, leading down to his cock, where the hair seemed thicker and wilder. He fought rising panic as ran his fingers through it; it was soft to the touch, almost downy. Then he caught sight of his dick itself. He should know it well–he saw it every day–but what he carried between his legs now was unfamiliar. Soft, his cock looked nearly twice the size it had been, almost as thick as his wrist, its length draped heavily over round, fuzzy balls the size of duck eggs. He felt he could almost see them pulsing as he stared at them, and his cock, too, stirred as though it knew it was getting attention. It stiffened just a little, but stretched out several fingers-width just from that, pushing his tip through the soft hair that had thickened on his thighs as well.

He couldn't afford to become aroused right now–it made no sense to become aroused right now–and someone could walk in on him at any moment, so he dressed quickly, stopping at the ewer to run his fingers through his hair, which itself felt thicker, curlier. His scalp felt odd under the hair too, something about the way the skin pulled, but he was suddenly afraid to investigate further. He turned down the hallway, following the scent of fresh baked bread to the kitchen, but even walking, he could feel the difference: the soft brush of his chest hair against his exomis; the oddly heavy swing of his shaft. It was, he realized uncomfortably, visibly pushing out the fabric when he walked, the tip bumping into the side of his thigh with every step. Perhaps he could bind it up in a cloth later–for now, he'd simply have to hope no one noticed.

“...all down the wall," Tychon was saying around a mouthful of bread. “Just growing everywhere, like–like someone spilled a meadow in the room."

“That's unusual," their father said, pulling a fresh loaf out of the oven. Kleanthes really wished he wouldn't cook inside; the sun wasn't even high in the sky and already the room was too warm.

“Unusual?" Tychon repeated in disbelief. “The headboard sprouted, Pater. Like a new tree was growing out of it! That doesn't happen."

“Well. Your Miter did shape that kline earlier this year. Maybe the wood was still living. The world is full of mysteries. Good morning, Klean." His father plunked the loaf of bread on the table, along with a knife. “Slept well, it looks like."

“I suppose I did." Kleanthes cut himself a wedge of bread and poured a mugful of water from the ewer.

“Got something I need you boys to take care of today."

Tychon looked up. “We're not going out to sea again?"

Their father snorted. “We should be. But when I went down to the dock, two of our good nets were missing."

“Meliton?" Tychon asked, scowling.

“Who else? Still believes we owe him for those pots, I'll warrant."

“But we didn't break those! He's just a thief."

“Try to be diplomatic when you go and talk to him. Do your best to avoid angering him any further. I doubt he'll try anything with the two of you there. Just get those nets back."

Kleanthes felt like scowling, too. The sheep needed tending as well, and they'd grow boisterous and troublesome if ignored. And Meliton was a crotchety old potter who was far too often in his cups to keep his wares unbroken–or his tongue civil. He had a reputation for lurching around the island at night and appropriating items he believed he was owed.

So, that was it. Without the nets, Pater and Tychon couldn't set sail again. And the longer he was kept from the sea, the more obnoxious Tychon tended to become. The sooner they could resolve this, the sooner Kleanthes could get back to wandering the isle with the flock. Resigned, he took a swig of water from his mug and spluttered in surprise at the taste.

“Klean? What's wrong?" their father asked.

Kleanthes wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “A little bit early for wine, isn't it?"

“Wine?" Tychon took the mug and peered at it, then sniffed. “It must have been left out last night. Here." He handed Kleanthes a clean mug from the shelf. And then, Kleanthes noticed, drained the mug. “Surprisingly good though."

“Don't drink wine in the morning, Tychon, you know better!" their mother called from outside.

“How does she know?" Kleanthes muttered, pouring water from the ewer. He sipped at it and then stopped, puzzled. “No, it's wine. Why would you fill the ewer with wine?"

Their father came over, frowning. “What are you playing at?" He leaned over and squinted into Kleanthes's mug. “Where did you get that?"

“From the ewer!"

“Ridiculous. I filled it from the spring this morning. Look." He tilted the ewer for Kleanthes to see–sure enough, clear water splashed in the bottom. “See?" He poured a mug of water for himself and sipped at it. “Water."

He held out the mug in his thick, stubby fingers, and Kleanthes took it and looked inside. Dark red liquid swirled there. “Wine," Kleanthes said, and handed it back.

His father sipped at it and his brow furrowed in bemusement. He gave Kleanthes a long, considering look, and then took another long draught from the mug. “I don't know how you are doing this," he said finally, waggling a grease-stained finger at him, “but these pranks of yours are getting a little too elaborate."

“I don't prank–"

“Ohhhh yes you do, every time we go out for a long trip, you stay back home and figure out some way to trick me and your poor idiot brother over there. It's amusing enough, but you should not be wasting our good wine." He rather conspicuously drained the mug. “Our very good wine. So early in the morning."

“But I didn't–"

His father waved a dismissive hand. “Boast about how you did it later. If you've got time to play pranks on your father, you've got time to get to work. Go on. Get on back and get our nets from Meliton."

Kleanthes swallowed a lump of somewhat dry bread as he was hauled to his feet by his father. “...but I still didn't get any water," he grumbled.

---

“There's something off about you," Tychon opined, eyeing Kleanthes as they walked side by side down the dusty path toward Meliton's hillside hut. “Are you… taller?"

“I don't think so," Kleanthes answered, tugging at his clothes. He'd not been given an opportunity to bind up his loins before leaving, and he could feel the tip of his penis brushing dangerously close to the bottom hem of his exomis.

“Well, your beard has thickened. Suppose you're finally growing up, eh, little brother?"

“I suppose," Kleanthes mumbled. The last thing he wanted was more attention from Tychon right now. He sniffed the air, catching the odor of fresh water nearby. “Can we stop? I really need a drink."

The path continued to a nearby footbridge that passed over a little stream, but he didn't really didn't want to drink water from under a bridge, so he made his way up the hillside a short distance and crouched on hands and knees, bending down to sip from the fresh rill. He swallowed once and then sat up in shock, rubbing at his mouth with the back of his hand. Dark red rivulets ran down his arm. His mouth was full of the taste of wine. It was impossible, but the taste was unmistakable. Had he begun to lose his senses?

Slowly, uneasily, he leaned back toward the rill and dipped his fingers into the cold, flowing water. Instantly, the water around his fingers turned dark red, fanning out in ribbons downstream before blending with the rest of the stream. He stared in disbelief, plunging his hand down to the forearm in the water, and the darker color spread, stretching into a long trail of burgundy. He yanked his arm out and sniffed at it. Wine. Several drops of it fell across his clothes, staining the white fabric red.

“Kle? What are you doing up there?" his brother called from the path.

Kleanthes couldn't keep this to himself. Not anymore. “Come up here! Come see this!"

“What is it? Did you fall in?" Grumbling, his brother clambered up the hill to stand at Kleanthes's side. “So? What?"

“Look!" Kleanthes dipped his hand into the water again, creating another dark red ribbon in the current.

Tychon frowned. “I don't understand. Are you bleeding?"

“No, it's… it's wine. See?" Kleanthes cupped the liquid in his hands, holding it up to Tychon, who sniffed at it suspiciously.

“How… how are you doing this? Have you got a bladder concealed somewhere?"

“Tych, look at my arms. Do you see anything? It's turning into wine when I touch it."

His brother stared, frowning, for a moment. “Well, it obviously can't be wine. Maybe it's some, I don't know, some fungus in the water that changes color when it's touched."

That was actually a fairly good explanation, Kleanthes thought, surprised. He hadn't expected his brother to have that much clarity of thought. “I've tasted it. It's wine. Touch the water yourself if you don't believe me."

Tychon rolled his eyes, dropped to his knees by the rill, and dramatically plunged his left arm down to the elbow. He waited for a long moment, staring at the unchanging current. “All right, let me taste it," he said finally.

Kleanthes cupped water in his hands again, red dripping from his fingers as he lifted his hands to his brother, who leaned down and sipped from the collected liquid. His eyes widened. “It's wine," he breathed in amazement. “That's–that's really good! Let me have some more!"

Kleanthes raised another cupped handful of wine to his brother's lips, and Tychon drank deeply from it. He burped and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It was a different kind of wine that time!" he exclaimed. “So… so delicious. But how can it be? Is this some kind of enchanted stream?"

“I don't think so," Kleanthes answered slowly. “Remember this morning, over breakfast?"

“So you weren't just putting one over on Pater?"

Kleanthes shook his head.

Tychon gave him a long stare. “So.. it's not the stream that's enchanted–it's you!" He scrambled backward, as though suddenly afraid of his brother. “The grass growing from your wall and kline this morning! That was you too, wasn't it?"

Kleanthes shrugged. He was still thirsty, so he bent down to the stream to drink deeply, hoping he'd manage not to stain his already red-spattered clothing any further. The taste this time was musky-dry, butter and oak. A white wine, of exceptional quality.

“Fill my water gourd!" Tychon suggested, holding it out as Kleanthes sat up, and so he took it and quickly filled it from the stream.

Tychon drained half of it right away. “Peppery, fruity, tart. So good! Klean, Klean, this can only be one thing!"

“What is that?"

“You've been blessed by the god Dionysos. Think of it! What does it mean if all water you touch turns to wine?"

“I'll… always be drunk?" Kleanthes ventured wryly. Truth be told, he was already beginning to feel a little lightheaded.

“You'll always be drunk!" Tychon crowed. “Plus, now we won't have to trade with Antigonos for wine anymore. The family will be rich!"

“Let's not weave the wool we haven't sheared," Kleanthes cautioned. “We don't truly know what this is–or how long it will last." Not long, he hoped fervently, thinking of the physical changes he'd experienced.

Tychon ignored him. “Can you make a sweet wine?" he asked, proffering his water gourd again.

Kleanthes sampled the next gourdful, and found it astonishingly sweet and refreshing. In wonder, he passed it to Tychon, who spilled half of it down his front as he drank. He blinked down at his clothes in dismay. “Shit. I guess I better wash it quick, before the stain sets."

He'd slurred the words slightly, and Kleanthes couldn't help noticing that he was wobbling a little as he got to his feet. Quickly, he shucked his exomis over his shoulders, revealing his sun-bronzed body, lightly dusted with short, black hair. He shook his curls out over his shoulders and then crouched, nude, to plunge his clothing into the stream. “By Apollo, that's cold," he swore. “Give me yours, Kle, and I'll wash it out too. If we bring these back covered with wine stains, Miter will kill us. And then there will be bloodstains, too!" He giggled to himself. “I think that wine was… rather strong." Glancing back over his shoulder, he frowned. “Come on, Kle, give me your exomis. I'd let you clean it yourself, but with… what's happening with you, you'd only make it worse."

Kleanthes shifted where he sat in the grass, tugging his clothes a little lower. He was suddenly acutely aware of the feeling of his balls resting heavily on the ground between his thighs, the unfamiliar heft of his cock draped over it, his tip nestled in the grass. “It's–it's all right, I can wash it when I get home," he said. The wine made his tongue slip on the words, and he felt a heat spread across his face.

Tychon stood and turned, folding his arms, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Are you blushing?"

“No, I–it's the wine, it–"

“Why don't you want to take your clothes off? What are you hiding?"

“It doesn't matter! Let's just go on to Meliton."

Tychon stared at him. “Something else happened to you, didn't it? Something you don't want me to see."

Kleanthes's face grew even hotter. “That's not true!" Before he could react, Tychon had lunged at him. His older brother had always been a full head taller than him, and even as an adolescent, years before his work aboard their father's boat had strengthened his muscles and broadened his shoulders, he'd easily been able to overpower Kleanthes. Little had changed, and though Kleanthes scrabbled at the grass with both arms, Tychon nimbly planted one palm in the center of his chest, using his weight to pin his younger brother down.

“No… you… malaka!" Kleanthes growled, but Tychon just ignored him, gripping the linen of his exomis and roughly pulling it down and off his shoulder. He blinked. “Gods. You did get fuzzy, didn't you? When did all that happen?" He lifted his hand.

Panting, red-faced, Kleanthes looked down. The hair across his chest had spread and thickened, reaching to his shoulders and up under his chin, hiding his belly in a mat so thick it almost looked like fur. “I–I don't–" he stammered, and Tychon took advantage of his hesitation to tug his exomis down the rest of the way.

He froze, staring. “Theoi mou," he breathed. He half-stood and fell backward onto the heels of his hands. “Little brother, what happened to you?"

Afraid to look, Kleanthes lowered his own gaze. The brown hair covering his belly grew thicker the lower it sprouted, covering the insides of his thighs. From its thatchy center jutted something more python than penis, a wrist-thick pillar of flesh draped over two brown-furred, fist-sized balls and stretching halfway to his knees, its turgid head lying in the trampled grass, dark red and pulsing. It throbbed as they stared, as though it knew it was being admired, and began to rise, thickening and lengthening as it did so. As it had the previous night, a powerful arousal rolled through Kleanthes, spreading away from his balls and filling his cock with need. He turned his gaze back toward his naked older brother. “I don't know," he whispered. “But it keeps getting worse."

“Worse? Or better? There's not a man alive who wouldn't want to be endowed like you." Tychon rolled to his knees, moving closer and watching as the apple-sized tip bobbed higher with Kleanthes's pulse, rising toward Tychon's nose. Kleanthes groaned with arousal as a clear drop formed at the tip, hanging for one heady moment and then dropping into the grass, leaving a string behind for a moment before it was joined by another. Tychon gasped, breathing in deep. His nostrils flared. Then, as though entranced, he reached out to touch the dark red flesh with one hand.

Kleanthes scrambled back a little. “What are you doing?"

“I just…" Tychon frowned. “I just want to know what a dick that big feels like."

“But–but you're engaged to be married!"

“That makes now the right time. Much better than doing it after I'm married."

“But you're my brother."

Tychon curled his fingers around Kleanthes's shaft, which was still rising, still firming, already as long and thick as his forearm. “Does that bother you?"

Of course, Kleanthes wanted to say, but pleasure shot like lightning down his shaft, striking his loins and radiating through his balls, his belly, his thighs. A giddy thrill followed it, and he realized he was already growing drunk from the wine, but it didn't affect the fierceness of his arousal at all. He collapsed back onto his elbows, his hips jerking upward at his brother's touch, and a clear arc of fluid welled from his tip and ran down the sides as though his dick had become a rich man's fountain.

Tychon breathed in deep, and then reached up. Another hand joined the first, gripping at Kleanthes's shaft, and even both of them together could not cover it. Kleanthes arched his back in erotic pleasure, the new fur of his chest rising in his vision. His cock flexed on its own, and this time the clear fluid erupted into the air, splashing down into his belly hair.

“Oh, Kleanthes," Tychon murmured. “You really need this, don't you?" He gently lifted Kleanthes's hips, working his exomis down around his knees and ankles, tossing it aside.

No, Kleanthes wanted to say, but his mouth groaned, “Yes." His heels dug into the dirt, pushing his hips upward. His cock swung with its own weight, the tip brushing against his chest before rising again, feeling hard as stone, aching with need, a long, silvery strand of his fluids connecting his tip to his chest.

Tychon crawled forward over Kleanthes, treating him to a view of his own well-built, weather-burned chest, the taut lines of his stomach. He was hard too, Kleanthes realized, much to his surprise. Tychon had never spoken of desire for men before, and never had his interactions with Kleanthes ever been anything more than fraternal. But now his face was flushed (with wine, surely), his eyes half-lidded in desire. “I'm going to put it in me," he declared.

Kleanthes held his breath at that, afraid Tychon actually would. And afraid he wouldn't. The need rolled through him so intensely, he couldn't believe he wasn't climaxing right now, just from pure arousal, just from the touch of Tychon's chest, his fuzzy stomach, his thighs, as he'd crawled forward over Kleanthes's inhuman dick. He felt his brother's fingers on his dick as they maneuvered it into place, the downy hair of Tychon's glutes as his tip squeezed between them. His cock flexed again, and his brother gasped as the hot fluids painted his backside and ran to drip down his thighs.

Tychon's eyes met his, questioning, hungry, desperate, and, wracked with need that felt it would never be sated, Kleanthes nodded. Tychon pushed back, slowly, squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth. He groaned, and his nails dug into Kleanthes's shoulders as he gripped. “Ah, hah, hah," he panted, pausing. “I can't." Kleanthes's tip felt as though it were pressing against a firm wall. It was clear he was never going to fit. Then Tychon set his jaw. “But I will," he growled, and then he pushed back again, and something felt like it gave way. Tychon cried out, and Kleanthes's shaft was gripped by heat and pleasure. “Oh, gods," he groaned, and sank backward, moving his hands to grip firmly into the tangled mat of hair covering Kleanthes's chest.

Kleanthes gripped at his brother's upper arms, his eyes rolling back in pleasure. The grip around his shaft was firm but slippery, and he just kept sinking deeper and deeper into that heat, farther than seemed possible, and yet he knew he still had so much of his cock left exposed. “Oh gods," Tychon cried out again, and his cock jerked, dribbling white onto Kleanthes's chest, but he kept on pushing back. His knees were planted to either side of Kleanthes's waist, thighs gripping at him. “That's–that's as far as I can go," he managed through clenched teeth, and then he let out a gasp as the cock buried inside him throbbed, flooding him with slipperiness and sinking in a couple fingers width at least.

Tychon lifted up slightly, a shuddering, hungry breath escaping his lips, and then eased back down and Kleanthes curled his hips to meet him, his heels slipping in the wet grass. They rocked together, the only sounds the gulls overhead and the ripple of the stream and their own desperate, wild panting. Tychon's long hair hung in ringlets around his shoulders, his head blocking out the sun as he rode Kleanthes, sweat drops flinging from his hair to spatter against Kleanthes's skin. The air was heavy with the smell of their sweat, and the wine, and the wet grass.

Kleanthes was lost in it, in the wildness of his island and the wind blowing through the hair on his legs and the weight of his older brother atop him, around him. He felt like his cock was the core of him–not his heart, but his cock–it felt like the rest of him was the extremity, like he was mostly cock now, and every thrust he sank a little deeper into Tychon. He felt his climax rising almost as a surprise, and made a distant, feeble attempt to hold it back, but he might as well have tried to hold back an ocean wave; it crashed through him and into Tychon, making him arch his back, his buttocks clenching. He tilted his head back and cried out, but the cry was odd, inhuman, almost a bleat. His cock throbbed with pleasure and release again and again, and he barely noticed the itch on his legs, the strange pressure rising in his skull.

Finally he collapsed in relief and exhaustion, still panting, cock still throbbing with lingering pleasure. His skin felt cool with sweat, and his head reeled with wine. He let go of his brother's arms and let one hand fall to his chest, where it encountered a puddle of cooling fluid.

Tychon crouched still, panting as well, and then clenched his teeth, letting out a faint groan as he eased slowly off of Kleanthes. He crawled forward, his flagging erection and drawn-up sack passing through Kleanthes's vision.

Kleanthes's cock bobbed in the open air, still drooling white. He sat up on his elbows, staring at the tip sticking up just above his nose. It was impossible that that thing could belong to him. He watched the sun play across Tychon's lithe brown body as he went to the stream to clean himself, and wondered, Did we just do that? Where did it come from? Why?

He picked up his clothes and carried them over to Tychon, erection bobbing before him, pulling heavily on his hips. “Mind washing this for me?" he asked. He felt disoriented, as though someone had picked up his home in the night, turned it around and set it back down again. Everything was familiar, but it was all different now. He doubted the gods would approve of what they'd just done. He stared down at his prodigious endowment and past it, at the heavy, furred balls that dangled against his thighs, the tan hair coating his legs past his knees, looking almost bestial.

“You know, I've sorted it out," Tychon said. He was bent over in the stream, vigorously scrubbing at wine stains in Kleanthes's exomis. “It must be a blessing from the gods, yes? Nothing else can explain it."

“Or a curse."

Tychon laughed. “What you've got there is the opposite of a curse. But think about it. Virility, water turning to wine at your touch? What god does that make you think of?"

“Dionysios," Kleanthes said again.

“Right. So, you're blessed by Dionysios, yes? A god's blessing will be good for our whole family, and great for you, clearly." Tychon turned back, wringing out the bundle of cloth in his arms. “There. Now we can…" He stared at Kleanthes.

“What?" Kleanthes took an uneasy step back. “What's wrong?"

Tychon raised a finger to point, wavering, at Kleanthes's head. “You've got… er… you've got horns."

Kleanthes's first instinct was to laugh in disbelief, but nothing seemed beyond the realm of probability now, and there was an odd weight on his skull. He slowly reached up to run the fingers of his left hand through his curls, and his fingertips encountered something solid and rigid sprouting from his scalp. It was rough to the touch, broad at the base, a little too wide to get his hand around, and narrowing over the length of his hand to a surprisingly sharp point. He found a matching horn on the other side, and he gripped them both in a sudden panic, pulling at them. But they felt like a part of his skull; tugging at them only pulled his head downward.

“What am I going to do?" he cried out, walking back and forth. “I can't have horns. The… the hair and the dick I could hide, maybe, but this? What am I going to do? Wear tall hats forever?" He reeled as he felt the pressure in his skull again.

“They just grew a little," Tychon said. “Hey, there's no point in worrying about it, is there? If this is a gift from Dionysos, then he must have a reason for it. So enjoy it, eh?"

Kleanthes stood with his hands on his hips, trying to control his breathing. And he thought of his dream yesterday, a dream which had clearly not been a dream at all, and the enormous creature oozing sexuality that he'd been with, and the desire he'd confessed. He hadn't even thought about it afterward–the wish had seemed so innocent, just an idle fantasy. “I… I know what is happening to me." He looked up to meet his brother's eyes. “I'm becoming a satyr."

Tychon laughed dryly. “A satyr on Satyros Island. How fitting."

“Well, they used to thrive here, the stories say."

“Those are only myths. No one ever found any bones or–"

Kleanthes pointed vigorously at his own horns. “Does this look like a myth to you?"

“Well, no," Tychon admitted. “Your ears are pointed now, too. So, it's not Dionysos, then. It must be Pan."

“But Pan is dead," Kleanthes objected. The tale had spread across the seas centuries ago."

“Maybe. Or… maybe he's back. Somehow."

Kleanthes frowned, pondering. What was the strange creature he'd met yesterday? Was it a god? Some alternate form of Pan? Or something else entirely? Whatever it had been, it must be what was changing him now. He wondered, frightened, if there was a way to unwish what was happening to him. But a larger part of him was excited, eager for it to continue.

He wrinkled his nose, sniffing. The stink of sex and sweat was soaked into his chest hair, and, unthinking, he strode into the stream to wash himself clean.

“Wait, Kle!" his brother shouted, but it was too late. Kleanthes sat back in the stream and watched a dark red current of wine flow down toward the sea.