Spartan Beer Pong

A new game transforms an evening of amusement and debauchery into a night of bruised pride and manhoods.

Night had deepened outside the high windows of Alcibiades's villa, but inside, the flickering bronze lamps cast a world of warm, wavering light on chaos. Empty bottles lay on their sides like fallen soldiers, and the air was thick with the sharp, sour scent of spilled wine, sweat, and roasted meats. Laughter echoed off the mosaic floors, loud and sharp as shattered glass as the party raged.

In the center of the room, sprawled on their elbows across the grand central table, were three young men, their chitons askew, their hair dark with oil and wine. The loudest of them, a broad-shouldered man named Alex with a jawline like a cliff face, slammed his cup down, splashing red wine over the polished wood. He was handsome, lush dark hair and jovial eyes. 

"Again!" he bellowed, his voice slurred with drink and bravado. "My aim is true as Apollo's arrow tonight! Another round of kottabos!"

The youngest, named Elias, laughed. His curly brown locks clung damp to his forehead, he had wide blue eyes and an almost innocent demeanor. “You’re as drunk as a fish, Alex. You'll soak the frescoes."

Alex scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "You see, Damon," he said, turning to the third young man, who had been watching them with a dark, calculating gaze. Damon was strikingly handsome. As the talented son of a wealthy aristocrat, he carried himself with the effortless confidence of someone accustomed to admiration. ”He doesn't understand the art of it. The finesse."

Damon offered a thin smile, not touching his own cup. His dark eyes glinting in the candlelight. “Then enlighten the poor soul, champion. While you can still form sentences.”

Alex leaned forward, the movement unsteady. "It's simple. You see this?" He held up his shallow cup, its dark wine sloshing precariously. “Drink most but not all of it. Then, you take aim." He gestured with his chin towards a small bronze basin set on a stand a dozen paces away. A small bronze disc, the plastinx, balanced delicately in its center. “Flick the dregs with the snap of the wrist. Your goal," he said, his eyes gleaming in the lamplight, "is to send a graceful arc of wine flying through the air, to strike the plastinx and make crash into the basin below. To make the disc sing with your throw. The wine is your arrow, the wrist, your bow. It is a game of grace, not force."

"Most nights," Elias slurred, "your 'graceful arc' lands on Timon's new sandals."

Alex roared with laughter. "Lies! Now, watch a master at work."

He took a deep breath, focused with drunken intensity, and with a flourish, snapped his wrist. A spray of wine arced through the air, not towards the basin, but sideways, splattering across a vibrant fresco of Poseidon driving his chariot. The sound it made was a wet splat, not a clang.

Elias shrieked with laughter, collapsing back onto the cushions. Damon simply shook his head, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. The game, like the evening, had devolved into a glorious mess. They were too drunk for grace, too far gone for finesse. 

The trio took turns tossing the dregs and dislodging the bronze disc until all the guests including the host had retired for the night. Eventually even the three started to lose interest.

"I'm bored," Elias whined, tracing a finger through the spilled wine on the table. "My arm aches from missing."

"We need a new game," Damon said suddenly, his voice cutting through their revelry. There was an excitement in his voice. “Something better."

Alex, still stinging from his failed shot, narrowed his eyes. “Better? What's better than throwing wine at a disc?"

“You’ll see," Damon replied, rising unsteadily to his feet. He swayed for a moment, then strode over to a side table, clearing it with a crash of terracotta and metal. He returned with twenty empty, shallow cups and arranged them into two tight triangles at opposite ends of the long table, ten cups in each.

"What's this, some kind of puzzle?" Alex sneered, squinting at the formations.

“It’s Spartan Pong. You stand behind your side and take turns tossing this” Damon said, raising a roughly carved wooden ball between two fingers. "And instead of aiming for the bronze plate, you'll aim for the cups which will all have a little wine each. If your shot goes in, your opponent removes that cup from the table and drinks the wine in it. The fewer cups they have left, the closer you are to winning. Game ends when all the cups on one side are gone.”

Elias sat up, a flicker of interest cutting through his drunken haze. “Is that it?”

Damon shook his head. He paused, letting the silence hang heavy in the wine-scented air. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. “But these cups will be laced with something other wine."

"Laced?" Elias asked, his brow furrowing as he leaned in. "Laced with what? Poison?"

Damon’s grin widened, shifting from wicked to something more intimate. He stepped closer, the flickering lamplight casting long, dancing shadows across his sharp features. "Not poison, Elias." He paused, his voice dropping to a low, confident murmur. Damon took out a small glass vial from his tunic. In it was a cloudy, pearlescent liquid that clung stubbornly to the glass whenever it was tilted. Its contents were thick enough to move sluggishly, leaving faint streaks along the inside before settling again at the bottom.

"Spartan spunk," Damon explained, his voice humming with a quiet, triumphant energy. He uncorked the vial, and a heavy, musky scent wafted from the glass, though it was quickly drowned out by the pervasive smell of the spilled wine on the table. “My father purchased a vial of it this morning from a trader who specializes in the... athletic remnants of the Peloponnese. He swore the men who provided it were champions of the Olympic games, titans of strength and endurance."

Alex blinked, his drunken confusion momentarily replaced by a look of sheer bewilderment. He looked from the pearlescent liquid to Damon, then back to the liquid. "He bought... cum? From a market? But why?”

"My father reserves the seed of the finest breeding stock for our indentured servants," he said. "The stronger the bloodline, the better the offspring. In return, we shorten their term of service. Everyone benefits.” Damon smirked then began to move among the twenty cups with a methodical precision that contrasted sharply with the chaos of the room. He tipped the vial carefully, pouring a spoonful's worth of cloudy fluid into each cup until the vial was empty before topping them off with a splash of deep red wine. Pearlescent swirls danced in the red wine.

"You've missed a detail, Damon," Alex said, his voice regaining some of its booming confidence as he leaned back, crossing his thick arms over his chest. "There are three of us, and your Spartan Pong only account for two. Unless you intend to stand there and watch us like some pampered priestess at a temple, your mathematics are flawed."

Damon didn't look up until he was finished with the final cup, his fingers steady as he ensured the pearlescent swirls were evenly distributed. "The rotation is simple," he said with a confident grin. "Everyone gets a throw, then we rotate. Side one moves to side two, side two sits out, and whoever was sitting out steps onto side one. Round and round until all the cups are gone."

He paused, enjoying the suspense. "And one final rule. Whoever is standing opposite the side that loses its last cup gets the privilege of drinking every cup left AND gets to be forcibly fed by the winner."

Alex gagged a little while Elias stared at the wooden ball. Elias then gazed at the shimmering, laced wine, and finally at his friends. A flicker of hesitation crossed his face—the kind of doubt that usually preceded a very bad decision. "This is absurd," he murmured, though he was already shifting his weight, his competitive streak overriding his common sense.

"Don't tell me the great Elias, conqueror of the youth-games at the gymnasium, has suddenly developed a fragile constitution," Damon said, his voice smooth but edged with a playful cruelty. He leaned in, the candlelight catching the malicious glint in his eyes. "Don't be a little bitch, Elias. It's just a game of skill and a bit of Spartan vigor. Maybe you left your balls at home?"

The insult fired Elias up, snapping him out of his hesitation. He puffed out his chest, though his cheeks were still flushed from the wine. "When I'm done with you, you'll be so full of Spartan seed you'll swear you're pregnant.” he countered, though his voice cracked slightly at the end.

Alex let out a booming laugh, slamming his palm onto the table and making the cup cups rattle. "Let's do this!" Alex roared, stepping forward to claim the first position. He gripped the wooden ball, feeling its rough texture against his calloused palm. "I’ll take the first throw. And when I win—which I will—Damon, you'll be the one kneeling here, draining every single one of those laced cups until your stomach is heavy with the pride of Sparta."

"You talk as if the wine is the only thing that will make you kneel, Alex," Damon sneered, his voice dripping with a mock-sympathy that barely veiled his amusement. He stepped back, crossing his arms, a haughty smile plastered on his face. "Though, looking at the two of you, one's a stumbling ox and the other a trembling fawn, perhaps the Spartan seed is the only way you'll ever experience true masculinity."

Alex let out a guttural grunt, his face flushing a deeper shade of crimson, but he didn't recoil. He stepped to the edge of the table, his eyes locking onto the first triangle of cups. He took a breath, the wooden ball gripped tight in his fist, and launched it. The ball sailed true, a blurring streak of brown wood that clipped the rim of the foremost cup. The cup tipped, splashing its pearlescent contents across the mahogany table, but the impact was enough.

"That's one!" Alex bellowed, his voice shaking the rafters.

"This is bullshit! You lucky motherfucker!" Damon shouted, though he was already stepping forward to take his turn. He stood poised, his arm moving in a precise, rhythmic arc that sent the wooden sphere whistling through the air with a low hum. It struck the center cup of the opposing triangle with a sharp "clack", bit it bounced off the rim. Alex smirked. "Drink up bitch." Damon scowled but picked up the cup. The wine while cloudy, no doubt from the seed. He quickly downed the mixture and nearly vomited while the other two guffawed. It was sour and thick, like curdled milk and musk. He turned his head in attempt to hide the revulsion on his face from the others as he fetched the ball from the floor.

The three rotated, Damon left the table while Alex moved to the other side of the table. Elias, now on side one, took a moment to calculate the distance and position of the cups. He wasn't as strong as Alex or as precise as Damon, but he had a deceptive, looping throw that curved like a hawk diving for a rabbit. He launched the ball, and it landed square in the top right corner cup.

"Score!" he shrieked, his voice cracking with manic glee. It was Alex's turn to down the revolting cocktail of baby matter and wine. His face grimaced as he felt the repulsive mixture slide down his throat and into his stomach. When his turn came, he missed the shot, distracted by the lingering flavor of the drink.

The rotation became a blur of motion and shouting. They moved in a frantic cycle—throw, rotate, step, shout. The table, once a polished expanse of mahogany, was now a swamp of spilled wine and thick, cloudy residue. Each time a ball dropped into a cup, the winner of the round would lean over and force the loser to drain the remaining dregs while the other two laughed. But none would concede as the competitive fire within them burned hotter than the nauseating beverage down their throats. As the moon journeyed across the heavens, the young men sank deeper into their drunkenness, their speech sloppy and their movements clumsy.

"Fuck yeah!" Elias shrieked, his voice hitting a pitch that could have shattered a clay amphora. He had just launched the wooden ball in a wobbling arc that defied physics, landing in the final remaining cup on Damon’s side with a definitive plop. Elias danced a small, drunken jig around the table, his arms waving wildly as he pointed a mocking finger at the pale, shaking Damon. "Looks like I made you my bitch!" He gloated. The youth leaned in, his blue eyes wide with a manic, triumphant glow. "Time to guzzle the rest."

Damon looked as though he had swallowed a live toad. His face had taken on a sickly, grayish hue that clashed violently with the warm bronze lamps of the villa. He stood frozen, his throat working in heavy, rhythmic gulps as he fought the rising tide of revulsion in his gut. The smell of the room, the musk of the seed and the sharp tang of spilled wine, it all seemed to have intensified. He picked up the nearest cup, ready to imbibe and refusing to inspect the heinous concoction inside.

"Hold on," Elias suddenly declared, his eyes lighting up with a fresh, cruel inspiration. "Drinking them one by one is too easy." He lunged forward, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, and began sweeping the remaining cups on his own side of the table into the cup in Damon's hand. He poured with a frantic energy, tilting the vessels until the last of the pearlescent sludge slid into the depths of the cup. The result was a thick, viscous cocktail, a shimmering slurry of red wine and concentrated Spartan essence that looked more like a biological accident than a drink. The unholy beverage sat in the youth's hand, undulating slowly, smelling of old gymnasiums and curdled milk.

Elias didn't give Damon a moment to recover his composure. With a triumphant howl, Elias grasped the mostly full cup in Damon's hand and forcibly fed it to the sullen youth. The first gulp hit his tongue like a wet slap of brine and sulfur. His eyes widened, his pupils dilating as the texture—slimy, heavy, and clinging to the back of his throat—triggered an immediate, violent response in his stomach. He gagged, his chest heaving, but he forced the liquid down in great, shuddering swallows. Each gulp felt like sliding a slug down his esophagus, the musk of the "champions" coating his insides in a layer of oily grit. Damon folded over, fell onto his knees and palms, retching violently.

"Look at him!" Elias crowed, leaning over the doubled-over Damon with a predatory grin. He pointed a shaking finger at the slurry still coating Damon's lips. "He takes it so well! Honestly, Damon, the way you swallow that defiled wine is exactly how your mother drinks my cum—greedy and without a single word of protest!"

The room went silent, the silence before a storm. The insult was a jagged blade, cutting through the haze of alcohol and musk. Damon felt a blistering heat surge from the pit of his stomach to his face. The humiliation of the loss, the wine in his blood, and the sudden, vicious strike at his mother’s dignity fused into a single, white-hot spark of rage.

Without warning, Damon’s hand shot out, gripping the edge of the table to hoist himself upward. In one fluid, desperate motion, he lashed out with his right foot. It connected with a sickening, muffled SMACK! squarely between Elias's legs. The impact was precise and devastating, catching the youth in the softest part of his anatomy with the full force of a man who had nothing left to lose but his pride!

The world vanished for Elias, replaced by a sudden, blinding void where sound and sight ceased to exist. The strike was was a heavy, crushing compression that felt as if his very center had been collapsed into a singularity. A tidal wave of searing pain radiated upward into his abdomen and downward into his thighs. The curly haired youth screamed before he collapsed to the floor as he felt the delicate structures of his anatomy buckle under the force, the soft tissues compressed against the pelvic bone with a wet, thudding finality. His balls felt as though they had been flattened like grapes being crushed during the process of making wine, their internal architecture collapsing. But by some miracle, they remained whole but swollen and throbbing, barely clinging on to dear life.

Alex, who had been leaning back on a wooden chair to enjoy the spectacle of Damon’s misery, froze. He looked down at Elias, whose face had turned a shade of translucent white that matched the pearlescent residue on the table. The jovial laughter died in Alex's throat, replaced by a sudden, instinctive sympathy that made him instinctively shift his own stance, crossing his legs. He leapt to his feet and opened his mouth to let out a booming roar of protest, his instinct to protect the youngest of their trio momentarily overriding his own drunken stupor. "What the fuck, Damon?! that was a bit..."

He never finished the sentence. Damon, fueled by a cocktail of Spartan seed and raw, unfiltered spite, didn't give him the chance to find his voice. With the agility of a cornered viper, Damon pivoted on his heel, his movement a blur of vengeful precision. He launched his leg in a sharp, snapping arc, his foot connecting with Alex’s groin with a sound like a wet leather strap hitting a stone wall! The impact was visceral; the heavy muscle of Damon’s foot drove deep into the soft, vulnerable junction of Alex's thighs, crushing the broad man's manhood upward and backward against the pelvic ridge.

Alex had always been proud of his lemon-sized testicles. They hung low and ripe, overflowing with seed ready to fertilize the cunts of maidens and were the envy of other men. But this valued trait worked against him as he felt the heavy mass of his testicles being driven upward and pinned violently against the hard, unyielding wall of his pelvic bone. The shockwave rippled throughout his body yet despite the agonizing compression, the gonads remained whole.

Alex’s breath rushed out of his lungs and ended in an audible wheeze. He didn't fall immediately; instead, he hovered in a state of suspended animation, his eyes bulging as he stared at Damon. The pain was a radiating ache that flooded his lower abdomen, making his stomach churn as it spread outward from the epicenter of the blow. He tried to step back, but his legs felt like wet clay, unable to support the sudden weight of his own shock and he collapsed onto the floor.

Damon stood over the fallen giant, his chest heaving with a mixture of adrenaline and the lingering nausea of the Spartan slurry. He looked down at Alex, who was curled into a shuddering ball of muscle and misplaced confidence, his face pressed against the cold mosaic of the floor. Damon leaned forward, and with a face full of disdain, spat a thick, viscous glob of saliva and sperm-laced wine directly onto Alex’s crumped body. "Where is that booming voice now, you bloated calf?" Damon sneered, his voice cutting through the silence like a whetstone. "Your 'lemon-sized' ego was the only thing about you that was truly oversized, Alex. Now you’re nothing more than a broken toy on a ruined floor."

But the victory was short-lived. Behind him, Elias had finally begun to claw his way back from the void. The pain in his groin had shifted from a blinding white light to a rhythmic, throbbing heat, and the sight of Damon towering over Alex and the assault on his manhood filled him with primal rage. With a sudden, guttural snarl on a rabid dog, Elias rose from the floor and landed a devastating blow into Damon's vulnerable bollocks.

Elias’s foot connected with the precision of a siege engine, driving Damon’s testicles upward with such violent force that they seemed to migrate into his very gut. The sudden, crushing compression of his family jewels sent a colossal surge of white-hot pain throughout his body. The youth's scream echoed throughout the villa.

Damon collapsed, his legs folding like wet papyrus, but Elias was not finished. The youngest of the three had been transformed by pain into a creature of pure, unadulterated vengeance. As Damon curled into a fetal ball, gasping for a breath that refused to come, Elias rained down a series of frantic, rhythmic kicks. The battered youth covered his balls with his hands in an attempt to protect his groin but the momentum of each kick permeated through the meager defense.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

The sounds were wet and visceral, echoing off the mosaic floor as Damon’s body jerked with every impact, his hips twitching involuntarily as his testicles were pummeled into a pulp of bruised flesh and ruptured capillaries. Elias watched with a wide-eyed, drunken fascination as Damon, the once-composed aristocrat, reduced himself to a shivering heap of a man.

The ringing in the room settled into a heavy, expectant silence, broken only by the ragged, wet gasps of three men who had forgotten how to breathe. Alex’s consciousness returned in a series of jagged jolts, the initial blinding agony in his groin receding into a dull, pulsing throb. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the flickering bronze lamps, before his eyes locked onto Damon, who lay curled like a wounded shrimp, shivering in the wake of Elias’s relentless assault. A slow, predatory grin spread across Alex's face, the joviality of the evening replaced by a cold, focused hunger for vengeance.

He reached out with a sweeping motion on the surface of the table he grasped a terracotta cup with his callused hands. With a sudden, violent squeeze, he crushed the vessel in his fist. The clay shattered and Alex carefully extracted a single, jagged shard of terracotta sharp as a bronze sword. He rose to his feet, his movements slow and deliberate, and knelt beside the trembling Damon. Without a word, Alex gripped the fine linen of Damon’s chiton and ripped it downward with a sudden, violent jerk, the fabric tearing as it gave way, displacing Damon's hand from his crotch and exposing the aristocrat’s midsection and groin to the cool night air.

Damon lay exposed, his pale skin contrasting sharply with the dark mosaic floor. His genitals were a testament to his virility. The shaft was lengthy, thick, and veiny, ending with a cock head red as a cherry. His testicles that were tight and compact before the assault, now throbbing and swollen. His scrotum now a mottled map of wine-red and purple. A sheen of sweat covered the genitals like morning dew on a fern.

Alex reached down with a broad, calloused hand and clamped his fingers around the swollen mass of Damon’s scrotum, gathering the bruised, purple flesh in a tight, suffocating grip. With a slow, deliberate rotation of his wrist, Alex twisted the skin like a wet cloth, trapping the bollocks at the bottom of the ball sack before he tightened his grip. Damon’s body arched off the mosaic floor, his back snapping taut as a strangled, guttural scream tore from his throat, echoing through the villa like a dying animal. Tears, hot and uncontrolled, coursed down his cheeks, carving pale tracks through the grime and wine-stains on his face.

Panic flared in Damon’s eyes. In a desperate, reflexive jerk, he tried to bring his hands down to shield his groin, his fingers clawing at the air to push Alex away. But the terracotta shard in Alex's other hand flickered in the lamplight, the jagged edge hovering mere millimeters from the sensitive, stretched skin of his scrotum. "Don't you dare move a muscle," Alex growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated in his chest. "Attempt to defend your crotch and I’ll carve your baby makers right out of your body. You’ll be leaving this villa with a lighter load and a higher voice." Reluctantly Damon heeded his assailant's threat and his arms went flaccid.

“Wait,” Elias whispered, his voice trembling not with pain, but with a sudden, electric surge of inspiration. He looked from Alex’s crushing grip on Damon’s purpled gonads to the shattered remains of the game on the table. The violence had stripped away the pretense of their friendship, leaving behind something raw and primal. A manic glint returned to his blue eyes as he stepped back, his movements loose and swaying. “The game isn't over until the winner claims his prize.”

With a slow, deliberate motion, Elias reached for the gold clasp of his own chiton. He shrugged the fabric off his shoulders, letting it heap like a discarded skin upon the mosaic floor. He stood naked in the flickering lamplight, his youthful frame lean and flushed. His member responded to the surge of adrenaline and cruelty pumping through his veins, becoming proud and rigid.

Elias wrapped his fingers around the base of his veiny shaft and slid his hand up and down in a rhythmic, frantic motion. He groaned, a sound of pure, ego-driven pleasure, as he watched Damon’s eyes widen in horror. Elias increased the pace, his hips thrusting forward in a desperate, shivering dance, his breath coming in short, jagged gasps. He leaned closer to Damon, his blue eyes wide and glazed, fixed on the aristocrat’s trembling form. He wanted every drop of his essence spilt on the bastard. Elias gripped himself tighter, his knuckles white, his entire body vibrating like a plucked lyre string stretched to the point of snapping.

With a sudden, guttural choke, Elias’s hips locked, snapping forward in one final, violent surge. A thick, visceral torrent of seed erupted from him, launched with the force of a breaching whale. The hot, white streaks arched through the air in a frantic spray, splatting across Damon’s chest and face with a series of wet, heavy thuds. The fluid was viscous and steaming in the cool night air, clinging to Damon’s olive skin and dripping slowly into the corners of his eyes and mouth. Elias let out a long, shuddering moan, his muscles going slack as he collapsed forward, the remnants of his climax trailing in long, pearlescent strings across the ruin of his friend’s pride.

Elias remained draped over Damon for a moment, his chest heaving, the scent of salt and musk hanging heavy between them. The silence that followed the eruption was thick, broken only by the distant chirp of crickets and the ragged breathing of the three broken men. Slowly, Elias shifted, his blue eyes blinking open to find Damon staring up at him, paralyzed and glistening with the remnants of the youth's climax. The blue eyed youth smirked. There was one final act of humiliation he had in store for Damon.

Elias reached down. His fingers, still slick with his own heat and spunk, brushed against the velvet skin of Damon’s shaft. He didn't grip with the cruelty of Alex or the desperation of the game; instead, he began to stroke the length of the aristocrat's member with a rhythmic, sliding grace using his own essence as lube. Elias's slurry was perfectly smooth and creamy, the perfect lubricant for this purpose. Damon's assault to his bollocks likely massacred all his tadpoles anyway, this batch would be worthless for fertilizing as it was unlikely any of them survived.

It took only seconds to see the blood rushing into Damon's member. Damon let out a fractured sob, a sound caught between agony and an unwanted, treacherous pleasure. As Elias’s hand tightened, sliding the skin upward in a firm, insistent motion, the tension in Damon’s body shifted from a defensive coil to an arched, expectant stretch. The sensation was an overwhelming sensory assault—the lingering sting of the kicks, the crushing memory of Alex's grip, and now the insistent, sliding friction of Elias’s hand. Damon’s hips began to twitch involuntarily against the cold mosaic.  He tried to curse, tried to reclaim some shred of his shattered dignity, but the words died in a gasp as Elias increased the pace. The friction built a sudden, blinding pressure in the base of Damon's spine and with a sharp, guttural cry, his body buckled. He shot his load in a frantic, pulsing rhythm, the thick, white cream splashing upward against his own stomach and Elias's chest, mingling with the cooling streaks of the previous eruption.

The three of them lay in a tangled heap of limbs and cooling fluids, their chests heaving in a rhythmic, synchronized struggle for oxygen. For several long seconds, the only sound in the villa was the wet, sliding noise of skin shifting against the mosaic floor. The air around them was thick with the heavy, cloying scent of salt, musk, and the lingering sourness of the spilt wine and seed. They stared up at the ceiling, the flickering lamp light casting long, shimmering shadows across their exhausted faces, as if waiting for the gods to descend and judge the absurdity of their evening.

Then, a small, involuntary sound escaped Alex. He looked over at Damon, whose face was a chaotic map of pearlescent streaks and wine-stains, and a sudden, violent bubble of mirth erupted from his throat. It wasn't a laugh of joy, but a manic, hysterical release. The sound was infectious, a guttural roar that shook his bruised frame and sent a fresh jolt of pain through his tender groin, but he couldn't stop.

Elias joined in a second later, his voice hitting that same shattered, high pitch as before. He rolled onto his side, clutching his stomach, his blue eyes watering as he looked at the absolute disaster they had made of the room and themselves. "Look at us," he gasped between fits of coughing laughter, "reduced to a pile of tenderized meat, sweat, and seed.” Alex turned to Damon, “Despite the bullshit you pulled, I’ll say now we’re even.”

Damon, breathless, nodded in agreement. “My head is spinning faster than the ball ever did,” he moaned. He remained sprawled on the mosaic, staring blankly at the ceiling. The sheer volume of wine, the Spartan cum, and the adrenaline crash had left his brain feeling like a heap of wet wool. He attempted to sit up, but a sharp, pulsing reminder of Elias’s final assault flared in his groin, causing him to slump back down with a soft groan.  “I’m done. I’m far too gone to maintain a conversation or a grudge. It is time to go home.” The other two nodded. 

The three of them rose from the mosaic floor like wounded animals emerging from a swamp, and with a series of disjointed, precarious movements, they slowly shuffled out the door and into the pitch-black maw of the Grecian night.