Greetings, all!

Welcome to the weekend and time for some Seductive Studs! We are returning to The Greek Room, so if you need a refresher, click here.

Evans’ native pragmatism reasserted itself; he would soldier on. That dream was not the only diversion he had.

Composed again, Evans walked to the shelves and pressed a small switch, hidden within the detailed carvings. He pulled open the section of bookcase and entered the steep, narrow staircase that descended into the depths of the manor. Upon reaching the bottom, he found another switch, flooding the space with glaring white light. Evans smiled at one of his new technological toys. He’d be damned if Lord Armstrong’s was going to be the only estate in Northumberland to have electricity.

Greek pottery

Lovingly he ran his fingers across the array of items displayed throughout the room. Statuettes of ancient athletes and shunga netsuke of muscular Samurai stood alongside naked male figures from Egypt, Babylon, China, all carved of ivory and whalebone and jade. Paintings and sketches showed a variety of scenes, some from de Sade’s The 120 Days of Sodom. Framed papyri depicted every conceivable penetration of a male body by another, some singularly, others in groups. Frequently he imagined Agamemnon and himself populating those drawings. The earl’s hand strayed to his crotch and caressed a nascent erection.

Evans crossed the room to a heavy door, taking a key out of his waistcoat. From the room beyond he retrieved a large, flat envelope. London requires replenishment. He patted the envelope, recalling his pleasure at its contents. They will particularly enjoy these.

Thanks for reading!

Be sure to check out more Studs here.

‘Til next time!

Greetings, all!

The weekend is here, and it’s time for some Seductive Studs! We’re returning to The Greek Room, so if you would like a refresher, click here.

Robert Evans, Earl of Corbridge, stared at the doors, long after they had closed behind Christos. He marveled that the young Greek émigré had walked out of the green fields and beech copses of Northumberland and into his home. Blond and olive-skinned, the young man was clearly his father’s son; he even had Agamemnon’s emerald eyes in that face worthy of Adonis. It was as if his dreams had been made real.

Grief welled in his breast. The thought of Agamemnon weak and ill seared him. He had always treasured the thought of returning to Greece—to Agamemnon—as a palliative against the numbing boredom of his familial duty. Heartache choked him, and he sank into nostalgia.

Spartan swordsman

Memories of his Greek lover rose before him—images of him and Agamemnon entangled beneath the bleached-white canvas of an impromptu lean-to. The heat and lust drawing from their pores a cloud of musk and tangy man-sweat while kestrels screamed in the air above them. The hard flat plains of Agamemnon’s chest and belly heaving beneath him as he rode the Greek’s hard cock. All came back, as fresh and vibrant as if it had happened yesterday, and Robert lived in them for a while.

But now that escape was gone.

Thanks for reading!

Be sure to check out the other Studs here.

‘Til next time!