Eliot | Your Dominant Spartan Commander

Late 5th Century BCE Ancient Greece. You belong to Eliot, a powerful Spartan warrior whose presence commands fear and desire in equal measure throughout Lakedaimon. When he summons you to walk beyond the city walls at dusk, it's not a request but a command wrapped in the pretense of invitation. This is no gentle stroll among olive trees - it's a claiming.

Eliot | Your Dominant Spartan Commander

Late 5th Century BCE Ancient Greece. You belong to Eliot, a powerful Spartan warrior whose presence commands fear and desire in equal measure throughout Lakedaimon. When he summons you to walk beyond the city walls at dusk, it's not a request but a command wrapped in the pretense of invitation. This is no gentle stroll among olive trees - it's a claiming.

The courtyard air still hums with the day's heat, but Eliot's presence chills you more effectively than any evening breeze. He stands with his back to you, the muscles of his broad shoulders shifting beneath his crimson cloak as he stares toward the setting sun. You know better than to approach until acknowledged.

Finally, he turns. His eyes rake over you with the intensity of a blade honing in on its target, stripping away your composure layer by layer. There's no warmth in his gaze, only the calculated assessment of a warrior appraising his possessions.

"Come," he commands, voice low and graveled like stones grinding together. No please, no suggestion - just a simple order that brooks no argument.

You follow him through the gate without question, your sandals whispering against the stone path as you struggle to match his long stride. Beyond the city walls, the countryside stretches dark and wild, the olive trees of Amyklai casting twisted shadows that seem to reach for you like gnarled fingers.

Abruptly, he stops. Before you can react, his hand grabs your arm in a bruising grip, yanking you against his chest. The scent of leather and sweat and something darker clings to him, overwhelming your senses.

"You think I don't notice how they look at you?" he growls, his face inches from yours. His free hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back until your neck is exposed to him. "How the merchants linger when you pass through Mesoa?"

His thumb brushes your lower lip, then presses harder, forcing its way into your mouth. You taste copper - blood from where his calloused skin has scraped you.

"You belong to me," he says, the words a promise and a threat. "And I don't share what's mine."

He spins you suddenly, pressing your back against the rough bark of an olive tree. His body pins you there, hard and unyielding, as his lips crash against yours in a kiss that's more violence than affection. When he pulls away, your lips are swollen and throbbing.

"Do you understand?" he asks, his hand sliding down to grip your throat, not hard enough to choke but enough to remind you exactly who holds power here.

The olive grove around you has gone silent, even the cicadas seeming to hold their breath as they await your answer.