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For eliade and spaggel, with many thanks to dsudis and giddygeek for beta!

How To Succeed In Sex Slavery Without Really Trying
by astolat

"Oh my God," Rodney said, again.

"Will you stop complaining? It got us in here, didn't it?" John said.

"We don't want to be in here!" Rodney yelled, clutching the pillow tighter. "We want to be in the inner chamber, where the ZPM is!"

"One step at a time, Rodney. At least we're inside the palace now."

"As dancing boys," Rodney said. "In transparent pants."

"We're still a lot closer," John said. "In case you hadn't noticed, there were a few guards outside."

"Yes, well, it's not close enough, and in case you hadn't noticed, we're about to be forced into sex slavery, which might just put a damper on the rest of the mission!" Rodney said.

"We are not being forced into sex slavery!" John said. "We do a little song and dance—"

"And then they bring out the fur-lined manacles and the silk sheets!" Rodney yelled. He waved one hand wildly, taking in the barred windows, the single door, the very very big heap of cushions. "How are we supposed to get out of here?"

"I'm working on that," John said.

"You are never getting to plan anything ever again," Rodney said. "What kind of a military strategist are you, anyway?"

"A pilot?" John said, just to make Rodney splutter. He wandered over to the table and checked out the spread. Some of the fruit looked pretty nice, and—"Hey, I think they have chocolate."

"What?" Rodney came over and sniffed at the plate.

John rolled his eyes pointedly at the pillow Rodney was still clutching to his groin. "You haven't got anything I don't know about, Rodney."

"Excuse me, I'm selective about who gets to see it in intimate detail, unlike you, Gypsy Rose," Rodney said, but he did put down the pillow to inspect the platters more closely. "Do you think it's safe to eat this stuff? What if it's drugged with aphrodisiacs?" He didn't let that stop him from taking a bite out of the chocolate truffle.

The doors opened. Rodney dived for the pillow again as the guards came back into the room, flourished their very sharp swords, and stood back. The Sultana and her women came in chattering and gleeful, and sprawled all over the pillows like a photo shoot for something between Vanity Fair and Playboy. "Um, wow," Rodney said, staring. John felt kind of the same way; it was like being at a buffet. Christ, they were beautiful, golden and alabaster and chocolate skin and big luminous eyes and delicate hands and painted lips—

The Sultana clapped her hands peremptorily at them. John put on his best smile. "So, uh, we're kind of new at this—"

Rodney rolled his eyes, still clinging to the pillow. The Sultana looked vaguely annoyed and eyed one of her serving-women, the one who had picked them out at the slave market that morning. "They're very pretty?" she said apologetically.

The Sultana looked back at them narrowly. John tried his best to look pretty. Rodney edged a little sideways and behind him. "Oh, all right," she said, and added to John, "Just bring us the platters," speaking very slowly and clearly.

"We're not morons," Rodney muttered. "Despite evidence to the contrary." John elbowed him in the side and grabbed one of the big platters of chocolate and fruit. It was a little unwieldy, but the real problem happened when they got across the room, because he couldn't figure out a good way to put it down; there wasn't enough of an open space among the pillows.

"Oh, honestly," one of the other women said, and got up to take the platter away; the others caught at John's legs and pulled him down sprawling among them, Rodney tumbling down next to him, and then they put the platter in his lap.

Rodney was flat on his back with his eyes darting back and forth like he wasn't sure whether he was a deer in headlights or a fox in a henhouse. "So," John started to say, but the nearest woman popped a bite of fruit into his mouth with her fingers.

Another one fed Rodney a bite of cake, and then some honey-dipped piece of red fruit; another one held out a little soft cookie-type thing to John. Apparently that was the general idea. The setup seemed a little backwards to John, but worse things had happened to him in the Pegasus Galaxy than lying on silk pillows getting fed by beautiful women, so he opened his mouth for the chocolate-covered berries and smiled in what he hoped was a charming, harmless, don't-hurt-me kind of way.

Music started coming from somewhere overhead, past the hovering cloud of women, weird boppy stuff like a cross between Indian sitar music and Top Hits of the 80's, with an accompaniment going in John's ear of Rodney's little stuttering gasps and moans. The women were stroking John's bare chest lightly with their fingertips, rubbing his thighs through the silk, and then they started tearing off the limited amount of clothing he and Rodney were still wearing, and John suddenly realized that he couldn't control his arms and legs anymore.

There were sweet sticky fingers rubbing at his mouth, hands between his legs and on his dick; his whole body had gone pliable and doll-limp for them. It felt so fucking good, and he let his legs fall apart and arched his back and hope hope hoped someone was going to take the hint—

"Ohhh," Rodney said, and John looked over enviously; there were three separate manicured hands moving on Rodney's cock, leaving it shiny and slick and wet, and then a hand was going between his own legs, yes yes yes, except NO, because they were rubbing some of the shiny slick stuff between his buttocks, and he could see where this was going right the fuck now.

"Wait," he said; there were lots of hands on him, lifting him up. "Wait, wait—"

"Oh, God," Rodney moaned, his arms and legs flailing uselessly as they straddled John over his hips, "I told you, I so completely and absolutely told you—"

"Oh, shut up, what are you complaining about," John said bitterly, because his thighs just wouldn't hold him up no matter how hard he strained, and he was sliding helplessly down onto—Rodney would have a big fucking dick, of course—and John couldn't stop the movement, settling straight down onto his own doubled-over legs, easy and smooth all the way until he was seated firmly, his head lolling back onto the fragrant perfumed shoulders of the women behind him.

Rodney made a whimper that sounded like yes, god yes, and turned red when John managed to lift his head up long enough to stare at him. "Don't even try to blame me for—" he said, and broke off with an enthusiastic moan as the women moved John on his dick.

"I don't believe you!" John hissed accusingly, while the women practically bounced him up and down.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry, god this is good," Rodney said, and managed despite the drugs to jerk his hips up. John gulped down a noise that absolutely was not even a little bit like a moan. Okay, maybe it wasn't completely horrible from this side either,

By the time the drug had mostly worn off, John was riding Rodney hard and fast without a single hand on him, panting, snarling at Rodney to do some of the fucking work here, which got him a few awkward and overzealous thrusts that felt fantastic. He came all over Rodney's belly and flopped down into the sticky mess.

"Oh, oh, come on," Rodney whined, and when John failed to move, he rolled them over, muttering disgruntled complaints under his breath, and fucked John some more until he came too. Maybe it was something left over from the drug, but that felt almost as great.

The women turned them over to some lowlier servants afterwards, to be fed a more substantial and almost ridiculously lavish dinner with a lot of giggling and leering and a couple of blessedly spectacular blowjobs, which renewed John's faith in his essential masculinity and straightness, except then they got taken down to the baths to be washed and oiled and taken advantage of again, this time by a couple of the guards, who bent them over the oiling-table side by side and fucked them both in tandem. Another one who happened to by passing by joined in and put his dick into Rodney's mouth. "Mmmphr mrf mpmph," Rodney said, glaring at John sideways.

"Don't even start with me, Rodney," John said, clinging to the edge of the table to brace himself against the thrusts.

After that, they got cleaned up and rubbed down again, and then they were put to bed naked in a featherbed nest of silk cushions and thick furs, so yielding that they wound up involuntarily snuggled together in the middle, legs tangled. The guard snapped little satin-lined gold cuffs around their ankles, chained them to the bedposts, and left after what John felt was a completely unnecessary pat to his ass.

Rodney was still glaring at him. "Manacles," he said meaningfully.

"This is not my fault," John said, squirming restlessly; his dick couldn't quite manage another hard-on, but it was trying.

"Have you figured out how we're getting out of here yet?"

"Still working on it!"

"In other words, we're sex slaves until Ronon and Teyla find a way to rescue us out of the depths of this heavily armed palace," Rodney said. He shifted a little bit; his half-hard dick was nudging at John's balls.

John gave up trying to find a neutral position and let himself relax, his own dick happy to nestle up against Rodney's belly. "You're the one who keeps saying you never get to take any vacation time."

"An indefinite period of gluttony and kinky sex totally out of my control wasn't exactly what I had in mind!" Rodney said. Then he paused. "Oh, hm."

"And you were complaining about my planning abilities," John said.

= End =

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