A gay story: Publius Octavius Ch 01 Publius Octavius Ch 01
Vic buys Tavi his first personal slave
This story is entirely fiction, although historical research has shown that many of the customs and practices described probably actually happened—at least among the upper class “provincial” Romans of the First and Second Centuries. One major notation: This story takes place after Tavi’s twentieth birthday; in all probability in the former Greek colonies which became part of the Empire, it would have been his fourteenth—and many of the other practices described would have occurred prior. This would not meet contemporary publication standards. Therefore, I can state that all sexual activity in this story takes place among individuals over 18—but that is author’s license on my part. The story is told in the first person by Tavi. © 2024, Brunosden, All rights reserved.
Pater and I were off on a shopping trip—to celebrate my twentieth birthday. The year following this birthday would see me “become a man” under Roman custom. I had been anxiously anticipating this day and this year for many months. We threaded our way through the narrow stone paved streets, between whitewashed and marble-clad buildings, many with colorful awnings in front, almost meeting over the center of the way, protecting the wares offered from the blistering sun. Shopkeepers called attention to their wares as we passed, but we were on a mission. It wasn’t far. The hill hosting the agora and another where the elite Roman families (like ours) lived were adjacent.
We are citizens of Scythopolis, one of the ten “free” cities that dotted the eastern flank of the Roman Empire, collectively called the “Decapolis”. We are free Roman citizens. But this is a special city, the capital, in (but not part of) the Province of Palestinium near the southwestern shores of the Sea of Galilee from which flowed the life giving Jordan River. It was doubly special because it was the one of the three prime grape/wine producing areas of the entire Empire which stretched from the British Isles, to North Africa, to Egypt, to the former Persian Empire to the East. This made it a crossroads city for trade with Rome. And as a wine center, it is one of the centers of the Cult of the god Bacchus—the god of good times, enjoyment of wine and other spirits, pro-creation and other forms of pleasure. During the first century, our city had become the preferred R&R location for legionnaires assigned to the East.
We were not the capital of Palestinium, nor were we a port city. But, we were important none the less.
Within a few weeks, I would be initiated into the Cult and in the next year my wife-to-be would be moved into our house to determine her fertility before our marriage—but more about that later.
My name is Tavi (actually Publius Octavius), so named because I was born in the year in which Octavius Caesar declared himself the first emperor of all the Romans—when our Republic became an Empire. I am the only son of Publius Victorianus (“Vic”), a successful Roman general, and currently serving on the “advisory” governing council of the free city. He is very wealthy and very influential. He is a huge bear of a man, intimidating to anyone who might meet him. Typically, he gets what he wants, when he wants it. For a Roman man of his position, that included almost any younger man or woman he fancied. And his word is law in our family. But in the next year or so, many of his responsibilities (and advantages) would pass to me, or at least he would share.
Soon we reached the agora, the ancient market, rebuilt by the famous Roman engineers, with wide mosaic streets and covered semi-permanent stalls selling the best of the Empire to any with enough Roman coinage—or suitable barter. It was crowded. There were only two “full” market days each week, and this happened to be the once-a-month auction of unusual plunder from the newly conquered “Provinces” and the slave market.
We were dressed for market. I had on an all-white linen tunic, cut square, without sleeves, hemmed at mid-thigh, belted in leather, and leather sandals. Pater had the same tunic, but he chose to wear his ceremonial toga, bordered in crimson, over it—rather than his shorter tunic, military breastplate and pleated skirt (which would have been unbearably hot in June). As a politician and military officer, he was entitled to wear either. We were not casual shoppers, but men on a mission, with a need to impress. We looked a lot alike. He is tall for a Roman (about 5-10) while I am a few inches taller. I have short black curly hair—while his is peppered with grey. We both have pale blue eyes which darken visibly when we are angry or excited. We had sharp noses. We are tanned and fit. In fact, I had just completed four years of training in the martial arts at the Gymnasium (our name for a Greek-style prep school) and had spent the mandatory six months with the military. I was quite proud of my bulging sword-arm muscles, my ripped gut, and strong thighs. I had been a champion wrestler, runner and warrior at the Gymnasium. Pater had cut a commanding figure in his day, and I appeared to be following in his footsteps.
If we were to go to war (again), I would be in the elite Fifth Legion, led by the middle son of the Emperor. (The oldest, heir to the throne, did not leave Rome and thus commanded the First Legion.) But, we were theoretically at peace and I lived at home with a large extended family. Pater had bought my freedom from service—but it was understood that if a real major battle or war occurred, I would need to earn my stripes by going with the Legion. My schooling and training had been completed. Pater would soon begin bringing me with him as he attended to various official duties, prepping me to take over for him. (I was the only boy, but had been preceded in birth by four sisters, all now married, two living with their husbands’ families and two with us.)
I had been pledged in matrimony shortly after birth—to a contemporary, the daughter of another general. She is two months younger than I, and I have never met her. The marriage is scheduled for about two years from now, but she would move to my family’s house and I would bed her in less than a year when the dowry would be escrowed—so she could prove her fertility. Then the ceremony and party that united us and our families would be scheduled. It was obviously to be a political marriage of convenience, but fertility was an absolute prerequisite.
But that didn’t mean that I was a virgin At the Gymnasium, I had been taken by instructors and benefactors for many years, and during the latter years of that period I had taken and been taken by other students—the strongest and largest always the taker (towards the end, often me). The law of the jungle (age, guile and strength) prevailed. But, as per custom, all of my partners to date had been male. After the marriage, it was expected that I would continue to have male partners and that I would sustain female concubines—always with discretion and in private so as not to embarrass my spouse, who presumably would mother our children. At this point, because it was all I knew, I definitely was enjoying “going” with men.
There was however one major exception to this style of life unique to Scythopolis: the monthly “bacchanals” at the Temple of Bacchus during the season—but I’ll tell you more about that later. We are now approaching one of the larger merchant halls—the slave auction stages and keep.
Slave auctions were held monthly. The slaves were either the spoils of war, individuals who had fallen into debt and had to ransom themselves with their bodies, or petty criminals. Under Roman rules, slaves were auctioned for seven years of servitude, and then, good behavior assumed, were freed. Ultimately they could theoretically become free men and Roman citizens. Often a slave “graduated” to paid employment in the household after the stated period.
Three kinds of auctions were scheduled for today—on different stages and at different times: household slaves (mostly women and children, but some men), field or “outside” slaves (including military slaves, mostly made up of lower-rank defeated combatants and debtors), and personal slaves (non-combatant inhabitants of conquered areas and elite combatants who had corrected their ways and pledged allegiance to Rome). There was a fourth group, but they were not typically auctioned. If they were “foot-soldier” combatants and had refused, they were sent to the Coliseum for the games. Many slaves were treated badly and did not survive the seven years.
We were out to purchase my first personal slave. They were always the most expensive. Typically, they had some education, spoke a few languages (including our own Greek, peppered with Latin). They were often the elite non-combatant people left after a rebellion or the subjugation of yet another province or the top echelon of vanquished warriors. They were all men. (Women chose personal slaves from the household slaves.)
Men of property and position, like Pater, and now me, were expected to have one or more personal slaves. As we walked, Pater repeated the advice he had been offering for weeks: a personal slave is critical to happiness and position; once purchased, the master was expected to teach and discipline the slave, ingraining in him the idea of position and caste—using words, punishment, and sexual dominance to achieve that goal. After a trial period, a decision could be made—resell the slave and start again if he didn’t learn and internalize his responsibilities or begin the process of engaging the slave so that a form of fraternal love and devotion developed. This was perhaps one of the most difficult tasks of a patrician. Our goal was to achieve allegiance—and even a commitment to stay on as a free man, after seven years. This was most often achieved by using sex to hypnotize the slave into addiction to his master. But treating the slave as a fellow human being who had fallen on misfortune was equally important to me.
Soon, we approached the crowded hall. It was going to be a big day. Probably a hundred or more would be sold—but we had heard there would be only ten available as personal slaves—and they were choice—Parthian horse-back-riding archer warriors. They had been captured during a skirmish on the frontier about a month ago. We expected that they would likely be expensive—particularly because this was summer, the auction when the Cult purchased “new bodies” for the rituals of the new season which began just before the grape harvest and continued through the winter into the early spring. And the rumor was that these guys were really choice.
We entered the hall and Pater spotted an acquaintance from the Cult. He motioned me to the display of personal slaves. “Go choose your favorite, and an alternate. I’m going to insure that the Cult doesn’t extort too much from us to get your choice. Remember what I told you to look for: youth, good health, attitude, body-guard potential, education, and a body that you wouldn’t mind in your bed. You probably won’t find them all, but you should try.”
I moved to the center stage. Ten men, all naked and all relatively young were shackled loosely at the wrists and one ankle to a pike anchored in the stone stage. Most seemed about my age or a little older. They were spaced apart in an area where the canvas awning had been drawn back—so they were fully lit in the hot late morning sun. And they were sweating and hungry looking. The blocks were numbered I to X. The men were amazingly similar—darkly tanned, muscular, shaved except for their heads, dark-eyed, and fierce-looking. All had been oiled to enhance their muscles—and probably to remove various parasites and perhaps some road dirt. As Parthians, they were uncircumcised, like us Romans. And many did seem to have decent phalluses hanging between their slightly bowed legs. They were indeed choice specimens. A few men were walking around the stage inspecting the captives carefully—checking their teeth, ordering them to speak, having them draw up into muscular poses, and occasionally, stroking their phalluses or rolling back their hoods or inserting fingers in their anuses to see how large they might become, whether there was disease under or how loose they were. None of the potential buyers was as young as I. And none drew the eyes of the slaves as I did. At first I thought it was desperation. Then, I realized it was more likely lust. I was a juicy specimen of a Roman warrior.
I immediately was drawn to V, although VI appeared to be his twin. But I started with I. He was bigger than me, fierce, and unsmiling—and he didn’t speak more than a word or two in response to my questions. He was sullen and defiant under a thin veneer of cooperation. He had probably the largest phallus on the stage and his ass was wide, round and held high. He would be a pleasure to train into submission by fucking—but otherwise, he would be a strange companion. I carefully inspected his anus. That convinced me to let him go. He was clearly experienced. I would leave him for the Cult where sexual characteristics and physical stamina were prized over civility and companionship.
It was nearly the same with II, III and IV. All appeared to be well-used. I was beginning to despair of finding someone that I might want. Then I approached V, as a Cult assayer moved on to VI. I looked into his dark eyes, which were level with mine, and he smiled. His face was partially covered by long dark hair, but I could tell it was chiseled and angular. I walked around feeling his muscled arms, butt muscles, and thighs, deliberately provoking him by raising my palm into his balls and weighing their bulk. He didn’t flinch or speak, but I noted the ferocious need in his eyes. He seemed to lean into me as I did so—not in threat, but in invitation. He was a nice specimen. No, not a nice specimen: a superb figure of a warrior, worthy of one of our best sculptors.
When I appeared again before him, he spoke, rather good Greek, “Young Master, I would make you a very good slave.” I took his phallus in hand, held it while he stared at me and stroked it. It hardened a bit, but did not fully erect. It was quite beautiful, and the oil and sweat made it shine in the sun. It was long, dark and as the hood withdrew, it sported a blood-red angry head. “Excuse me Master, if I try to prevent an erection. If I permit my phallus to enlarge, then surely the Cult will choose me. Eros has gifted me with a piece of himself. You may not want to continue what you are doing if you want me.”
I stepped back and eyed him head to toe. He was a rather forward guy, but so hungry and wild. His words, even if true, betrayed a pride that might be difficult to handle. Then I went behind and pushed him into a front bend. His high muscled ass popped out toward me. I grabbed the globes and separated his cheeks. He was tight and clean—and his rim was a nice fresh pink. I swatted a few times. Then inserted two fingers deeply and quickly. He gasped and squeezed my fingers tightly trapping me inside. He was nearly unused. His cheeks were rock hard, but reddened from my strokes. I doubt that I had ever taken a more pleasing man. My own phallus lengthened under my tunic, which fortunately was sufficiently loose that it did not show. But, my flush face betrayed my seduction.
“I think you might do. I guess you have heard that the Cult will do most of the buying today. It uses their slaves hard—both manual labor in the early day and with ritual couplings many times each evening and through the night—every day. After a year, most Cult slaves are turned out to the fields, exhausted and used up.”
“I have heard that, Young Master. But, I have little say in the matter.” He leered at me and repeated. “Young Master, I will make you a very good slave. I have been trained as a warrior, but I have also been educated in all the erotic arts. And I speak reasonable Greek.”
“Have you promised this to all the bidders, save the Cult?”
“No, you are the first. But, if you choose another, I’d like to know so that I may attempt to influence my fate with others.”
Contrary to Pater’s advice, I decided to make my preference known. “You will do. You will be my first pick.”
I proceeded on to the other five. VI was physically as appealing as V, but his language skills were lacking, and he didn’t seem to have the same perfidious drive. VII to X were all okay, but having interacted with V, everyone seemed to be second rate. I had made my choice. V was going to be a good choice, although I already anticipated that I would often be negotiating with him rather than ordering him, a nice challenge, I thought, and worthy of my efforts. I was already dreaming of plunging my phallus in that tight hole.
At that moment, the clapper announced the opening of the bids. Pater was immediately at my side. “Who shall it be?”
“V, and if not, VI.” I saw Pater signal the Cult bidder with a fully opened hand, then with the same hand and one finger with the other. The signal had been given. The Cult bidder nodded, and then immediately looked up, indicating to Pater that the price for his forbearance would be higher than initially negotiated. Pater knew this would happen and nodded his assent.
The bidding progressed slowly. There were a dozen bidders, but after numbers I and II were auctioned, it became clear to many that the Cult was desperate and would take most of the offerings at high prices. So people began to wander away, ready to return on another day when the Cult was not bidding. Finally, we reached V. Pater opened with 100 gold pieces (about $200); the Cult bidder went to 110; and Pater immediately increased to 125. Then there was silence. Pater smiled at the Cult bidder in thanks. (Later he would “tip” the bidder for his courtesy with another 75—he had been planning to pay 200 for a choice slave.)
Soon the auction was over. The Cult took 7 of the 10. Pater remarked that he and I would ultimately sample many of them during rituals in the coming months. He was clearly looking forward to the rituals that would begin just before the fall harvest in a few weeks and continue through the winter. Pater too had been aroused by the brutal manliness of the Parthian offerings.
We walked to the money-changer and paid. I indicated to Pater that I didn’t think the shackles would be necessary, so our newest slave was released, unshackled, to our custody.
All the slaves had worn thin iron collars—fairly snug to the their throats, and theoretically irremovable without doing serious harm to or killing the slave. I extracted a cotton loin cloth from our carry-bag and handed it to my slave after he was released from display captivity. Pater nodded. “You made a good choice. We will visit the smith before going home. We must immediately replace the iron ring with our own family’s ownership ring, made of bronze and marked with our shield-mark. All will then know he is ours…. no yours.”
We went to the smith. He placed a thick leather skin between the iron ring and the slave’s throat, heated the ring, and clipped it off. Then he tested the bronze, flattened ring to ensure its fit, and reversed the process, heating and welding the ring together. Unlike the iron ring, ours had two small holes punched into it on either side—to permit a leather cord to be inserted—should the slave ever misbehave and need to be punished. (But, it had other uses during intercourse that the men of our family had discovered.) Impressed into the bronze was our family mark. The slave was now clearly marked as our property.
Then it was to the common baths—not the one we would typically use, but the one open to the entire city. We paid and the attendants scrubbed my slave, washed the loin cloth which was already stained with his display oil, and returned it to him.
Now we were ready to return home. It was mid-day and I presumed my slave had not been fed or watered. “Pater, I wish to orient this man myself in private at first. I will ask the servants to bring refreshments to my apartment if it pleases you. I will be absent from the mid-day family meal.”
“Please. These merchant mornings always leave me feeling soiled. I am going to my bath. We will meet again later. I know you will remember all of the instructions that I have given you. Be firm, my son. Remember, he is not your friend or your equal.”
“Thank you Pater. I am very happy with the results—and with your generosity.” And so I led the way through the atrium with its pool and plantings to my apartment at the southeast corner of the house—which had only recently been allocated to me as I came of age, stopping only once to instruct a servant to bring refreshments immediately.
Pater had warned me: first actions are critical—they will set the pattern for a master’s relationship with his slave. As we entered the apartment, I turned to him. “What is your name? I need to decide whether I like it or whether I shall change it. And how old are you?”
“It is Joshua, Master. I have had not family since I was a youth and thus have no surname. It didn’t matter in the military. I believe that I’m about 21 years of age, but my birth date is in question.”
I mulled the name. Although Pater had advised me to rename, I decided to let him keep it, but I added, “You may keep the name, but in the future when I ask a question, your answer need not include reasons or extraneous information. A simple answer is all that I require, unless I ask for more.”
“Now, Joshua. Strip off that ridiculous loin cloth. When you are in my apartment, you will be nude, unless I tell you otherwise. Place it on the ledge by the door. You will don it whenever we leave—as you will always be with me, a few paces behind and vigilant for my safety and comfort.” Pointing to a light-filled space near my bed, I added, “In that alcove, you will find a ledge. That is your bed. Unless you displease me, you will have a straw mattress and a cover. You will sleep after I do—and you will wake before me.”
He slipped off the loin cloth, folded it and placed it on the shelf. He was smiling, obviously very proud of his physical appearance. Clearly he remembered our exchange at the agora. He was already sporting a semi. He knew he was endowed and was proud of it. He was big, probably longer than my outstretched fingers, but not bigger than I. He had already begun his seduction. I needed to counter that immediately—although I rather liked the gesture.
“I believe you know your role. You are my personal slave. You will wash me, dress me, prepare my garments so they are always spotless. You will brush and oil my hair. You will learn of my food preferences and arrange with the servants to have them delivered to me, always tasting to insure purity and absence of poison. I prefer that you dine with me unless I have friends in attendance. You will always be clean and ready for me to take you.” He was smiling throughout my recital. “And you will not spill your seed unless I give specific permission.”
With the final comments, I noted Josh’s eyes rolled back into his head.
“Ok. Let’s hear it. I will deal with it. I will not suffer your insolence—or any self-gratification. Have you had a concubine? Surely, you’ve heard that personal servants are typically under their Masters at will.”
“I did occasionally use the women who camped with our division. But, I also used men. In fact, I was almost always the biggest cock and the most dominant in our group—so I took whomever I wanted to bed. I never slept alone—even on the battlefield. I would take you in a heartbeat. You are beautiful, Young Master.”
“Those are pretty bold words for a slave. You’d be wise to learn your place. That’s going to change. You will not be ‘taking’ anyone. Certainly not me. It is you who will be taken. Go get clean. I’m taking you now. Your job is to please me—and at the moment, my pleasure requires you belly down in my bed. Move.”
“As you command, Young Master.” He smiled, not entirely in pleasure, I detected. Joshua went the alcove and used the cloth and basin of water to clean himself. He had just been to the baths and hadn’t eaten in a day. Thus it didn’t take long. Then, visibly excited and erect, he walked to my pallet and stretched out, spreading his legs into a wide vee.
I dropped my tunic and stood before him nude. His head rose and his eyes widened as he noted my size, even larger than his–of which he was so proud. I took a few drops of oil from the ewer on the table by the pallet and spread it on my phallus which easily grew past 8 inches. “Lift your ass and position yourself.” He followed my instruction immediately and poised himself near the foot of the pallet, arching his back to present his ass. I stood at the foot of the pallet, placed a few of my oiled fingers in his hole, stroked a few times, and plunged the head inside without warning. He gasped in pain. He was tight, very tight, and had contracted muscles in anticipation of my invasion. He had obviously not been taken recently—perhaps not since his departure from the academy. I swatted his ass cheeks a few times. “It will be easier if you breathe and enjoy my cock moving in you—for it will be there often, Joshua. I think I’m going tolike being here very much.”
I decided that I wanted him to want this as much as I wanted to penetrate him. So I paused for a few moments to permit him to adjust. I reached around and teased his nipples to rigidity. Then, I reached down and bobbled his sacs before taking his shaft in my fist. He was totally rigid and leaking already. My teasing throughout the pre-auction and the walk to our villa had totally aroused him.
So I started rocking by thrusting my hips toward his ass, drilling deeper with each stroke, filling and stretching him to fit me. I found and poked the prostate. Then the head of my cock hit a barrier. I withdrew and plunged again. And again. And I plowed through as his ring tightened around my head. He moaned in pleasure, apparently despite his prior abhorrence of being a bottom. He sighed, I think in relief, as he realized he could handle my substantial length and girth. Did I detect a sign of acceptance and pleasure already?
We had apparently both been denied for some time. Our first coupling was not to last long. Soon he was pushing his ass back into me, clearly enjoying the pleasure I was taking as much as I. I reached under. His erection was rock hard (just a little smaller than my own, when erect, I noted with satisfaction). I stroked a few times as I pushed deep into his gut. I could feel his walls pulsing along my length. He was indeed a live sleeve.
“oung Master, if you continue to stroke, I will spill my seed. May I?”
“Not yet, I am not through with you.” So I circled a finger and thumb and tightened against the base, forestalling his ejaculation. He moaned in pain, edged to the end of his endurance. A few minutes later, I was ready—and I thought I had given him his first lesson in what I expected from him: he would cum only when I wanted. So, I thrust hard and began to fill him with my cum. “You may spill. Take it in your hand. I don’t want my linens soiled.” So he reached up and cupped his cock head and began to shoot. It overflowed and a few drops hit the sheet. “You will lick that clean—and me before we are done.”
“Thank you, Master. You are indeed a talented lover of men and the producer of much seed.” I couldn’t tell yet whether it was sarcasm or legitimate praise. But, either way, I think he understood the situation, and he certainly had felt my size. He would feel it many more times in the coming days—and come to desire it often.
“you may take nourishment from your hand, Joshua.”
I smiled inside. He had been very tight and very proud and obviously I was one of his first, probably since his graduation from the military school where I am sure instructors took him at will. He was a handsome and accepting lover. Over the years, I would take much pleasure from this man. I realized he had thrust his ass into my gut as I plunged, and he had used his anal muscles to massage my member quite nicely toward the end. He was yielding to me quite easily, I thought. And surely he was taking pleasure from our coupling. I must be careful not to weaken. He shouldn’t be enjoying this so much so soon.
“Stow your compliments. Drink your seed.” I flipped on my back on the pallet. “Do the rest of your work.” So Joshua began a sensuous tongue bath of my post-jack sensitive phallus, rolling the hood down to reach all the surfaces. “You will also learn to take all of it in your throat, but that lesson is for later. I think you have earned some additional sustenance. Serve us.”
Joshua went to the food tray which earlier had been placed in the apartment by one of the domus-servants—whose eyes had bulged when they took in the beauty of my new slave, standing naked by his pallet cleansing himself. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one taken with his raw beauty.
We ate of the fruit and bread and I began his inquisition. “I wish to know your background. You may speak—but beware of deceit or boast. I can recognize both and I will punish you for lying to me.”
“Yes Master.” (In a few weeks, I would permit him to use my name, Octavius, or perhaps even Tavi, but not yet. That would demonstrate a familiarity and weakness which I could not afford.)
“I was born 21 or 22 years ago—I do not know the exact day—in the East, outside the frontier of your Empire.”
I interrupted, “It would be wise if you realized that it is OUR Empire.”
“We lived in a wooded space outside the walls of our fortified city. A few years after my birth, my father, one of the leaders of our elite cavalry brigade was taken down in battle. He died, leaving mother, me and three others without protection. His brother took us in, but the house was crowded, as it was located in our largest settlement inside walls. He never adopted me—legally or, as a practical matter, in his everyday life. I was just a burden and another mouth to feed for a few more years. At 10, I was sent to the military academy. I never saw him or my mother again.”
“Within a few years, I had demonstrated skill as a swordsman and an archer—so they moved me to the cavalry academy and I began the intense training of the Parthian Archers. I am sure you know what life is like in those schools. For a poor orphan, the conditions were terrible. I had no patron and no support. So I was used, often brutally. I hardened myself, developed my body and my skills, and swore it would end soon.”
“We were proud that Rome had never conquered our lands. We even used to boast that we had never lost a skirmish—although that was an exaggeration concocted by our generals. Our leaders reminded us repeatedly that if we were defeated or captured by the Palestinians, we would be immediately castrated and then used as eunuch slaves in their households or sacrificed in their Temple. That was a powerful incentive to succeed or die. I rose in the ranks and last year, I was given command of one division of cavalry. Our assignment: harass a section of the frontier—east of here–so that the Romans would continue to fear us and leave us alone. A month ago, we struck at a fortified town in Palestinium, across the river. My horse hit a deep defensive ditch and pitched me to the ground. I awoke a day later in chains. Many of my friends were in the same state and place. I was relieved when I looked down and realized my phallus was intact and that my balls were still in their sacs. We were captives of Rome, not Palestinian villagers. The Romans would probably rape us, but they would not take our manhood. And now I am here.”
“You were given a choice—swear fealty to the Empire and become a slave for seven or more years, or serve the military, probably as an oarsman in a galley. Why did you betray your people?”
“I didn’t betray them. I never was of them. I was good at what I did and they rewarded me accordingly. My choice was easy. I am terrified of the sea. It was therefore really no choice. I’m now pleased with my decision. Young Master, I will do anything to make you happy.”
“Indeed, you shall, Joshua. I am waiting to make you prove to me that I chose well at the auction.” With these words, I pushed him down onto the pallet—on his back this time. I picked up his legs, spread them, and he immediately understood. His hands reached up to pull them back, rolling his ass up for my use. He was still open. His anal lips were puffed with arousal. And he was still dripping with my seed. This was an image that immediately aroused me. His muscular globes were tensed in anticipation of yet another rough taking.
I decided that I needed to demonstrate my dominance, but also my benevolence. Using the cum dripping from his hole as lube, I plunged suddenly and deeply into his gut. He moaned a bit in pain, but quickly replaced it with a false smile and wide open eyes—and uttered what was probably an equally false comment, “Oh, Young Master, I long to be filled with your manhood. It completes me.”
Having cum only a half hour before, I was going to enjoy this coupling. So I slowly teased, stroking in and out, scraping the prostate with each pass. He was tight, but my cum lubed the passage and I was able to continue his “punishment” for quite some time until it was clear that he was enjoying the coupling as much as I. Finally, Joshua’s cock rose tall and hard in response and as his hood rolled down, I detected the telltale moisture of pre-cum—he was definitely enjoying this. He couldn’t deceive me—as so many women did, I am told. He could not feign that hardness or that fluid leaking from his cockhead, nestled in his drawn-back hood. I moved very slowly, stretching his sheath to accommodate me, pushing out more pre-cum with each stroke. I knew I was near, but I wanted a violent end—once again to demonstrate that I was in charge.
My finger went to the head of his phallus—that most sensitive part when the hood is drawn away. I stroked it, rubbed it, even pinched it. His eyes widened and his entire body tensed. I was achieving my goal: he was at the bitter edge. Straining not to cum.
I reached up and placed my hands on his shoulders and looped my thumbs around the bronze neck ring to hold him in place, and started to pound violently. He darkened—possibly because I was depriving him of air or possibly because I was a very good coupler, and then, he exploded onto my chest. I stroked a few more times, experienced the exquisite thrill of my seed rising, and filled him again with a half dozen spasms of my cum. Then, I released the hold on the ring and fell onto his body. As I released his thighs, his legs curled around my butt and he held me close inside, gasping for breath. I wasn’t clear whether he did so to hold me close—or to stop me from continuing to pound his shaft. I was tempted to take his lips, but decided it was too soon and perhaps unseemly. So I put on a frown and said, “I didn’t give you permission to spill. As your punishment, you will use your tongue to remove your cream from my body.”
He smiled at me with his wide dark purple eyes (apparently not entirely unpleased with his punishment). “Yes, Young Master, as you wish.”
“I will dine with the family tonight. You will stay in these rooms. I will decide tomorrow how soon I will display you to the others. It would be premature to do so tonight. Surely, you haven’t yet been trained sufficiently. I expect that you will be suitably prepared and that my bed will be clean and warm when I return. We will continue your training later tonight and tomorrow. I think you might do.”
“Yes, Young Master. Whatever you command. And thank you again for choosing me.”
TBC BD