By Alex Ironrod

This story contains adult-oriented homoerotic material and language, involving sexually explicit, non-consensual behavior between men.

INTRODUCTION

This story is set soon after the Roman army’s invasion of Britain, then an island on the edge of civilization. Details of the constant guerilla warfare and the revolt led by Queen Boadicea of the Iceni Tribe in 59/60AD are true; the Romans eventually won; the rest is my imagination.

Roman legions were great fighting machines, commanded by a Legate, who was usually a political appointee, as were many of the other senior officers. Centurions were the sergeant-majors, the backbone of the army, except in the cavalry, where the rank was Decurion, and the head of any cavalry outfit was ranked as Prefect. Man-sex was an established fact of Roman society at all levels, including the sexual master-slave relationship.

PART ONE – 59AD – BRITAIN – IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE

The whip cracked round the naked body chained to the column, laying another stripe across the prisoner’s buttocks. The man groaned again, but still did not speak.

Marcus sighed, wrapping his military winter cloak around him. It was fucking stupid that he, Marcus Aurelius Faber, a knight of a distinguished Roman family, the Prefect of the Alae cavalry squadron of the Second Legion, should be standing in a freezing stable full of feeding horses, in this outland province of the Empire. Britain was the latest, and most unruly, conquest of the Roman army, inhabited by barbarians, who still fought fiercely in small areas of their native land. As far as he was concerned, they could shove the island up their own arses. On this agreeable, if treasonable thought, he turned his attention back to the barbarian swinging in the chains, with the now-flaming butt.

This was obviously a man of some importance, judging from his bearing and the clothes he had been wearing; the patrol had been fortunate to find him riding by himself in the nearby hills. Was he checking on their camp – or on their forces? The frontier was restless, stirred up by Boadicea, Queen of the Iceni tribe, and the prefect needed to know the man’s mission. “Three more of your best across his bum, Maximus,” he called to the decurion. This was a huge, grizzled cavalry “sergeant,” whose proportions lived up to his name by towering over them all, and who now signaled the flogger – a legionary who was the only one to have worked up a sweat. Three more were laid across the twitching body.

Marcus’ prick twitched too and pushed up in the leather pants he wore in this cold climate; he shook himself down and his breastplate and leather and metal skirt clanked together. It was also ridiculous that he, a man-sex master, with his own detachment of followers in the cavalry unit, should be excited by the backside of a fucking Brit, but the prisoner was a well-built, bronzed and hairy blond, about 25 – the right age for a little arse action, and, besides, his partner-slave, Anthony, had been away on patrol for most of a week.

“Sir, come and look at the front,” smirked the decurion. Marcus moved away from the brazier’s slight warmth and saw the prisoner’s cock thrusting into the air, straining round the column to which the body had been fastened for the whipping. The man panted and struggled, but his hands were firmly fastened to bolts in the stable roof and his feet were stretched and anchored to the base of the pillar. And he still said nothing, not even his name.

Marcus smiled, “Some fuck possibilities, Maximus. Alright, the rest of you – back to the barracks before you freeze your balls off, and, here, have a drink in the mess on me. Appreciate your help. The decurion and I will try a couple of our “special techniques” to get some information out of him; then we’ll let him freeze ‘til morning.” The prefect sent them away chuckling. They were well aware of his sexual preferences, and the prisoner’s well-rounded and roasted arse cheeks, brown chest and broad shoulders had other tools squirming.

Maximus clumped round the body, tightening the chains, his hob-nailed boots striking sparks on the stable’s stone floor. He flicked the head of the prisoner’s penis with the whip handle and nodded back at Marcus. He had proved a useful subordinate in the squadron as well as in sex matters, with the largest member in the group – a thick 8-inch number that was regularly rampant and ready- and had been an acceptable slave on more than a couple of occasions. “Right, loosen him up for me with your fingers – and some spit,” Marcus urged him and stood back to watch.

It seemed much more than nine months since he had been enjoying the pleasures of Rome under Emperor Nero, but this appointment was too important for a man like Marcus to pass up in his career path to Imperial Service. He could just afford the four years in the cavalry, had brought two horses with him, and enjoyed the rough-and-tumble of army life. But winter in Britain was the pits for the twenty-five-year-old tall, well-built and well-endowed Roman.

He watched Maximus at work. First one finger had slid into the prisoner’s arse-

hole, while the decurion’s other hand twisted the man’s rosy little nipples; a second and then a third were shoved into the warmed hole and stirred around. The victim began to moan and pant, while his cock jerked in response. “Sir, he’s ready for your inspection,” snapped the soldier.

Marcus had already unlaced the front of his leather breeches and pulled out his healthy and engorged seven inches and his heavy balls. Off came the plumed helmet and the cloak, but he kept on his metal breastplate for warmth and to be ready to press the embossed and sharpened decorative spikes and points into the prisoner’s glowing flesh. He swaggered into position, his ramrod at the entry point. “He’s a virgin, sir. You might like to use a little of this grease,” suggested the decurion. “I was thinking of giving it to him raw,” replied his officer, “but, maybe, I’ll get more out of him by not ripping up his insides immediately.” He slathered on some grease and thrust in. The passageway was narrow, and the light coating of grease came off before he got past the sphincter muscle. The man screamed in anguish. Marcus’ hand had been playing with the victim’s prick, which was oozing pre-cum, and his fingers now took several gleaming gobs and thrust them into the protesting mouth, rubbing the last across the full lips. “Here, swallow this, my lord, and open up your hole and your mouth to me. Come on, I know you understand me. So, talk – give me your name, rank and mission – and I’ll go easy on you. Keep quiet and I’ll fuck you hard and deep.”

Marcus waited a minute for a response, edging his tool back to the mouth of the hole. Nothing from the prisoner. Angrily, he drilled in, forcing an entry past the muscle and then straight up the passage. The man screamed again and again, his heated body turning and twisting as he tried to expel the invading rod. Marcus rampaged home, his balls slapping the beaten arse cheeks, one hand continuing to stroke the man’s engorged prick, the other twisting the small nipples. He pulled the prisoner to him, so that the sharpened points on his breastplate scratched across the prisoner’s back. Both men panted and groaned heavily. Then, finally, “Great God Odin, help me. I’m being torn apart. I hurt,” from the prisoner. From the prefect, “No-one will help you, and I’ll fuck you further and deeper, if you don’t speak.” “My name is Vertigen, Prince of the Iceni, and God Odin curse you for forcing me this way. Take away your prying hand and let my man-juice come as I wish.” “You’ll come when I’m good and ready, and I’m going to ride you up the hills and down again first,” Marcus grunted, and rolled his cock round in the narrow passage; he rubbed the man against his metal-encased body, heated limbs thrashing together, and felt his own cum-sap rising and then shooting a full blast into the virgin space. His prisoner gave a great groan and his jism spewed across the stable floor. The prince sagged in the chains, unconscious, and Marcus, disgusted and exultant at the same time, pulled out, flicking the last drops off his tool-head.

“He’s yours, Maximus, if you want to fuck a corpse. Or we can leave him ‘til the morning, and see what else we can get out of him then.” Maximus grabbed the long blonde hair, but the man didn’t stir. “No thanks, sir, I don’t fancy half-dead meat. We’ll let him freeze his buns off tonight, crack him open in the morning.”

But Vertigen was gone by the morning. At first light, a legionary clanked into Marcus’ quarters – the body was gone from the chains. Furious, Marcus stormed across to the stables. “It’s no use, sir,” exclaimed a frustrated Maximus, “one of his fellow Brits must have released him during the night. There are plenty of the buggers working for us here in the camp, so I don’t know how we’d find the one responsible – and he took one of the horses, one of the ones we brought with us.”

“Saddle up, we’ll see if we can find any trace of him.” Marcus led the troop himself, but the trail was cold. Snow began falling again, covering any tracks, and the prefect turned back, cross and concerned. Now he had to report to his superior, the Legate, and he wasn’t looking forward to that.

Titus Agrippinus Plautus had been Legate of the Second Legion for a couple of years, most of the time in Britain. He too was an ambitious man, serving his military time before becoming a senator in Rome. He needed to make a success of his service, and the guerilla activities of the Iceni and other tribes up and down England made him irritable. He was also a sadist and a womanizer. His own wife stayed in Rome, so anyone from fellow-officers’ wives to slave girls was fair game to Titus. He liked to hurt people and discipline was strict. Flogging and branding had become frequent in the Second Legion, and petty brutalities were common.

Marcus’ interview with his Legate did not go well. Standing at attention in his full armor, sword by his side and helmet under his arm, he accepted the dressing-down with gritted teeth. “You should have locked such an important prisoner in the guard house, not kept him in your stables for you and your nancy boys to play with,” ran Titus’ complaint, “At least you got some information out of him, but I suggest you check your stable perimeter defenses, before a pack of Brits come storming through one night. I want you out on patrol every day for the next ten days – and you can do duty officer each night. Maybe that will teach you not to nod off and allow prisoners to escape. Dismiss.”

Relieved that the reprimand was not more severe, but angry and tired, the prefect stomped back to his quarters, his boots and spurs kicking through the fresh snow- fall. He threw helmet and cloak to the waiting slave, then sword and breastplate. “Sir, you have a visitor,” whined Marco, his body slave, “it’s Tribune Anthony.” Marcus strode into the inner room, looking forward to playing with his partner-slave again. Anthony was taller and thicker in the body, with a still boyish face and a facile charm. He too came from an aristocratic Roman family and was trying to become a good second-in-command in the cavalry. At the moment, he was kneeling submissively by Marcus’ bed, still wearing his mud spattered and wet uniform. The prefect exploded “What the shit do you think you’re doing, groveling there in your filth from patrol? I expect my slaves to come clean, fresh, smart and welcoming, not bedraggled rats.” “Sorry, Master, but we had a shitty patrol, lost two men to marauding barbarians and got nothing in return. These islanders are going to cause major trouble by the spring.” “I don’t want to hear any more about these mother-fuckers. I haven’t had the best of days either. Now get the hell out of here and be back clean and ready for punishment in thirty minutes, or I’ll tie you and your balls together and throw you out to freeze in the snow.” “Yes, sir,” mumbled the twenty-year old tribune, stumbling out to his own quarters.

Marcus sat on his bed for a moment. He was glad to have Anthony back in one piece, safe from the marauding tribesmen, but partner-slaves needed discipline and to be kept in their place. A sound thrashing and a solid fucking should restore their relationship; Marcus felt more cheerful as he got himself and his equipment ready.

He slid on a black leather half mask, a hardened but smooth black leather breastplate and pants cut to reveal his sex front and back. His other room had been set up as a “gymnasium,” with typical sawhorse and swinging ropes, but also with whips and floggers and a crucifixion cross in the corner.

Anthony made it back in twenty-five minutes, wrapped in his woolen cloak, but wearing only a loin cloth and boots underneath. “That’s better,” commented Marcus, “you look almost presentable – but where’s your leather collar?” “I took it off for the hot pool, Master, I’ve got it here.” “Six strokes for coming to your Master dirty, and six more for taking off your collar without permission. Put it on, get over to the cross and spread yourself.” His fellow officer marched himself smartly over to the crucifixion cross and backed onto it. The legate pulled the arms straight along the cross beam, but bound only the wrists for the moment. Rope was wound round the rest of the body, naked when the loin cloth was pulled off.

“That’s better; now I can see all of you – and this gag will help to keep you quiet while I punish you.” A leather ball gag was forced into Anthony’s mouth and tightly bound round his head. Marcus picked out a springy riding whip and quickly thrashed the wriggling body, concentrating on the inner thighs and the rising prick, to the sound of hisses and gasps from the gagged mouth. Then he added another six cuts to the large chest in front of him, searing the nipples. “Now, let’s make you comfortable for the evening. Climb onto this step.” The prefect had taken a solid two-foot block and shoved it under the booted feet. Then, reaching into his bag, he pulled out a wooden phallus, covered in soft leather, and screwed it into a hole set in the cross-upright, in line with Anthony’s arse. “Settle your hole onto its plug for the night, and he pushed the protesting body firmly onto the phallus, as his partner-slave screamed into the gag. When he was satisfied that it was well seated, he bound the body tightly to the cross, lashing the rest of the arms to the cross beam and binding the head onto the same beam, so that Anthony could only stare straight out.

Marcus twisted the stretched nipples and, pinching and pulling them hard, added first one tit-clamp and then, opening the teeth of a second, jammed it onto the rosy tip, eliciting a loud moan from the leather-closed mouth. “Let’s decorate your chest with this weighted chain, attached to those tit clamps, and then I’ll finish with these weights on that cresting cock of yours,” chuckled Marcus, drawing groans of protest and pain at each stage from his stretched victim. A final push down on the shoulders made certain the phallus was fully rammed home, and removing the footstep left the booted feet scrabbling to reach the ground. To finish his picture, Marcus momentarily loosened the head and removed the gag. In its place, he shoved another leather phallus into the gaping mouth. “Now you’re properly penetrated in both holes. And keep that tool aloft. I want it at attention all night.” Flicks from the riding whip onto the reddening head made certain the prong stayed up straight. The body writhed uselessly on the phallus in the arse and fought the tight ropes, feet trying to reach the floor, but held in place by the bound arms on the cross beam, and the bound and plugged head was unable to see what was happening to chest, cock and arse, but felt waves of pain from each tormented area.

Marcus settled onto his old sofa, spreading his black boots and warming his hands by the brazier nearby. He looked at the crucified, naked, bound, gagged and tormented body, and his own penis rose in tribute to his work, and he was satisfied. That was the first stage of keeping partner-slaves in line. The frustrations of the day fell away and he slept.

Before dawn, he stretched and massaged his member to full attention; then he walked over to his restless, roped partner, and, mounting a step and jerking the phallus from the gaping mouth, he started to slide in his warm and stimulated cock. Anthony could not move his head. Marcus thrust in as far as the back of the mouth, withdrew and used his now dripping tool to smear pre-cum and saliva over the forcibly out-turned face, before plunging back in for a fierce face fuck. His partner-slave gurgled and sucked, slobbering over the moving cock with his tongue, until the prefect, with an audible groan of pleasure, shot the cum he had secreted all night into the anxious mouth, filling it to overflowing. Strands of jism covered the bound face and hair, and Marcus, flicking off his last drops, leaned down and kissed the full mouth, taking back and swallowing some of his own milky curds. “Time to let you loose, you shitty bag of cum, so you can get bathed and ready for first stables. Here, climb up off the phallus, and watch your arse when you’re in the saddle today.” “Thank you, Master, for a long and well-deserved punishment.” Marcus grabbed the larger man in a passionate hug and deep kiss before bundling him into his cloak and out of his quarters before the cock crowed.

And so they continued for the rest of the winter. The cavalry made rapid sorties to see what the Iceni and other tribes were up to; the infantry sharpened their drills, sword and shield practice; the old hands were busy waterproofing their hobnailed boots in preparation for long, damp marches. Marcus performed his duties zealously to satisfy the Legate, so had limited opportunities to work Anthony over to loosen his tight chute; they made the best of it, and the prefect enjoyed a couple of day-long reconnaissance rides with his junior officer squirming in his saddle with a butt plug firmly in place, and tit clamps and chain irritating his sensitive nipples under the cinched-in metal breastplate.

In the spring, Legate Titus decided to take the initiative against the Iceni and Welsh tribes. He divided his forces, sending the heavy infantry marching west to Wales, while the light infantry and cavalry made a rapid-strike march into East Anglia, caught the Iceni queen and her followers still in their winter camp. Marcus had three squadrons of horsemen who swept down on the tribe before they could harness their murderous chariots, with knives attached to the wheels.

Queen Boadicea and her family were dragged in chains before the Legate, who declared her kingdom a “Slave Province” and the queen a traitor. Later, on duty in the square, the prefect looked for Prince Vertigen, but he was not to be found. Marcus’ troops formed a barrier between the angry tribesmen and the prisoners. Boadicea and her children were put on display … in a visible display of cruelty and power. It was to be a grave miscalculation.

Marcus was disgusted by the event; this brutal and wanton treatment of the queen could only incense her followers, and Roman forces were heavily outnumbered. Even as the army started to withdraw from the Iceni camp in good order, the tribesmen began to harass the marching columns, cutting off and killing stragglers. Titus realized too late the results of his tyrannical action and force-marched his troops towards Colchester. Marcus was ordered to fight a rear-guard cavalry action and took two of his squadrons out of the line. Vaulting into his saddle, he kept Maximus with him as senior decurion, and sent Anthony off with the other squadron into the hills to check on the Iceni. “The legate’s treatment of their Queen is enflaming the bloody tribes and they seem to be gathering supporters from all the villages around,” he told his subordinates, curbing his restless horse, “we need to stop them from picking off our men and inflict some casualties of our own.”

The strategy worked for the best part of a day, but the increasing numbers of the tribesmen forced Marcus’ entire group into a pitched battle, defending a major cross roads. The prefect dismounted his forces, putting the horses in the center, and forming a traditional square of shields. The Iceni charged against it unsuccessfully at first, but their overwhelming numbers eventually forced the Romans to give ground. Suddenly one shield wall collapsed inward under the sheer weight of the barbarians. Marcus moved rapidly to stem the tide, fighting desperately with sword and shield. He was conscious of Maximus nearby, laying about him with a two-handed broadsword, until he went down, his right leg hamstrung by a small nimble tribesman. Marcus fought towards him, only to find himself surrounded by a group of British horsemen. One charged in, aiming his spear at the Roman’s chest; Marcus’ sword deflected the blow. A second rider from behind him buffeted his head and helmet with a war club, and the prefect stumbled, as a third closed in with sword upraised. Before it could fall, Anthony, shrieking like a banshee, threw himself in the way and caught the sword blow across his neck and shoulders. Both Romans went down, and another blow sent Marcus into darkness.

When he came to with a spinning head, the prefect tried to struggle to his feet. Hands dragged him upright, binding his arms and shoulders to a heavy oxen yoke, while his feet were hobbled like a horse. He was in a country barn, surrounded by angry, unintelligible Iceni tribesmen. His helmet and breastplate armor were gone, but they left him his wool tunic, his leather breeches and his nailed boots. Shaking his bleary eyes, he could see Maximus lying on the ground, alive but bound in strong chains, while Anthony, deathly pale and bleeding profusely, was manacled to a beam. They seemed to be the only prisoners.

A tribal leaders came in, shouting orders which seemed to include the prefect and getting silence from the rabble. A rope noose was flung round Marcus’ neck and he was pulled into the centre of the group. In bad Latin, the leader demanded details of the Legate’s plans. “I don’t know; I was only in charge of the rear-guard.” “Balls,” replied the leader, “you know more. String him up; beat it out of him.” Bolts on the ends of the yoke had ropes attached, pulled over the rafters and Marcus was hauled up, body dangling from his arms. “Not so high. We need to mark that chest with some bloody stripes, if we’re going to get information.”

Marcus still dangled, now naked, his boots just touching the ground. He jerked as the first lash curled round his upper torso; he was bloody well not going to speak, but, by the fifth fiery cut, he was groaning loudly. “Let him alone, he doesn’t know,” Anthony’s voice cut through the noise, his face and body a mask of pain and blood. The leader turned to him. “And what do you know? One of you better speak up – you, prefect, if you want the whipping to stop – or you, young fool, if you want to live.” A knife appeared at Anthony’s throat, its point cutting the skin until a bright drop of blood spilt; the younger officer was dragged over to the yoked and naked prefect. “No,” groaned Marcus, “ fuck you – neither of us know the plans.” The whip cracked again – and again, and, to his horror, Marcus realized that his prick was rising in response to the torture, and he couldn’t control it. “I think one of you does know, and you have one minute before I slit his throat.” “Don’t worry, Master,” whispered the bloody mouth of Anthony, “I’m done for anyway and we’re helping the legion to get away –aaaaaah.” Blood spurted across Marcus’ face and chest, as the leader’s knife slashed across the tribune’s white throat. The young officer gurgled and died. In a blind fury, Marcus tried to attack with head, feet and the yoke.

“That’s enough; stop this brawling,” a voice commanded in both Latin and Iceni. The frenzy gradually stopped, and Marcus looked up, his sweaty and grimy body now sprinkled with his own and Anthony’s blood. In front of him stood Vertigen, Prince of the Iceni, in leather and metal warrior garb. “So, Roman, we meet again – but the situation has changed,” the warrior smiled at him coldly and turned to the other leader, “I want this one, Catache, for personal reasons. I want to pay back my score from my time in the Roman camp, and this one has peculiar tastes and needs. Look at that prick thrusting up, in spite of your whipping. Hood him and drag him over to the corner – and bring that big lug decurion as well. I’ll get something out of the pair of them with my own methods.”

To be continued …

© Copyright 2021 by Alex Ironrod. All rights reserved

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