By Alex Ironrod
PART TWO – 60AD – BRITAIN – IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE
The Roman cavalry Prefect groaned under the weight of the heavy wooden yoke roped across his shoulders; his dirty, sweaty, naked body was still covered with splatters of blood from his murdered partner-slave and from the brutal whipping he had just received from the barbaric Iceni tribesmen who had captured them in the recent battle. Now he was being transferred into the hands of tall, tanned and tough Prince Vertigen, whom he himself had fucked when the Iceni chief had been his prisoner briefly, and who now smiled grimly at Prefect Marcus.
“Your stupid leader’s brutal treatment of Boadicea, my queen, has only served to unite the tribes of Britain against you pig-headed Roman invaders. We want revenge – and I’m going to exact a personal revenge on you for forcing and fucking me in your winter camp. If that’s the way you treat senior prisoners, then let me show you what we can do. Bring that giant oaf decurion with him and drag them over to this corner here.” Marcus was pulled along by the hemp rope round his neck and watched as his assistant was hauled to his feet in chains. The giant Maximus limped badly from a leg wound, which had hamstrung him in the battle.
A tall wooden table was pushed onto its side in the dim corner, and Maximus backed onto it. Chains forced his arms into his sides and were now also wrapped around the table, while, despite his protests, his legs were yanked apart and then roped to the bottom corners. Marcus was forced to watch as a thick black gag was shoved into the decurion’s mouth to silence his roars, and a leather blindfold closed his eyes; then ropes across the eyes and mouth bound the massive head to the table top.
Suddenly Marcus was swung round to face the warrior prince, “Now you’re going to get a taste of your own medicine and we’ll see how you like being mounted,” Vertigen snarled. Marcus growled back, “You bastard, I’ve never been arse-fucked – I’ve always been the Master.” “But this time, you Roman lout, you’ll suffer as I did, and in silence.”
Vertigen produced a leather penis gag, pinched the prefect’s nose, and slapped it into his mouth, as he gasped for breath. With his arms extended and bound along the unwieldy yoke, Marcus could not defend himself as one pair of hands smoothed a leather hood over his face, squared off the breathing hole and then laced it tight, while other fingers coated his arse with grease, pushing their way into his passage. He grunted and groaned and fought, but heavy arms forced him backwards and down, until he felt an erect cock at the entrance to his slippery hole.
The thick tool was rigid and pulsing with excitement as it battered at his entrance; his own prick rose in response. Down he was forcibly pushed, the prong penetrating his virgin passage and shoving through his sphincter muscle. Marcus gasped and panted with pain, as he felt he was being slowly split by the massive penis. But whose was it? With sinking heart, he realized that he was being impaled on a Roman tool – only Maximus had a prick of this size and thickness. He grunted in agony into the gag, as he was mounted even further onto his decurion’s massive member.
He heard Vertigen’s voice in his leather-hooded ear “How does it feel, Roman, to have a man’s cock climbing up your virgin chute? I want you to feel every inch of his rod hammering its way into your innards. Oh, you can wriggle and twist as much as you want; it will only make the pain and pleasure greater. By now, you should be feeling your fellow soldier’s bush scraping across your arse cheeks. Yes? – good. Now we are going to stimulate you both into giving you your first fucking.”
Iceni hands reached in to tickle and twist Maximus’ great balls, and he reared up in pleasure and pain, sending his penis further into the prefect’s narrow space. At the same time, a small cat o’nine tails first whipped Marcus’ nipples savagely, and then moved down to assault his rampant cock. The prefect jumped and writhed to escape the lashes, the heavy yoke jerking on his shoulders and tormenting his outstretched arms, while his hole warmed to the throbbing and thrusting of the mighty penis churning within him. Vertigen laughed, “Look at these Roman sods, buggering one another in front of us. And these are the Empire’s best soldiers? Keep them dancing until they come.”
The two sweaty Romans bucked, banged and panted together, groaning with lust and pain, as the great prick now excited both prefect and decurion. Marcus’ own penis strained upward, drops of pre-cum dripping onto his stomach, as the occasional lashes forced him to move up and down, only increasing Maximus’ excitement in turn. Marcus felt the decurion’s rod tighten and thrust and shoot streams of hot cum into his very innards. His own tool responded and he twitched and pushed and panted as not one but two orgasms ran through his tortured body and warm jism splashed over his stomach and thighs. He groaned; the master was mastered, his own virgin hole violated by a fellow Roman. “Well, well, you can be fucked just like the rest of us,” sneered Vertigen, “Now bind the two of them together, and keep the big prick moving in its new hole. I want the two of them to enjoy each other tonight.”
Ropes round their chests forced Marcus and Maximus closer together, the prefect held in a squatting position, mounted on the decurion’s prick, which was still excited and preparing to boil over with fresh cum. He could hear Maximus gurgling into his gag and panting heavily, but he could see nothing through the thick leather hood, could only suck on the leather penis in his mouth, and try to shift the heavy weight of the yoke on his shoulders.
Time passed, but the Prefect did not care whether it was day or night. Maximus’ great cock remained embedded and erect, stretching and irritating his sore virgin hole. Vibrations of pain as the decurion moved in and out alternated with shudders of pleasure, as his arse shifted to ease his cramped position, and their labored breathing increased with the continuous action of their sweating and dirty bodies.
During the night Marcus was filled again with the decurion’s warm jism, which trickled back out of his hole and splattered onto his legs. He too climaxed and shot his seed out onto his cum-covered stomach again. Both men groaned and cursed through their leather gags, as their naked and bound bodies were ground together. The wooden yoke bore down on Marcus’ bruised shoulders, and his arms ached in their unnatural roped stretch. Occasionally they could hear the British tribesmen passing by; one was obviously left to guard them and amused himself by massaging Marcus’ prick or twisting Maximus’ juicy balls.
Then a group of voices echoed through the barn and Marcus could feel the presence of several men nearby. In response to a command, the decurion was teased and twisted; he humped his superior vigorously and the prefect’s prick replied with dribbles of pre-cum. The hood was unlaced and pulled over Marcus’ head. He squinted in the daylight and slowly made out the mocking faces of Vertigen and some of his men. “So, Roman, I trust you slept well – or were well entertained by your decurion. Now you know what it feels like to have another man’s prick pierce your passage and plunder your chute for hours. I’m planning to keep you open for further sport. Now, separate them, and we’ll show them off to the others. Here, pull those barrels over here.”
Marcus was “dismounted” from the still-heaving cock, and the yoke finally moved from his aching and bleeding shoulders, but the leather gag stayed in place. He had a moment or two to flex his cramped muscles before being flung over a large wooden storage barrel. His arms and legs were tied together with leather bands under the barrel, leaving his arse and back in the air. From the corner of his eye he could see Maximus receiving similar treatment. He felt a wooden phallus being twisted into his leaking hole and then the leather hoods were fitted back over the gags and tightened.
Then the thrashing began, focusing on his back first with a dozen lashes, followed by another six on his exposed cheeks. He jerked and humped, but the leather bindings held firm, and he only succeeded in exciting his tool which was squashed between the rough barrel and his stomach. Then one of the tribesmen gave an order; the thrashing stopped for Marcus; the phallus was twisted out and, in its place, he felt a foreign prick checking his hole. Maximus’ cum still provided some lubrication and the long alien rod started down the slide into his innards, sending fresh shudders of pain through the prefect’s body. The tribesman ground further in, so that his big balls bounced against the entrance. Hands reached round the Prefect’s chest to squeeze and twist his nipples and the heavy unwashed body leant on the beaten back to gain more momentum.
The man took his time, alternating between slow smooth thrusts and then rapid-motion battering, as he fucked for about twenty minutes. Marcus could scarcely breathe between the thick gag and hood and the stranger’s body bearing down on him, but he was feeling warmer and less uncomfortable. His passage was stretching again, and pleasure rippled through him and his enflamed tits. As the tribesman thundered to his climax, the Prefect could feel his own cock rising to the challenge underneath him, and both men came at the same time, Marcus rearing up and shouting wordlessly, as his cum sprayed across his chest. As he panted in release, he heard a bellow from Maximus, who had been fucked alongside him.
The tribesmen laughed, and the phallus was guided back in, and further up the enlarged passage. “Leave the pigs,” ordered the voice of Vertigen, “anyone who wants a quick thrust can have either one of them. Tell your comrades.”
The two Romans were left with a guard; occasionally an Iceni soldier would wander in and either twist and play with the phallus, or pull it out for a rapid runt into one hole or the other. Marcus’ arms and legs ached from the long-term bondage, and the darkness of the hood was making him confused. Furthermore, his bladder had filled up and needed release. But how was he to piss over a barrel? He sucked on the leather penis gag and focused on his bruised and skewered hole. It was no use; his body jerked as a stream of warm golden liquid spurted up his chest and thighs to mingle with the drying cum. The guard must have heard and came over, laughing; another spray of hot piss drenched his bloodied back and shoulders. And for the rest of the day, soldiers seemed to alternate between piss, fuck and feel-up play with the prisoners.
That evening, the two soldiers were released from the barrels, unhooded and allowed to march around for a few moments to stretch their muscles before being brought back together again. The phalluses were checked and shoved well up the passages, then secured with thin cords round thighs and waists so that they couldn’t be dislodged. Marcus’ arms were bound tightly behind him at wrists and elbows and then tit clamps squeezed into his tenderized nipples across his broad and sweaty chest with a joining chain and weight. He screamed and groaned into his gag, which was then suddenly pulled out of his mouth; he was pushed down into the muck on the floor of the barn, opposite Maximus – but opposite Maximus’ magnificent prick.
Despite Marcus’ yells and groans, his legs were lashed together at ankles and knees and roped up to his wrists in a hog-tie. As he squirmed in the dirt, he could feel his member being massaged back to erection and then it was pushed into Maximus’ mouth, and he found himself choking on the decurion’s eight inches which were being forced past his teeth. Finally their heads and bodies were bound together – cock to mouth, head to groin, so there could be no escape. “Now, you Roman cock-suckers, show us how you perform, or we’ll heat you up with our riding whips and boots,” came the voice of the older tribal leader with the limited Latin.
The Romans had no option. As they hesitated to suck one another’s cock, the tribesmen slashed at their naked bodies with their long springy whips or kicked at the roped and squirming bodies with their hardened leather nailed boots. Marcus felt Maximus’ warm tongue lapping the length of his quivering rod, which had already come several times over the past day and night. The attention felt wonderful, and he sighed as he tried to get his own tongue round the hefty member in his mouth.
Maximus was able to slide it part way in and out, allowing his officer to suck on the purple head and to nip the shaft gently with his teeth. But the decurion’s prick kept growing, as it stretched to the back of the Prefect’s mouth, where the engorged head slithered and thumped. Both men struggled in their tightly binding ropes, their mouths forced on the penises, their holes tormented by the shifting phalluses and their breathing roughening and quickening as they gurgled and sucked.
Their audience urged them on with blows and lashes, encouraging now one, now the other. Suddenly Maximus started to bellow and buck “I’m coming, I’m coming, by Jupiter, shit, I’m sorry, sir, but here’s my jism,” and creamy cum filled the Prefect’s mouth and slopped over down his neck. This triggered Marcus’ response and he emptied himself into the decurion’s big mouth. The audience seemed satisfied with the performance, and, after a few minutes, started to drift away, giving a few buffets and whip cuts as they left.
The two men remained glued to one another on the floor, lying panting and exhausted, their mouths full of cock and cum. And so they remained all night, gazing at one another’s bush and balls without being able to touch, wriggling in discomfort on the dirt floor – which only served to stir their tools again. Once more, in the darkness, they licked one another into erection, grunting with the effort, and then stroked and panted and moaned and sucked their pricks into another cum feast.
Finally, towards morning, the decurion whispered frantically “Sir, I have to piss. I’ve been holding it for over an hour, but I can’t hold out much longer.” “That’s alright, Maximus, after swallowing your cum, a good drink of piss will help to wash it down my gullet.” “Thank you, sir, here I come. I’ll try to control the flow.” And hot golden liquid poured into Marcus’ throat, gagging him at first, until he learnt to cope with the flow. Actually it felt good, warm and soothing after 36 hours with no food or drink.
By morning both soldiers were filthy and worn out. Their hog-tied bodies were cramping, their jaws ached from the action with their pricks and cum, piss and dirt adorned their bodies. But the returning Vertigen still had a couple of ideas to continue the torture. “You can untie the guzzling pigs and hose them off with cold water. That should clean them up a bit and wake them up a lot. Oh, put some salve on that leg wound; it’s opened up again with the night’s exercises. I want them looking like Roman pigs this morning – so feed them something and water them as well.”
Later, shivering, but wide awake and almost clean, their stomachs grateful for the gruel and water, the two were marched outside to a collection of Roman uniforms – booty from the battle. Maximus was dressed in any pieces of uniform that would fit his large body, and crowned with a dented helmet. They took more care with the Prefect, finding a woolen tunic and the proper helmet, his own boots and some breastplate armor a little too broad in the chest , with blood on the leather shoulder straps. Marcus shuddered and tried to back away – the armor could only belong to his murdered partner-slave Anthony. But gnarled hands encased him in the metal and leather and then forced an O ring gag into his mouth. Both men groaned as their arms were spread wide and the oxen yokes fitted back across their shoulders with ropes cinched from wrist to neck.
They looked like travesties of their former smart selves. The uniforms didn’t fit, their thighs, sex organs and legs were left bare, and their faces were unshaven and still grimy. Only the helmets and boots seemed to fit tightly. Both soldiers were then paraded through the little camp, hemp nooses round their necks, and then dragged back into the barn. But Marcus had time to note the layout of the camp – a few tents, horse-lines and camp fires and not all that many men left.
In the gloom of the barn, their yokes and arms were once more hauled up towards the overhead beams, so that their booted feet scrabbled for balance, before being stretched apart and bound to rings in the floor. Their bindings were cinched tight and firm, as they were made to face one another, gags forcing open their mouths and leather blindfolds being added across their eyes. Mounting blocks were pushed in front of each, and Vertigen, in his warrior uniform, leapt onto one and addressed the tribesmen who had followed them into the barn. “These Roman scum are open for fucking and pissing into today. Anyone of you who wants to screw a Roman can do it – mouth or arse – they are both available to you. So enjoy yourselves while you can.” Marcus shook angrily in his ropes. “It’s no use, Prefect,” Vertigen’s voice murmured in his ear, as a hand squeezed his balls, “I’ve got you tight. You’re not going to know today whether it’s me who’s taken you, or one of my ‘dirty barbarians.’ You’re just sex orifices for our enjoyment. But I’ll get you started and warm you over myself.”
A series of quick whip lashes reddened Marcus’ bum, and he groaned as he felt a firm prong entering his chute. The groan was choked off as another prick pushed through the gag hole and into his mouth. Sweat started to slide down his chest and he grunted and panted as the two cocks invaded him. He tried to expel them, to thrust them out, but they had a strong hold and pushed further in; he grunted again as one angled past the back of his mouth into his throat, while the other slid more easily up his loosened passage.
Both thrusters were strong and eager and filled the cavities, as two uniformed bodies embraced him front and back. He was held tight in ropes, and well-muscled arms and four hands moved over his face, his thighs and his rising penis, pinching and pulling at him. He bucked in the bondage and they thumped in his holes. He was surprised to find his own cock enlarging and bumping between the legs of the front man. He was beginning to enjoy the torture – he, the master, was becoming the slave. Shivering – yet heated, horrified – yet emboldened, he reared back on the penis in his arse, and sucked steadily on the prick in his mouth. All three men began to moan and thrust, as their lust began to heat. One set of hands held onto the helmet tight on the prefect’s head, while the tool snaked in and out of his throat; the other set held his leather armor straps, banging their bodies together in an increasing frenzy.
Marcus gurgled and wriggled in rhythm with the invading rods, which now rammed home with abandon. His breathing was short and ragged through the black gag and large tool, and his body shone with sweat and shuddered with desire. The cum rose in all three bodies and exploded into the prefect’s innards, and out of the prefect in long white ropes. The two Iceni warriors shook their collapsing members over Marcus, who could not see which had been Vertigen. He slumped in the ropes, spent in every sense. The blindfold was removed, and Vertigen patted his arse and then his face as he left the barn.
Other men used and abused Marcus during the day, but he was too tired to care. Pricks large and small spewed cum and piss in him and on him, but he was scarcely aware of them. Jism trickled out of his mouth and his arse, but it was only lubrication for the next man. He could feel his defenses crumbling; there seemed to be no end to the torture and abuse, and he was beginning to enjoy it too much. Was this how his slaves and partners felt, when he was penetrating them?
Later in the afternoon, the guard obviously had instructions to rest both of them and released their arms from the yokes, while leaving their feet still bound to the floor. The decurion looked well-fucked, and was covered with drying cum and piss, as was the Prefect. They looked at one another in their tattered uniforms, and grunted through their gags to check the other’s condition.
At the same time, they could hear shouts around the camp and sounds of celebration; before sunset, an excited and drunken soldier staggered into the barn to tell the guard [and the prisoners in bad Latin] that there was news of a great Iceni victory over the Romans at Colchester and the few remaining soldiers were all celebrating. Both men left the barn – and the prisoners. “This may be our one and only chance,” Marcus muttered, “we must get away, while they are drinking.” “Do you think there was a victory?” asked Maximus. “What does it matter at the moment. We need to get some horses and some food, and put as much distance as we can between us and this camp. Much more of this forced fucking, and we’ll both go mad.” Both of them had been working on freeing their feet and pulling out the leather ring gags.
The Prefect reasserted himself, glad to be making decisions, “We need some more clothes to disguise ourselves – and some breeches if we’re going far and fast.” As if on cue, the guard came back into the barn; Maximus was ready for him and efficiently throttled him. “Here, sir, put on his breeks, while I get his cloak and sword.” They crept to the barn door; the camp was ablaze with fires in gathering darkness and the few tribesmen were dancing round them, with drunken roars. A tall figure was coming towards the barn. The Romans ducked back inside, and, as the man came through the door, Maximus backhanded him and he slipped to the floor, unconscious. “Hold it,” chuckled Marcus, “it’s Vertigen come to check up on us. Now we’ve got ourselves a hostage. Just what we need. I’ll find some horses and grub, and you take him out of the back of the barn where I’ll join you. Now, if we could just find a way to set this damned place on fire, that certainly would distract the buggers.”
Marcus slipped out into increasing shadows, wearing Vertigen’s cloak and helmet and clutching his sword. He strolled up to the nearest fire, nodded to the soldiers lolling on the ground, and took a couple of well-lit logs back to the barn. The Prefect was enjoying this, and his brain and body had come back to life. He threw the logs into the straw, watched them catch alight, opened the door, and, as Maximus vanished into the dark, carrying a bound and gagged Vertigen, Marcus moved quietly to a table with meats and a leathern bag of mead, then across to the horse-lines, and selecting three of the strongest looking animals already saddled and bridled, walked them off into the gloom, with his bag of food and without attracting any notice.
Circling round the back of the barn, he found the decurion and still unconscious prisoner waiting and watching the growing flames, which had finally got the attention of the Iceni. “It’s got a good hold, sir, and I picked up a couple of spare cloaks lying around. “Good, we’ll need something warm. These horses look as though they must have belonged to the officers – probably one is Vertigen’s. Well, for the moment, we’ll sling him in front of me, and you can lead the third horse –we’ll need it for him. He’s going with us.”
It seemed almost too easy and their tired and abused muscles got a fresh adrenalin rush, as the two Romans and their prisoner, rode off into the growing night, illuminated by the burning barn and the scurrying fire-fighters. By morning they were well gone, heading east and wincing still on their abused and hard-fucked arses, and looking for their own kind.
To be continued …
© Copyright 2021 by Alex Ironrod. All rights reserved.
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