By Alex Ironrod
PART THREE – 60AD – BRITAIN – IN THE ROMAN EMPIRE
The Iceni warrior, Vertigen, came to with a groan and an aching head, slung, bound and gagged, across the saddle of the Roman cavalry Prefect Marcus, who was walking his tired horse in the early dawn, accompanied by his giant decurion Maximus. Both soldiers had been captured in battle and tortured by the Iceni tribesmen in a revolt against the Romans – and the Brits had been winning. Marcus noticed the movement in front of him, “Well, he’s awake at last, Maximus. You must have given him a bloody good clout back at the camp, as we’ve been riding for hours. Good morning, my lord, how the hell are you feeling? I bet you don’t remember us taking you from amongst your drunken troops, and making our escape last night. Now, we can rest for a few minutes. I think we’re sufficiently far away from any pursuers.”
The decurion swung down and pulled the prisoner to the ground. “Take his gag out, untie his feet, and give him a slug of this foul honey drink of theirs,” ordered the prefect, climbing off the large grey, “Fortunes have turned again, Vertigen, and you’re my prisoner, as you were a few months ago. Now that we’ve fucked and forced one another, you could say we’re even in our sex war, but, as a Master, I can’t forget my treatment at your camp.” “You Romans are so bloody high-and- mighty, invading our country, insulting my Queen and raping her daughter,” snarled the prince.
“Wait a minute, it was my leader, Legate Titus, who despoiled your princess, not me. I didn’t agree with him then, and I don’t now,” retorted the prefect. “What does that matter now,” came the reply, “We sacked your city of Colchester the other day, killing the inhabitants, and now we’ll drive you back to where you….By Odin, what are you doing riding my horse?” Vertigen moved over to the grey, patting it with his roped hands; Marcus laughed. “I knew he was good stock, and so I’ll keep him. You get the chestnut – not as good, but just be glad we thought of bringing a third horse for you, or you’d bloody well be walking. Now tell me, prince, how is it you know so much about us Romans, speak Latin so well?”
“Your army’s been in Britain for 15 years, with ever-increasing forces and success. My parents wanted me to succeed in the new world that was coming, so they got me a Roman education. But you won’t win me to your side this way,” answered the prisoner, shaking his roped wrists.
The Prefect smiled again, coldly, “We’ll see about that. Now let’s get going again – south east this time. Maximus, see that stout tree branch there. Yes, that one. Break it off, stick it through his elbows and rope it in place. Good; now boost him up into the saddle, and tie his feet under the horse. We’d better shove in the leather gag again, in case we meet any of his countrymen. And one final touch to keep him squirming….” Marcus, who had already vaulted back into the saddle of the grey, moved alongside, and, reaching across, unlaced Vertigen’s leather pants and, hauling out the large prick and balls, proceeded to tie them with a leather strap to the saddle, ignoring the hissing and jerking of his well- gagged and well-endowed prisoner. They set off at a steady trot, Vertigen in the middle, able to control his animal with his legs and slightly with the reins in his bound hands, and trying to avoid bouncing onto his stretched–out nuts as they covered distance.
At midday, the Romans stopped to relieve themselves and to eat. Vertigen got nothing and eventually was forced to piss in the saddle, the liquid trickling back to soil his pants. They saw a small band of tribesmen in the distance, but circled away from them, and avoided a couple of small villages they passed near.
Towards nightfall, they stopped to rest the horses and themselves. There was little food left and no fire, but Marcus was wearing Vertigen’s own cloak and helmet and the decurion had wrapped himself in one of the Iceni cloaks he has stolen from their barn. “And now, prince, what do we do about you, still stuck up there on the horse? I think I need to exercise my Master talents and I’m beginning to feel like plowing you. So, untie his feet and pull him off, Maximus, and let’s stretch him between those trees over there.”
Vertigen struggled and kicked, but his upper body was still bound, and he was no match for the pair of Romans. His legs were pulled open first and roped to the base of the two saplings. His elbows were now lashed to his sides with the tree branch pole still in place; then ropes bound his wrists to his chest and were tied off in a knot round his shoulders. The Iceni made a last bid to fight, but was quickly subdued by a couple of heavy blows around the head from the impatient decurion, who wound more rope under his shoulders, round his chest, and straight out to each of the two trees, anchoring him in position. The prince shook his still gagged mouth and head to clear it, and gamely twisted and fought the ropes. “Try noosing his neck and his eyes,” said the Prefect. Ropes were slung from his neck to one tree and round his eyes in a noose to the other tree, immobilizing his head.
Vertigen shuddered and panted, awaiting the next blow. Loosening the laces on his breeches and stroking his erection, Marcus came and stood at the quivering, blinded head, tightening the ropes and then suddenly reaching across to kiss the leather-gagged mouth.
“I’m getting to like you, prince; you’re tough like us Romans. So you won’t mind this too much. I’m going to let Maximus beat you slowly and methodically, so that he can get over a little of his hostility from your treatment of him in your barn. Let me unlace you top to bottom, so he can get at a bare target.” His breeches yanked down, hobbling his knees further and his jacket pulled over his head, the prince still shouted defiance into his gag. The strap’s first blow caught him full on his naked back and was gradually followed by ten more, which leisurely and painfully striped him from the shoulders to the butt. Maximus moved in front and slowly laid down another ten, ending with two shots at his victim’s tumescent cock. His jerking and writhing only tightened the ropes round his eyes and neck, forcing him to stand still, shuddering or blind himself. Then he felt a penis pushing at his entrance. “I don’t have any grease; the best I can do is to mix a little pre-cum with my saliva, before I ride you bareback,” warned the Prefect, “so I’ll take it slow and steady.”
But it hurt; this was only the second time Vertigen had been penetrated and it felt worse than the first. Marcus was slow, but also determined; he shoved his warm tool up the passage, moving steadily ahead, despite the hisses and moans from the prisoner. As he sank in, he grunted with pleasure at the narrow chute, moving in and out, gradually stretching the prince’s arse flesh, stroking his prisoner’s body as it tensed and flushed, using the elbow level tree branch for support to help sink home his member.
Vertigen wriggled his hole to relieve the prick-pressure, and groaned as the pain refused to go away. He tried to pull forward and only succeeded in further exciting the piercing cock. Marcus reached up and took the neck-circling rope in one hand, “I don’t want your help. Keep still and let me fuck you – or I’ll cut off your air supply.” A sudden jerk on the rope, and the prince saw stars. His trembling body sweated as he tried to remain still, as the prefect forced the two torsos tightly together, as warmth spread from one man to another, and as he felt movement in his own penis. They rocked and bucked their groins together, and Marcus began to increase the pressure and the tension. Vertigen quivered and pranced in place, a thoroughbred held in a network of ropes, binding, blinding and strangling him as the master teased his tits and his tool. The Prefect’s own member churned in the chute, giving paroxysms of pleasure to one and pain to the other; both gasped as desire flashed between them and their heat reddened their sweating forms.
The prince was desperately straining to keep still, while Marcus was pulling on the different ropes to create more passion and pain, finally settling on holding the shoulders and neck knots, as he circled into his cum home stretch. Gasping and shuddering, he rammed his cock in and out until the cum flowed up the chute like a hot river. The two stood panting, linked in lust, but Marcus offered no release for Vertigen’s thrusting penis. Instead he slowly withdrew, slapped the heated buttocks and offered the decurion his place.
“Here, Maximus, you’re entitled to a reward too. But take it easy. He’s never had a tool of your size before, and, shit, I now know how that feels up your arse after my own initiation the other night. Go for it; my cum will lubricate your way.” They watched as the Iceni shivered and groaned into his gag, desperate to avoid a fucking from the giant, but caught in an ever-tightening web of rope and powerless to resist. Maximus shook up his purple-headed monster, and, unlike the slow and steady approach of his master, rammed the prong straight up home in one, drawing a long scream of anguish and frustration heard round the leather gag. He laughed and, sliding three-quarters of the way out, rode the prince on the large head of his prick, moving up and down at a fast trot, and bucking in and out.
Vertigen was frozen, impaled on a tool of such dimensions that seemed to split his insides, held in the cradle of tight knots and constantly binding and tightening ropes. He gurgled, scarcely able to draw breath, and his body ran with sweat and fear in the cool night air. Maximus, tired of humping such an unresponsive victim, thrust fully in for the kill, wrapping his arms around the prince’s bound elbows and twisting and grinding his small nipples. His huge body forced the prisoner further into the ropes, pushing the head forward, so that he started to choke. This excited the decurion, who pulled on the head ropes with one hand and now massaged the rigid penis with the other. As one man fondled and strangled the other, both began to pant and moan, to shake and twist as they rose to climax together with loud snorts and snarls, and hot jism cemented their bodies as one.
Maximus let go of the prisoner before he completely blacked out, undoing the eye and neck ropes. The body swayed and the head fell forward as the leathered mouth tried to draw in great breaths of air, and a pink mixture of cum and blood seeped out of the enflamed arse hole. “Leave him for a few minutes,” ordered the Prefect, “then we’ll take him down for the night, rope him up, and water him, I suppose. We can’t afford to lose this valuable a prisoner again.” So, later, they released him from the trees, tidied up his clothing, retied his hands behind him, hobbled his feet, took out the gag to give him water, and finally wrapped him tightly in an Iceni cloak, wound round with a couple of rope ties. A couple of snarls and groans were the only answer from the prisoner, before they all fell asleep on the hard ground.
The Romans started early the next morning. “By my reckoning, we should be nearing our camp by midday. It only took the whole column two days to force-march into Iceni territory on the way out, and we’ve almost done that,” remarked the Prefect, “so we’ll watch for any of our patrols – and we better get rid of some of this Iceni clothing and wear any Roman gear we have, if we don’t want them to think we’re the enemy. How are you this morning, my prince? Well, don’t just growl at me. Oh yes, we’ll have to gag you again for our protection. On your feet, up. Maximus will unwind you and bounce you into the saddle.” He laughed when Vertigen winced, as his abused arse sank onto the horse. His feet were tied together; his wrists bound to the saddle. And they were off at a brisk trot, with the prisoner groaning regularly through the leather gag.
In the early afternoon, they sighted a Roman scouting party and made straight for them. Fortunately the scouts were from the Second Legion’s cavalry and recognized Maximus first and then the Prefect and his prisoner. They were delighted to see one another, as there had been few survivors from the running battles with the Iceni, and they rode happily back to camp, surrounding the Iceni prince and carting him off to the guardroom on arrival, with instructions.
Marcus went to report his return straightway to the Legate; he found Titus pleased to have him back, but preoccupied with Queen Boadicea’s revolt.
“Of course I’m glad to have you back more or less in one piece, Prefect, and with that prince as prisoner again, but we have no time to lose. The sack of Colchester has blackened my reputation, and I need to avenge it before the news gets back to Rome. I’ve recalled the divisions from Wales, so that we can mount a proper offensive against the Iceni. I was sorry to hear of Tribute Anthony, but his family will be pleased that he died with honor in battle. Well, get some decent food and rest, and, by Mars, get yourself into a proper uniform. I’m leaving the prisoner to you; maybe he knows something of the movements of his fellow barbarians. So don’t lose him this time. Dismissed.”
Marcus went to check that Maximus’ leg wound had been attended to, and told the decurion to rest it for the time being, and then he went to his own quarters, looking forward to a hot bath and oil scraping to get rid of the accumulated dirt, cum and piss of the past few days. Marco, his household slave, seemed overjoyed to see him safe, hastily preparing hot water for bathing, hot towels to clean his master and hot food for eating. After a few hours of such luxury and a rest on a proper bed, Marcus felt like a new man. Marco even managed to requisition the pieces of a new uniform for him, and, arrayed in clean tunic and breeches, cinched into a new metal breast-plate and leather skirt, crowned with the proper prefect’s helmet, warmed by a fresh woolen cloak and still wearing his trusty leather boots, he felt ready to face any enemy, beginning with Vertigen.
He walked across to the stone and mud building that served as guard room and jail, greeting the grizzled legionaries who had charge . Vertigen, as a prince, had the best of the four damp little cells; he was shackled to the wall and gagged; chains clamped his feet to the floor, a metal belt held his waist to the wall and metal cuffs pulled his arms high above his head, so that he was forced onto tiptoe.
“We had to slap him around a bit at first, Prefect, as he didn’t fancy the fucking shackles, and wouldn’t bloody well stop shouting in his weird language,” grumbled the centurion in charge. “But I kept your orders in mind, and didn’t really hurt him, and we let him keep his clothes, as he’s supposed to be a general. But, after what his Iceni pals did to my mates at Colchester, I’d like to cut his balls off and stuff them in his mouth.”
“I don’t think we can afford that, centurion, but I’ve got something powerful in mind for him. You’ve still got that punishment cross out there in the square, I see. We’ll have him out there, if you please, and stripped for action. Assemble your guards and a couple of my squadrons to watch. I want this to be a public barracks humiliation. I’m off to bring Maximus, if he’s up to it.”
Maximus was more than up to it; he shrugged on his full uniform, also new, and clanked behind the Prefect as they returned to the square, where drills and parades were held, and punishments. A large x-form cross stood at one end; two squadrons of Marcus’ cavalrymen were gathered to watch, along with some of the infantry involved against the Iceni. Vertigen was brought out, chained hands and feet; he stood proud and tall, head erect, paying no attention to jailers or soldiers.
Marcus was irritated, “Pull off that shirt and breeches and chain him to the cross. No –butt side out, and kick his feet apart. Yes, let him keep his boots on. Hoist him well up on his wrists. Pull the chains taut round his waist and add a couple of rounds of that thicker weight. I want his chest and back bare. Pull his prick forward. Right, he looks good and tight.”
He moved round to Vertigen’s face –now stiff and cold, as he began to understand what lay in store for him. “Not so proud now, are we, my prince. I’m going to thrash you, and Maximus is going to fuck you again; no gag, no hood today. This time, it’s a public show for soldiers, mauled by you barbarians. They will enjoy watching you suffer, and you are going to have to watch them. Shout all you like; make as much noise as you want. There’s nothing private about it today, regardless of your rank.” The prisoner paled and clenched his teeth as he thought of the humiliation, as well as the pain.
Marcus undid his cloak and helmet and took the flogging whip himself, brought his arm back and walloped the back still bruised from their earlier session in the woods. “This is for Tribune Anthony….and this…and this.” He laid down the new stripes across the old weals, breaking the skin in several places and drawing fresh blood as he moved lower to the buttocks to complete twelve blistering bites of the whip. He returned to the front, panting, as his prisoner panted beside him, groaning through bloody lips, which he had bitten through in his efforts to keep quiet. Five more cuts reddened the heaving chest, jerking the naked body further, and a last slash across the penis and balls finally produced a cry from the victim.
“That was nothing, my prince; now comes the main event. Maximus has been itching for a second chance at you, and he’ll take you bareback today in front of everyone. That monster prick of his is already waving in the sun, looking for that red hole of yours. Maximus, give him a finger or two first to stir him up – and keep his head up. I want everyone to be able to see him being buggered.”
Marcus watched the prince’s face change and splinter in anguish, as the decurion thrust first one beefy finger, and then another, into the warmed-over passageway. An audible grunt was heard and instantly suppressed. Maximus jerked his tool to full erection and shoved in; one hand reached the prisoner’s neck, forcing his head up and forward, while the other worked on the tender nipples. He ploughed further up the hole, sending shudders of pain through the man on the cross, and the twice-bitten lips could no longer hold in the groans.
The onlookers shouted encouragement, “Come on, Maximus, get that tool going…Make him scream more…Bust the bastard open…Remember the battle and break him …Bloody him back…Sink your sword in right to the hilt…by Mars, that was a good thrust, do it again…” Maximus spread his arms and legs along the cross, clamping his sweating body tight against the heated prisoner, rubbing and pushing against him, biting his neck and shoulders, and panting in great ragged breaths, as his ever-active cock slid in and out, forcing the narrow passage ever wider and drawing louder groans from his victim. He rode the prince up, his strong member humping the chained man visibly up, and then slithering wetly down. Maximus thrust his large mitt into the bloody mouth. “Try sucking on my fingers, little prince; don’t try biting them, or I’ll twist your barbarian penis off. I’m going to take this fuck hard and deep, to please my master and me. You won’t be able to sit a saddle for a week when I’ve finished with you.”
Vertigen choked, gurgled and then sucked on the calloused fingers in his mouth, shuddered and slid against the giant body nailing him to the cross and fought the shards of pain slicing through his innards. His prick, excited and bumping against the cross, started thrusting in rhythm with the screwing, when Maximus’ free hand enclosed and massaged it. The prisoner was distracted by this betrayal in front of him and writhed to escape. The decurion merely crushed him tighter, thumped him harder and squeezed the tool faster. The prisoner let out a choked yell, as his cum arched out in a white rope, splattering his stomach and thighs.
The prince hung helpless, blood seeping from the mouth still fucked by Maximus’ fingers, and sweat oozing into the whip cuts across his back. His impaling was complete; his defilement total; his shame evident to the scores that watched – and whom he was forced to watch in return. They had moved up and were crowding round the cross, hurling insults and throwing small stones, as Maximus continued to grind away, enjoying himself vastly. “Alright, decurion, you can wind it up,” ordered the Prefect, and Maximus’ body grunted in reply, rapidly hammering up the stretched and torn chute, until, with a great oath, he finally came, sending a hot wave of cum into the victim, who gave a final cry of despair.
Marcus shouted commands and instructions. The excited audience was ordered back in ranks and dismissed. Maximus was congratulated and hustled into a warm cloak and back to quarters. A wooden phallus was stuffed up the prisoner’s bleeding and gaping hole.
Marcus heard the Legate’s voice in his ear. “My congratulations, Prefect. I came to see what all the noise was about and stayed for the spectacle. Quite a rod that decurion of yours has got – did a good job too. Tell him I said so. Normally I don’t approve of public fucking – gives a wrong impression. But this man had it coming – his whole damn tribe does. Did you get anything useful out of him yet?”
“No, sir, and I doubt that the Iceni really have any thought-through plan of campaign, beyond trying to push us back into the sea. But, if you agree, I’ll take him over to my quarters and work him in private.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of your ‘gymnasium’. Permission granted,” smirked the Legate, and went on his way. “Alright, men, take him down and drag him over to my quarters – and I may need one or two of you to stay and help,” ordered Marcus.
The nude and exhausted prince was dragged, gasping and shuddering into the prefect’s quarters, into his special gymnasium, and pulled up to his crucifixion cross. “Thanks, men. Help me sink his slippery hole onto this leather phallus on the cross. Good. Now rope his wrists around the beam. I can manage the rest; he’s in no condition to resist,” ordered the Prefect, brutally forcing his victim to slide his cum-lined arse down on the short spike and then roping the rest of the still-quivering body onto the wood.
“Wait, Roman,” gasped Vertigen, “you may fuck me and torture me, you may force my body, but you won’t break my spirit this way. Man-sex is not my choice; but we’re alike in many other ways – both leaders of men, and we’re going to have to find a way to exist together on my island.”
Marcus hesitated; he respected the Iceni’s grit and courage, and he too realized that this enemy could be a useful ally in the future. He looked down at his brutalized and bound victim. That was the past . Two of them could be the future for Britain.
His revenge was suddenly ashes in his mouth.
“No, Vertigen, this is not the way to treat an equal. I respect your courage and your grit out there on the square. You’re right; you could be an ally in the future. Marco, where the fuck are you?” Marcus bellowed for his slave, “Help me get him off the cross. Heat some water. Find his clothes. Get some food and drink. Bring me some salve.”
The startled slave obeyed his commands with alacrity, helping dismount the prisoner and laying him in a rapidly warmed bath. The prince groaned as the servant cleaned his body, washing the dirt and cum out of the whip stripes. Marcus then took over, carefully rubbing salve into the cuts and into the bruised hole, as the prince ate greedily and moaned at the hands soothing his body.
They talked far into the night, exploring ideas for ending the conflict, and then exploring each other’s bodies. Warmed by the food and the fire, Vertigen relaxed and threw off his clothes. He stood up, tall and bronzed, if bloodied, and let the Roman admire his naked body in the firelight.
“I offer my body to you for the night,” he murmured. “Kiss my mouth, Marcus, and drink my juices. Warm my flesh with your powerful hands and tweak my nipples back to life. Our cocks are already calling to one another, eager for action. But take me gently and slowly, so that when your seed spills into me, we will remember this joining as a gift for a future together. You are not the master; I am not the slave or prisoner. Rather we are two soldiers, alike in arms and combat, who now seek release in each other’s warm embrace.”
Marcus drew him down on the sofa, seizing his pot of lubricating grease and smearing his savaged hole generously, as he pushed Vertigen’s legs over his shoulders.
“Careful, Roman, my passage is still on fire and your prick is a powerful weapon. I can feel your sword at my gate, but the drawbridge is down, and you can ride in easily. There is no hurry. Rest your monster in my heated hole and slide slowly in. Aaagh! It hurts still, but I’m stretching to receive you. Give me a minute to take hold. Now, canter up my valley and take the castle keep. Ohhh, your thrusts inflame and excite me. Look at my penis rising; press your body down on mine and mingle our sweat as we grind together. Slide in and out; that feels good now and I can feel you cumming, as I am. Now, now, mix our seed together, coat our bellies with my Iceni cum and thrust your Roman cream hard into my innards. It is done; we are soul mates and fuck mates.”
They lay entwined together and slept soundly as two soldiers, but no longer enemies.
There was a loud banging at his door early the next morning, and the Prefect opened up to a headquarters centurion. “Sir, the Legate needs your prisoner, cleaned and clothed. There’s to be an exchange; the Iceni have brought in the senior tribune who was in charge at Colchester and want to exchange him for your bloody prince. And, sir, would you hurry please!” “All in good time, centurion. I need time to get him cleaned up. Tell the Legate I’ll be along shortly.” His clothes were missing, so he was dressed in one of the prefect’s tunics, trousers and short cloaks.
As they crossed the square together, Vertigen looked up at the punishment cross and smiled grimly, “It seems that Fortune’s wheel has turned again, Roman. I could never be your slave, but I would be your friend and occasional bedpartner. Am I wrong in thinking you agree with some of my ideas for the future? We will have to work together. That’s got to be the future for Britain.” Marcus smiled at him, as they were marched into the Legate’s office, where three Iceni leaders and a begrimed tribune were waiting. The exchange was soon made, and the Prefect offered to escort the group off the camp. As Vertigen rode away with his chattering chieftains, he saluted Marcus, “Farewell, Roman, we shall likely meet again. Oh – and you can keep my grey; I think the horse fits you better.”
The Legate was waiting for his report, and then thrust an official scroll into Marcus’ hand. “I don’t think your future is going to be here in Britain. You’ve been recalled to Rome for the Emperor’s new cavalry unit. You must have some powerful friends. A promotion – and deserved – but I doubt you’ll see that Iceni chief again. You better get packing; you are expected in Rome within the month.”
As Marcus strode back across the square, he looked out into the distance. He could just see the little procession of riders going up into the green hills; he also wondered about the future; Fortune’s wheel and the Gods seemed to have their own ideas. Perhaps he and Vertigen would meet again, but under what conditions.
© Copyright 2021 by Alex Ironrod. All rights reserved.
Posted here by special permission.
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