Continues from Slave Tales: The Hunt (XXII)
Giasone – Roberto Ferri
He was no ordinary pleasure slave. Of that I was sure. He’d been too well looked after. His body was so perfectly proportioned that it seemed almost sculpted. A physique like that required work. If he was a slave, someone had invested in him. Made sure – and through some quite punishing exercise I liked to imagine – that he exemplified such an epitome of male beauty.
I longed to touch him. Savor those succulent toned muscles. Receive him deep inside me. Have him roar to life within me. I thought of my Mistress. She would have been envious for sure. Forced to fuck a male objet d’art that had been crucified between two trees. I smiled. The gods had favored me indeed.
However I couldn’t help speculating on his identity. What was he doing here on the slave hunt? Could he be a plaything of one of the princesses at court? A old duke’s fuck toy? A rich sultan’s stud? I wondered if he’s been entered for the hunt as punishment, to be taught a lesson for some imagined impertinence, or like me, for a bet to amuse his Masters.
The slave hunters had obviously also guessed his high status and had been all the more cruel in their games with him. When I’d been in the cage with Melody I remembered hearing the cries of a male slave being whipped. It seemed to go on forever. This was him I was sure.
Yet again my eyes came to rest upon the sumptuous splendor of his cock. A majestic trophy hoisted over two impressive columnal thighs. It was full, potent looking, magnificent in its unashamed nakedness. Moreover the fact that it had been left so exposed while the rest of the body was tied and restrained just made it seem all the more vulnerable, and extremely erotic. If he were displayed as an objet d’art his cock would be the epicenter, the symbol of life. Stretched out in the form of an X, the rest of his body emanated from that one central point. His sex. The life source.
And the frayed broken cord, which had been tied around the testicles and the base of the trunk, and hung from it like a thin sleeping serpent, only served to emphasize this.
So profoundly erotic was that image that I found it impossible to remove my eyes from it for very long. I relished every single part of him, his musculature, the slow rich curve of his thighs, the flat smooth belly, the sinewy muscles in his powerful arms, even that classical square jaw, but eventually I couldn’t help but return to the picture’s elevated centerpiece. His cock.
I understood too that it was the kind of cock that would also easily arouse a man’s passion. It was the kind of cock that men dreamed of for themselves. A man’s cock was literally his manhood. His image of himself. Like a powerful sword raised high in battle. And they had all wanted to have that shining trophy as their own. Their cruelty reinforced by the the severity of their envy and desire for him. But he had been too beautiful for them. They had restrained him, whipped him, tormented him. But to no avail. They had all failed to secure the one thing they desired most.
I looked up at his broad face with its hard jaw. His eyes were closed as if in prayer and I saw such stoic dignity there.
Suddenly it occurred to me that he might not actually be a pleasure slave at all. There was an obvious nobility about him, even in his suffering. I wondered if he could even be a Master in disguise. It was unusual for a master to take on the role of slave in the hunt but not unheard of. But then I noticed a small scar on his thigh. There was another just above his belly. The scars were old and had healed well – they were almost imperceptible – but there were several of them, mostly on his chest..
Of course. Suddenly it came to me. Who was the master among all slaves?
Image – unknown
He certainly had the physique for it. The best gladiators had an athletic build. They were muscular but lean, light bodied with quick reflexes. And if he really was a gladiator, then such was his beauty that I imagined him to be owned by a very rich family or some high ranking official in the government. Maybe even someone in the Privy Council.
Perhaps he had been born and raised on one of the southern gladiatorial stud farms. Gladiators always fought naked and were often celebrated not only for their prowess but also their physical beauty. Male and female gladiators, if they had pedigree, were often sold for extraordinarily high prices – especially the females – and they were often bought as status symbols by royal princes and the nobility. Toys only the very rich could afford.
My sex oozed in syrupy anticipation. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could stand the wait. Gods how the Tormentrix was testing me now. I ached to touch and feel the smooth hardness of his chest, to trace a line along each one of those scars, to have his aroma invade me and to wallow in its masculine ardor. My tongue would taste those tender nipples. Tease him. Bite them just to see him flinch. Then I would feast upon him. And on that full rounded ass I would leave a scar or two of my own. My signature upon that perfect canvas. I would have him willingly bear the pain for me.
My unvanquished gladiator. I imagined myself as his Mistress.
I wished I’d seen the hunters whipping him. How stoically he must have born the lashes.
I pictured him being whipped for my pleasure. Whipped until the fire within him was stoked and ready to roar for me. Whipped until his cock was a lusty red beacon flaming for me. Whipped until he begged and screamed for the release that only I could give him. Then, at my sign, they would release him and he would be mine in all his anger and frenzy. And like a savage beast he would ravish me utterly.
Exactly as I desired him.
Image – unknown
A God? A Master? A gladiator or a slave?
He was all these.
He was a man.
And now he was made an object.
For me. For my desire.
I looked up at the Tormentrix. Please Mistress. Please may I have him now? Oh please…
I was begging.
Continues – Slave Tales: The Hunt (XXIV)