by Rob Rosen
When he found a particular internal point and pressed, a jolt went through me as if I’d been struck by lightning. My cock hardened all over again, brought back to life by strange, if not entirely pleasurable, means. I moaned and whined as the tension inside me built. I wanted him to keep rubbing until I climaxed again, but that’s not what he did.
Instead, he withdrew his fingers. Then he gripped my waist, pinning me as tightly as a calf about to be branded, and positioned his cock against my asshole. Slowly, expertly, he pushed his way inside.
I’d known what would happen. I’d heard tales. I just hadn’t been able to imagine what it would be like to be invaded by another man, to feel my asshole stretch to accommodate him. At first, there was a terrible ache that yanked a moan from my throat, but after another breath, then two, the pain gave way to a delicious new sensation.
I was pinned beneath him. He had complete control over my body and its responses, and I loved it. In and out he went, incrementally increasing the speed of his thrusts. I was limp, unable to protest as he claimed me as his. Blood pounded in my ears. The hut echoed with gasped breaths and flesh slapping against flesh.
I came again, shuddering beneath him. He bent to kiss me between the shoulder blades, but didn’t stop driving himself deeper. Heartbeats later, he let out a groan of triumph as the hot spurt of his release filled me.
When it was over, he carried me back to the blanket on the floor and pulled me, dazed and nearly incoherent, into his arms. He curled behind me and we slept that way until birdsong woke us up just before dawn. We didn’t discuss what had passed, but simply dressed and went out to fetch the horse and calf.
My father met us at the hacienda gate, his face pale. “Fernando! When your horse came back alone, I feared the worst. Oh, my boy!”
He raised his arms to help me down. I squeezed Santiago’s hand one last time, and he hesitated just a moment before letting me go.
I didn’t see him again before I departed for Madrid. Still, he was a caporal, one of my father’s trusted workers, and so I knew he shared a room within the hacienda’s walls with a handful of other vaqueros and looked after the goats just out in the yard. The day before I left, I snuck in and, upon his pallet, laid a single white bloom from my mother’s favorite rosebush in the hopes that he’d remember me fondly.
Back in the present, I’d dismounted near the little adobe hut where we’d spent that memorable night, both surprised and not so when Santiago rode across the wash to meet me. “It could be different between us, you know,” I said as I hooked a thumb around my belt loop right at my crotch.
“Your father trusted me to look after you. I betrayed him.”
That wasn’t how I remembered it. My hand had found his prick first. Meeting his gaze squarely, I asked, “What happens if I order you to fuck me?”
There was hurt in his eyes. “Then I will seek employment elsewhere, señor.” His voice had gone cold and distant. I’d damaged his pride.
“What if I asked you to?”
“But you aren’t, are you?” He shook his head. “You’ve changed, Don Fernando. I’d thought that when you were sent away to become a caballero you’d become a man worthy of employing others. I was wrong.”
My own pride stung. Years of dreaming of Santiago, of fucking other men and pretending they were him, had all come to naught. I couldn’t have him without forcing him, and that I wouldn’t do. It was going to be unbearable living so close to him and not being able to touch him, to hold him, to kiss him.
“Bastard.” I headed toward my horse, meaning to mount and ride away, but I didn’t go more than five paces before Santiago’s reata landed around my shoulders, the rope instantly tightening around me. One sharp tug and I fell hard to the ground. Dirt crunched between my teeth and I spat. “What the hell are you doing?”
From atop the horse, Santiago stared down at me, cool and calm despite the growing desert heat. “Is this the way you will live your life and treat your workers? Take them and use them without asking?”
The thin veil of politeness had vanished. He dismounted. As he strode toward me, the angle gave me a good look at his shapely legs, and I gasped with unquenchable desire. I half expected him to take his rope and leave me there, but he didn’t. Instead, he ran his hands along my back. I trembled at his touch. This was a man who could read flesh all too well. At the slightest twitch, he knew his horse’s intention and reacted accordingly. I’d learned long ago he could do the same with a man. And so I lay there, submissively, wondering if he could sense how badly I wanted him, needed him.
Straddling me, he bound my hands. Perhaps he’d been planning revenge all along, waiting four years to discover my own weakness and avail himself of it. I didn’t care. He was here; I could smell him and feel his hands upon me. If this was all I ever got again, I would be content.
He stroked my shoulders, back and buttocks as if he were checking his horse for an injury. Tingling desire shot through me, and I jerked, my body trembling in anticipation.
“There’s no honor in taking advantage of a helpless man, but you’re not helpless, are you?” The timbre of his voice had changed to low and raspy. He grabbed my ass and squeezed.
There was no gentleness. Not this time. He drove my face into the dirt and dragged me around while he yanked off my boots and trousers. The area around the hut had been cleared of cacti, so I had no fear of needles jabbing me, but the ground was hot and burned my bare skin.
“On your knees,” he spat.
He yanked me up by my hair so that my face was level with his crotch. Thick musk, the smell of him, hit my nose as he undid his trousers with his free hand and brought out his already thick prick. Waggling his hips, he cock-slapped me a few times on either cheek before jamming himself into my open mouth. Acrid fluid leaked from the tip, and I lapped at it, eager to taste him. Bristly hair tickled my nose and chin.
His cock pummeled the back of my throat, and I gagged. He pulled out just long enough for me to catch my breath and then face-fucked me again, going at it for so long I feared I would faint from lack of air.
At last, he let me go. I doubled over, coughing and retching.
“What do you want from me, Don Fernando?” he said.
The words penetrated with all the sharpness of cactus needles. “I want…” I began, but my mouth was dry and I coughed again. “I want you to…”
Santiago took pity on me and gave me a few swigs of water from the leather bladder on his saddle. “Answer.”
I blinked into the sun. “I want you to fuck me.”
He circled around me like a vulture waiting to feast. When he was at last behind me, he tugged at my hair so I had no choice but to look up at him. “Why? Why do you want me to fuck you?”
My father would never have tolerated such treatment by any of his workers, but I was not my father, and Santiago was no common peon; he was a fine master of horseflesh who made my blood run hot and cold in turns. I’d learned as much or more about running the hacienda from him than I had my father. There were lessons here that could not be put into words, and I desperately needed them. “Because I want to be a good man. A good caballero. I want to be a man worthy of you.”
“You forget. I know you, Don Fernando. From the very first day we met, I could see how you wanted to roll in the dirt like an animal, how you craved to be ridden. You may have the blood of nobles within your veins, but you’re a creature of the land.”
He forced my head down, but left my ass in the air. Sweat trickled down my forehead and stung my eyes. Dirt and rocks burrowed into my knees. Dust coated my face. I was trussed like a bull-calf ready for slaughter. Santiago had me at his mercy.
I heard a crack and felt pressure as his hand smacked my ass. A moment later, prickling pain blossomed outward. It didn’t quite recede before Santiago struck again, and this time the sting was a bit sharper and more intense. He kept going, building the sensation as expertly as he built a fence, leaving no room for escape.
Years of lect
ures, scientific experiments and sessions in sword-play were nothing compared to the lesson Santiago inflicted. I was hot and sweaty and thirsty, past the point when I would have given up entirely, but he wouldn’t let me. He pushed me hard, somehow always aware of what would be too far.
Just when I was ready to beg for clemency, a cold slickness cooled the rawness in and around my ass. I clung to consciousness, focusing on the way his rough fingers penetrated me in preparation for a greater assault.
He positioned his cock and thrust before I had a chance to think. The welcome invasion hurt, but he didn’t let me consider it for long. He reached around to grab my cock, milking it with smooth, sure strokes timed to complement his thrusts.
He rode me. He rode me and I was glad to be ridden.
Years of being in the saddle, of breaking and training horses, of using hips, legs and hands to halt his mount or induce a burst of speed translated superbly to his cock. I moaned and shifted, while he adjusted to drive himself deeper, harder, faster. The pain and discomfort transformed into different sensations completely. I floated, lost in the mastery of his touch, consumed by fire within and without.
Pressure built, then loosened. I cried out at the relief, as my cock spurted all over his hand and dripped onto the ground below in great white gobs. A few more frantic thrusts and he followed suit. Together we collapsed, too exhausted and delirious to move.
But we had to, eventually, or risk sunburn in very bad places. I rolled onto my back, shoulders aching from being bound, ass dripping with sweat and the results of his enjoyment. “Thank you,” I said between cracked lips.
He sat up and unbuttoned his shirt. A leather pouch hung around his neck, reminiscent of those the natives wore to hold their medicine. He untied it and poured the contents into his palm. There, more fragile than a bird’s egg, were the dried petals of a rose.
I closed my eyes briefly, relieved beyond all measure. “You did miss me.”
He carefully tipped the petals back inside the pouch. “I didn’t forget you, Don Fernando. I couldn’t. But I will let no man take from me what I do not freely give, even if he is my patrón. I have my pride.”
I’d sullied that pride the night I’d taken advantage of his weakness and seduced him. I had no desire to abuse my position with anyone, especially with Santiago. “Forgive me. I won’t do it again.”
He nodded, the slightest of smiles at last appearing on his handsome face. “I know.”
He unbound me, helped me dress and drew a bucket of water from a nearby well so I could drink and wash. We couldn’t risk anyone seeing me so unkempt and filthy. I was far too stiff and sore to mount the horse without assistance, however.
My ass hurt like hell as I rode, but I had a new appreciation for the land, the cattle and the people working them. Here and there a vaquero waved or called out a greeting. I hollered back, happy to be recognized and welcomed.
My father returned in time for supper and we shared a meal, chatting about future plans for the hacienda. He was pleased by my interest, and, while not quite understanding my curiosity about those who worked for him, answered my questions readily enough.
Afterward, I went up to my room. A white rose lay on my pillow. I held it to my nose, smelling the flower, a few drops of Santiago’s sweat and the promise of the lessons yet to come.
VALENTINIUS
Nick di Tiempo
To Martinus Sentiri in Rome, from his emperor, Claudius II Gothicus, in Illyricum
Greetings,
I trust this finds you well. I remain confident in your ability to herd the cats of the Senate, in my name, Martinus, while I fight her battles in Illyricum. Strangely, I find myself considering my mortality, though not, of course, through any fear of death in battle. The plague that has killed more Goths than we Romans has begun to kill us as well. I have watched generals die of this plague. Why should Caesar be immune?
With that in mind, I am having these words inscribed. I will leave it to you to judge whether they remain for historians to consider or should be remanded to the fire.
It was in the first year of my reign, in the month of Augustus. Valentinius was brought to me in chains and forced first to his knees, then onto all fours. I ordered him to stand so that I could get a better look at him, this bishop of Christ. I had never met a Christian, as far as I was aware.
You, Martinus Sentiri, had insisted I come from my battle camp to judge this man. I told you it better be worth it. At first glance, it was.
He was short but well formed, with the reddish hair of the Celts. I had Umbrians under my command, of course, but none were as fair as this one. His eyes were the lightest blue and sparkled in the torchlight around us. His skin was pale, but pink and healthy looking. He held his chin up, arms at his side, letting me look. He seemed a proud man. Of course, I would quickly humble him.
“So, you have traveled from Umbria to visit me, Valentinius,” I said with a sneer, lounging back in my chair. He did not react. Only his eyes spoke, staring into my own.
“Say something, fool,” one of his guards said, pushing him back to his knees with a heavy hand on his shoulder. Valentinius merely looked up into my eyes and smiled, which was disconcerting.
“Why, yes, Caesar,” he responded. “I was pleased to receive your invitation.” I almost laughed, but managed to keep my face stern in front of his guards and my advisors.
“Dog!” the guard shouted at him, forcing him back onto all fours with a thrust of the blunt end of his spear. I admit that this was a good position for him and one we might later employ, should I let him live. I have, as you know, always been attracted to viri rufi, to the redheads.
The adsessor, namely you, began to read the charges. I held up my hand. “Martinus Sentiri, I know what this man is charged with. The question is what will we do with him?” I looked at Valentinius, imagining what I would do with him if I let him live. My body began to tingle with sexual anticipation. I could have this man now, here on the floor of my reception hall, on all fours or on his back, in front of all these men, if I wanted. But no. I am the emperor, yes, though not depraved.
“Leave us!” I commanded the retinue around me, all the bothersome crowd a ruler collects. It was better in some ways when I was just a general, but at least I no longer had to obey the edicts of idiots. The soldiers around me responded immediately to my command. My civil advisors stayed.
“But Caesar, he is dangerous,” the adsessor said, stepping between Valentinius and me. (You are a brave man, Martinus Sentiri, for a civilian.)
“He does not look so dangerous to me,” I replied, looking around the adsessor to join Valentinius’s smile with mine. “I will interview him alone. Then, if it is necessary, I will ask your further advice. Now, leave, all of you!” The attorneys and politicians belatedly followed my military advisors out of the room.
When the doors were shut, I rose from my throne and stepped down to the prisoner. He was still on his knees and could have sucked my cock if I had wished it. In fact, my cock stirred at the thought, but I willed it down. My mind did not know whether it wanted my body touched by a Christian, no matter how fair he was. There is something repellent in their sanctimoniousness, after all.
Valentinius was young, no more than thirty. His beard had grown in, though, and was the same dark red as the longish hair covering his head. He had a youthful body, still slender, like a boy’s. He had been stripped of all clothing but his subligaculum, which wove itself provocatively around his genitalium. On all fours, his pale chest hung down, the pink nipples begging to be yanked and pinched. His arms were thin and lightly touched with red hair that was a shade paler than the hair on his head and in his beard. How would he like my own thick arms aligned with his and the heavy muscles of my thighs holding him in place while I…I turned back to my throne, thinking it best to sit down as quickly as possible.
Once I was seated, with one leg across the other, I commanded him to stand. He rose gracefully, arms automatically at his sides, eyes on me, a
pleasant expression on his attractive face. He did not seem afraid, which was good. If he had cringed, he would already have been condemned by me and dragged to his immediate death. What good is a cringing Christian? If they cannot hold onto their faith under even small duress, what kind of faith is that?
“You are accused of breaking my laws against marriage,” I formally told him.
He waited for me to allow him to speak. That was promising. I commanded him to reply.
“Caesar, it is true,” he said, squaring his perfect shoulders, which were not too broad but not too narrow either.
“What? You confess?” I asked, thinking this was a step too far. He had too fine an opinion of himself.
“I do not think marriage is a crime,” he continued. “It is a gift from God.”
I ignored his affront to the true gods for the time being. “A sacrament,” I said. He seemed surprised that I knew the term. “Yes,” I confirmed. “I know something about you Christians and your strange beliefs.”
A light came into his eyes. “Perhaps you would like to know more, Claudius Gothicus.” He used my name, not my title, but somehow it was thrilling, not presumptuous, as if we were already intimate. Besides, my mentulla was fully engorged and ached to be in his small mouth with the thick red lips or, better still, to be inside his ass, which I had not as yet seen.
“Transforma!” I commanded him, forgetting he was not a soldier. “Turn around,” I amended for his civilian ears. Without hesitation, Valentinius obeyed—but slowly, as if displaying himself to me. Could he see inside my inner thoughts? Some say these Christian priests are witches, but my mind was soon distracted from witchcraft by the lean muscles of his back and the enticing mounds protruding from his loincloth. Take him, my loins commanded, and I surely could have. He was a prisoner, a Christian. I had heard these priests kept themselves from women. If so, he was certainly a virgin. But I am used to ruling my body, not being ruled by it. Valentinius was a dangerous man, after all—dangerously enticing.
