Marcus
It was late in the afternoon when I finally made my way through the streets of Rome on my way to the Baths. It was still very warm, and I felt sticky and unpleasant, but tried to ignore that.
My name is Marcus Sextius, and I am a Senator of Rome. My father, Lucius, had been a senator until his early death about a year ago and I tried to follow his footsteps, because he had been a good and very wise man. I do not look like him at all; he had dark hair, brown eyes and olive skin, while I am blond, with fair skin and green eyes, a testimony to my mother’s northern descent. The only thing I inherited from him is my aquiline nose.
Unlike him I have quite a temper, which sometimes makes me lose my inhibitions and speak up for what I believe in strongly, and it has made me friends, but enemies also, both in the Senate and the city in general. That’s why some of the people I meet on the way greet me warmly and others give me no more than a cold, polite acknowledgement.
When I meet Lucius, one of my friends, we share a cup of wine at the agora, the market place. My slave, Nicia, hunches down with his slave in the shadow of a nearby tree to wait for their masters. Nicia carefully keeps the package he’s carrying, which contains a clean white toga, my towels and oils, out of the dust of the streets, and his brown eyes never leave my face.
He has been with me for years, and we know each other very well. He has a strong character, something that isn’t normally appreciated in a slave, but which I prefer to servility. I let him get away with certain things, and in return he’s totally devoted to me and strongly possessive. I know he would love to share my bed – cold since my wife Appia died – but I have no desire for that, not with him.
Right now he’s anxious to go to the Baths, where he can share news and gossip with the other slaves in the apodyterium. I am quite anxious too. This morning in the Senate, discussions were heated, there were obligations to attend to this afternoon and I feel exhausted. As always when I am really tired the muscles in my back are stiff, and I am looking forward to a massage from the capable hands of one of the bath slaves. But Lucius is a good friend, so I take my time talking to him.
When we finally enter the bathhouse, I allow Nicia to help me undress and then oil my body. Dressed only in a loin cloth, I go to the palaestra to take some exercise before entering the baths. Normally I like to wrestle. It gives me the opportunity to blow off some steam, but I am late, and none of my usual wrestling partners is there, so I practise a bit of weight lifting. Afterwards I take a plunge in the large pool to cool off.
In the apodyterium, I give a small slave boy a coin to carry my towels and oils for me, so Nicia can stay and guard my possessions from thieves. I enter the frigidarium to put on the special wooden sandals that will keep my soles from burning.
In the tepidarium I take off my loin cloth, sit down, and slowly let the hot, dry heat warm my body until I start sweating again. One of the slaves oils my body, and then I am ready to proceed to the caldarium. I sit on one of the stone benches, covered by a towel, and exchange some thoughts with the man next to me.
After a while we fall silent, and I start thinking about this morning, how I tried to persuade the Senate that we should adapt more to modern times. I strongly believe we’re here as the voice of the people of Rome, but a lot of the senators don’t feel like that at all, I think. They just dwell in their superiority, and don’t care for the people.
It infuriates me, and makes me say things I had better not and I know this can be dangerous. Rome is full of intrigue, and some people thrive on that. Our emperor seems very suspicious and shows no mercy to people he thinks to be traitors, even though he held a large affection for my father and he seems to like me too. Perhaps that makes things even more dangerous for me. I shrug off the dark thoughts, and let the heat work on my body and mind.
Very soon, sweat starts pouring from my slicked body, and when I can’t take any more I step under the cool stream of the labrum. Refreshed, I call out to one of the slaves, and stand, while he handles his strigil to scrape sweat and grime from me. I walk down the marble steps of the hot plunge bath and then I finally feel really clean.
I walk into the large room next to the caldarium. It is a big space, divided into small rooms, shielded by large curtains. There are two rooms with drawn curtains, and I go into the left one, taking my towels and oils from the slave boy and sending him outside.
I cover the large stone table with a few of my towels, and then stretch out on it, face down. I am tired and doze off a little, but start when I feel the soft touch of hands on my back and hear a soft greeting. I slowly lift my head to look at the owner of that voice.
Puer
I am alerted by the aedile in charge of the Thermae that a patron has entered the massage room and it will not do to keep him waiting.
Hurrying to my station, I slip silently through the curtains and they twitch shut behind me, enclosing me in the confined space, alone with my client, who is lying, naked and face-down. He is clearly dozing and I do not wish to startle him and maybe anger him, but I allow myself the indulgence of looking at his body for a moment, before I announce my presence.
I assume that he is an important and influential person, a wealthy merchant, or even a senator, although he is younger than most of them, but without clothes, such rank and influence slip away and he is reduced to flesh, blood and bone, like all men.
This man’s flesh and bone is most pleasing. His hair is light in colour, even lighter than my own, which is unusual here and he is resting his head on his bent arms, which makes the muscles across his shoulders flex.
His skin is smooth and unblemished, fragrant from the oils and I know that it will be soft beneath my hands. His back runs in a smooth line down to the swell of his buttocks and he is pleasingly hairless for a Roman.
The fine blonde hairs on his thighs barely show and he has well-shaped calves. As I step closer, I see that he does have a fearsome scar on one thigh, but that only serves to contrast with the perfection of the rest.
I dare not linger further, so greet him quietly, as I put my hands on him for the first time. He raises his head to look at me and I am surprised to make contact with green eyes, before I hurriedly drop my gaze and concentrate on my work.
I work in silence, warming the oil between my palms first and then finding knots of tension in his shoulders and neck, which I know I can get rid of. This man certainly has troubles, judging by the tension I can feel, but he soon relaxes under my attentions.
“Aah, that’s good.”
My hands pause for a moment as he speaks, but I continue, now working down his spine and smoothing out the tension there. He grunts in approval and I move onto his gluteus maximus, kneading and massaging, making sure that I do not allow my body to brush against him, lest I betray my arousal.
I work down his well-muscled thighs and calves, to his ankles and then respectfully request that he turn over.
He does so and as I assist him to lie comfortably on his back, I see his face properly for the first time and it is beautiful. He is studying me closely and I am glad that long experience has enabled me to keep my face impassive and my tunic conceals my body’s reaction.
His impressive mentula is standing proudly erect without shame and I avert my eyes, as I begin working on his arms and hands. I start a little as he addresses me, in his deep and pleasant voice,
“Puer, where are you from? And when did you come here? How is it that I have never enjoyed your services before?”
I am pleased that he used the word “enjoy” and approves of my work and I answer him softly, as befits my position,
“My Lord, I am from the far north. I was born a þræll in my own land and was traded to a Roman merchant as a youth, just after I was fitted with my slave collar. I have served in many households as a personal slave, but was sold to the baths when my last master died. I have only been here for two days.”
I finish with his fingers and move down the front of his legs, massaging his knees and picking up first one, then the other foot, using my thumbs, as he sighs in pleasure,
“You are skilled in your work.”
“It pleases me that it pleases you, Sir.”
I feel sure that my client is going to require more of me than just the massage and although it would never be my place to object to the wishes of any patron, it would not be any hardship to satisfy him. All the masters I have had have been old and none has been as appealing.
Respectfully bowing, as I replace his foot on the table, I move back up to stand behind his head and gently massage his face, neck and shoulders. I close my eyes and let myself learn his features, like a blind man. The massage is nearly over now and I am waiting for his next instruction.
I have carefully avoided any contact with his virile member, which is straining now and looks almost painful. As I finish massaging his shoulders, strong hands come up and grip my wrists and I open my eyes to meet his, which are darkening.
He moves my hands to place them on each side of the table and does not release them, as he pushes himself into a sitting position. He lets go of one wrist and draws me round to his side by the other. I stand with my head bowed and await his pleasure.
Long, sensitive fingers touch and then stroke my slave collar,
“Yes, skilful indeed, Puer, but I am certain that you have other skills also.”
Marcus
He must be new around here, I have never seen him before and I am certain I would remember if I had. He has an unusual face, even more than I have, and I have no doubt he’s not Roman. Strong features, and light eyes make me wonder what his origins are.
The touch of his hands is strong, firmly kneading my neck and shoulders, and soon he has me purring like a cat. I feel tension slip away that I didn’t even know I was suffering from and I sigh in complete contentment. It´s even better when he works down my spine, massaging my back, which has been bothering me all day, and gods, he is good.
Strong fingers digging in the backs of my knees make my member stir, and while he works on my calves I think about having him pleasure me later. By the time he asks me to turn over I am already certain, and I watch him as he works on my arms and hands. He has a lean body, not big and bulky like most of the slaves in the massage room have, and I like it. Still he seems strong enough, and I can see his muscles ripping underneath the tanned skin of his arms.
“Puer, where are you from? And when did you come here? How is it that I have never enjoyed your services before,” I ask him, and even though he answers me respectfully, there is a spark in him that makes me want to use him even more.
His hands on my feet feel wonderful, and I pay him a little compliment. Putting down my foot, he moves behind me, giving his attention to my shoulders and face. When he’s finished I look up and see that his eyes are closed. The vision of that sends even more blood to my lower region, and I grab his wrists, pulling his hands down on the table.
I sit up, and pull him around the table by one of his wrists. I tell him how much I enjoyed his skills, and am sure about his other skills. I stroke his collar, revelling in the feeling of soft skin underneath my fingers. His head is bowed when his hand closes around my member, and it’s good but not enough, and I lay a hand on his head, on amazingly soft and silky hair and push him down until his mouth is on me.
It seems his mouth and tongue are even more skilled than his hands, and I close my eyes, giving in to the sensations. I have had slaves, male and female pleasure me before, some very skilfully, but he seems to bring something special to it. Almost as if he wants it…
That is a disturbing thought, and I open my eyes to look at him, and catch a glimpse of hollowing cheeks, a rounded mouth taking my flesh in deeply, and it’s enough to make me shudder in an overwhelming climax, leaving me boneless and weak.
A while later – my eyes still closed – he wipes my belly with a damp cloth, and I gather my strength, and sit up. His eyes are averted politely, but he has given me much pleasure, so I reach out and cup his chin, tilting it so he looks me in the eye.
“Thank you, Puer,” I say curtly, and he bows his head in acknowledgement. I get off the table, a little unsteady on my feet, and hand him a coin. I leave, wondering how it is that I can feel his eyes on my back, and why I should care about that.
Nicia looks at me closely when I return to the apodyterium, and I am quite sure his sharp eyes detect my state of complete relaxation. Of course he doesn’t dare to give comment, but the pursing of his lips into a straight line tells me enough. I know he doesn’t understand why I prefer the services of bath slaves above what he – a trained house slave – has to offer. Well, I am not about to enlighten him.
I don’t feel like walking back, so I tell Nicia to get me a carrying chair while I dress in my clean toga. Moments later I sit back in the cushions, enjoying the way my body feels rejuvenated, and for the first time in days I am really hungry and anticipating the evening meal.
Arriving home I leave it to Nicia to pay for the carrying chair, while I sit and relax in the atrium, enjoying the flowers and the butterflies fluttering around them. I have always enjoyed nature and I love my hortus, richly planted with fruit and olive trees, which lies right behind the house.
Nowadays, when there are no guests, I usually have my meals here. As a senator I am obliged to visit all kind of social events, where copious food and rich wine is being served. When I am home I prefer a more simple meal, and I stretch my legs as I eat the fresh baked bread, the hard cheese, and some lovely olives from my hortus.
Life is good today, my mind in balance with my body, which brings my thoughts back to the bath slave, and the way he gave me pleasure. Just remembering how he made me feel this afternoon, makes my mentula stir again, which surprises me.
There’s always tomorrow though. There’s tomorrow’s visit to the Thermae and if he’s not there, I will simply take my pleasure from another slave, I tell myself firmly.
Puer
*Oh yes, I do indeed have other skills.* It is not my place to reply, unless asked a direct question, but I take the hint and grasp his member firmly in my hand.
It seems, though that this is not how he wishes me to pleasure him and I feel his hand on my head, pushing me down, not roughly, but determinedly, demanding what is his right from a slave.
I am also determined to demonstrate to him just how skilful I can be and I set to work with enthusiasm. He closes his eyes as the heat of my mouth engulfs him, throwing back his head and baring the column of his throat. A single teardrop of sweat trickles down and pools in the hollow of his shoulder blade.
It is tempting to capture it with the long tongue I am blessed with, but that muscle is busy. I raise my head a little and release the tip of his mentula, using my tongue to tease and worry the purple head, tracing the vein on the underside and then dipping into the slit.
A second later, I swallow him whole again, hollowing my cheeks to suck as hard as I can. I was still very young when I learnt these techniques, learnt to revel in the feeling of power, at being able to reduce strong and powerful men to quivering, incoherent masses.
Born a slave, of a slave mother and taught in infancy that my place was the lowest in society and that we were the powerless ones, it was wondrous to me to find that there was a way to be powerful. This way.
I exult in this skill and I steal a glance through shadowing lashes and see that he is watching me with something approaching astonishment. As he explodes in my mouth in a shuddering climax, his eyes fall closed again and I smile secretly to myself, gently releasing his softening member.
I busy myself getting a damp cloth to clean away a further trickle of semen, which has gathered on his belly and he opens his eyes again and sits up.
The epitome of the perfectly submissive slave, I avert my eyes, but he reaches out and grasps my chin, tilting my head up to look at me. I return his gaze.
He thanks me, a little curtly, his voice hoarse, and goes to stand up, a little unsteadily. I offer my arm, but he brushes off my assistance, tosses me a coin and gathers his towels round him as he totters to the curtain. I throw it back for him and watch him pass through and move toward the apodyterium to dress again, straightening up and walking tall as he reaches the public areas, with no sign of the momentary weakness I just saw after his climax.
I put the coin away into a pocket of my tunic, fetch a bucket of water and set to cleaning out the massage room for the next person. Through the curtains between this and the adjoining room, I can hear the porcine grunts of a fat merchant being pleasured by a less fortunate slave and I smile again.
My cleaning done, I return to sit with the other bath slaves and attendants and the barber, called by everybody, Britanicus, because he was captured and enslaved on that island, digs me in the ribs and says,
“Lucky dog! Only your second day and you got Marcus Sextius. Easy on the eye, isn’t he?”
“Who is he?” I ask, refusing to comment on that. I have long learnt that keeping my thoughts to myself is the wisest council and avoids many beatings. Keeping my voice as casual as I can, I add,”He seems rich and powerful.”
“Tip you, did he? Yes, he’s one of the generous ones in that way. He’s a senator, like his father before him. Doesn’t look like him, though, but then, it’s a wise man who knows his father, eh?”
He leers at me suggestively and digs me hard in the ribs again,
“You want to get on the right side of him. He’s proud, of course, like all of ’em, but he treats his slaves well and he’s not a bastard, not to mention he’s a hell of a lot more fucking appealing than most we have to work on here!”
To my relief, the call goes out for the barber and he has to tear himself away. I am grateful for the information and the name of the patron, though and my interest goes much further than his power and influence.
I find myself thinking about him for the rest of the day, every time I have to put my hands on another flabby body. The gladiators and soldiers have their own baths, so he really has no competition as far as beautiful bodies are concerned.
Some patrons call on me for extra services and I find myself closing my eyes and imagining my hand and my mouth on him instead. That night, lying in my narrow cot, unable to sleep in the sticky heat of the night, I think about him and grow hard again.
I slide my hand down and grip my mentula, trying to be as silent as I can, because these cubicles are only divided by narrow curtains. Trying to keep my breathing as even and regular as possible, I work myself to completion, to the rhythm of snoring from the neighbouring bed.
When I come, I cannot stifle a ragged cry and the snoring stutters, but continues. There’s a chorus of grunts, coughs and creaking cots, as my companions stir in their sleep, and turn over.
The truth is that many of us have dreams of the past, which make us cry out in the night, but nobody cares for the feelings of a slave, not even other slaves.
Marcus
The plea I made in the Senate yesterday, asking for reform seems to have left reflections on most of the other senators. Some greet me warmly, and stand by my seat, wording their agreement and support, other look at me in disdain, or just ignore me.
Today, we debate about it again, and I feel the majority yielding to the idea, warming even, but there’s a very hostile group, and I know they will never yield. They want things to stay as they are, and see me as rebellious youngster, spreading extreme ideas and dangerous plans.
Gaius, one of the oldest senators, who was a close friend of my father, clasps my arm when I stand to leave. His worn and battered face with the still very lively brown eyes is grave when he warns me, tells me that he agrees with me on changes being needed, but that I will have to be more diplomatic and choose a lower path.
I appreciate his kindness and genuine concern for me, but he’s an old man, and I suspect he wants to live the remaining part of his life in peace and leisure, and leave excitement for the generation after that. I feel we don’t have that time, and if we Romans want to keep our supreme hold we need to act now. Gaius shakes his head sadly, and then looses his grip on my arm.
As I walk back home from the Senate I feel tired again, and it makes me think about yesterday’s contentment. I will certainly visit the Thermae again today, and make use of that strange looking bath slave. My member stirs at the thought, and I forget all about the Senate and its old men.
Today there are no social events, and when I come home I sit on a bench in my hortus, eating grapes and dates, enjoying the beauty of the flowers and trees. My eyes rest on the gleaming back of Cleon, the Nubian slave.
I bought him a few months ago, his magnificent body standing out on the slave market. At the time I wanted to let him entertain me and my guests in banquets and parties by having him wrestle other slaves. Because of his character – wild and defiant – he was a bargain. He gave his trainers some serious trouble, and as much as I resent that, had to be punished a few times.
One day when I got home early, I found him in the hortus on his knees, cradling a plant that seemed near to dead. It made me reconsider my use of him, and I put him to work in the hortus. From that day on he gave me no trouble any more. Even though he still looked proud and untamed, he seemed to have at least accepted his captivity.
Later that afternoon I try on the new tunica made by my vestiarii, a rich cloth on which the broad purple stripe, the latus clavus, indicates I am a senator. I will wear this at the Games in the Coliseum the day after tomorrow, and I hope to maybe speak to the Emperor then.
This time I go to the Thermae by carrying chair; I do not want to be delayed by meetings on my way there as happened yesterday and miss my chance on some wrestling exercise. Wrestling, though physically demanding, always makes me feel good afterwards.
When I arrive, I find Lucius waiting for me in the palaestra, as eager to wrestle out the daily tension as I am. Lucius is a few years younger than I am, the son of a noble man called Quintus Verginius, a clever man, and a very good friend. His arranged marriage doesn’t bring him much pleasure, - his wife Livia has a shrewd mind and a sharp tongue - and he is not home much.
After our friendly match I leave Lucius to another opponent, and make my way through the different baths. I keep a deliberate slow pace, postponing the massage. My mentula swells in anticipation thinking about the talented slave, but again I tell myself firmly that any other slave will do just as fine.
Nevertheless when I step into the massage area my eyes are drawn to the left room immediately, and when I see that the curtains are closed I step back into the caldarium and wait for some time. When I go back the curtains are open, and I sense that the small space has been cleaned.
I spread out my towels and climb back onto the table, resting my face on my hands. This time I hear him before he steps in, and I grunt in answer to his polite greeting. The touch on my back is enough to make me grow hard, and I try to relax under his hands.
Softly asked, I turn around, and even though he averts his eyes swiftly there’s no doubt he must have noticed my straining member. Too eager to wait I grab his hand, and lead him to my erection. Slicked with oil his fingers glide over my heated skin and I moan softly, arching my back from the table. His other hand softly strokes the inside of my legs, which feels slightly impertinent for a bath slave, but it feels marvellous and I spill over his hand with a sob.
He cleans me, and then continues his massage. I lie back and watch him work through half closed eyelids. He bends over, and I let my hand slide over his smooth thigh, the strong muscles revealing skin as soft as a woman’s.
I wonder what it would be like taking him, being inside him, and there is another fierce stirring in my groin.
TBC
Latin Glossary
At the baths :
Thermae - baths
Aedile - official in charge
Apodyterium - entrance and changing rooms
Palaestra - area for wrestling and training
Tepidarium - warm baths
Caldarium - hot and steamy room
Frigidarium - cold room
Labrum - cold water fountain
Strigil - scraper for sweat and oil
General
Ad Fundum - to the bottom – a toast
puer - boy (slaves were often called just ”boy”)
mentula - penis/ cock
vestiari - tailor
þræll - slave or thrall in Scandinavia
latus clavus - purple stripe on the tunic denoting a senator -
hortus - garden
atrium - central court of the villa
agora - market place
puls - thin porridge
“Perfectus” - “It is finished/done”
Summary: Travel with us into the intrigue and danger of Ancient Rome, where a Roman Senator, Marcus Sextius, meets a bath slave from the far north and finds his life changed for ever.
Rated: NC-17
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: AUChallenges:
Series: Ad FundumChapters: 5 Completed: Yes
Word count: 25317 Read: 6015
Published: 04 Aug 2009 Updated: 04 Aug 2009