Rome's cock
The sun rose hard over Latium, the area immediately around Rome. The heat burnt the mist off the olive groves and cast long shadows across the straight lines of vineyards.
Marcus Aurelius Florus stood bare-chested at the edge of his father’s estate, arms crossed, cock heavy beneath his simple tunic, surveying the slaves who bent to his will.
His father died two winters ago and Marcus inherited not just the land, but the slaves and the other livestock. He learned how to behave like his father.
He was nineteen, horny, broad-shouldered, with the kind of face that made older senators mutter and younger men stare. His hair was thick, his jaw squared, and his appetite for men was legendary from Ostia to the Aventine.
He fucked like a Roman. That is to say: without apology, without softness, and always on top. Being underneath was for women and for slaves,
On the farm, Marcus moved through the rows of slaves like a general inspecting troops. His slaves, all adult males, all bought for strength and obedience, were naked from the beginning of March through to the end of September. He liked to see their backs, their cocks, balls hanging low and full of sperm, thighs, the curve of muscle under the sun.
He chose them for labor, yes, but also for pleasure. Rome expected such things. A man’s dominion extended from his land to his bed, and Marcus exercised his rights to property with the same brutal efficiency seen in his father’s time
He paused beside Dama, a Thracian with a bull’s neck and a mouth that never spoke unless ordered. Marcus gripped his chin, turned his face toward the light.
“You’ve been sweating well,” he said. “Tonight, you’ll sweat for me again. Come to me for a fucking!”
Dama nodded. No shame. No resistance. Just the quiet submission of property. Dama would do as Marcus told him.
Marcus walked on.
At midday, he rode to the slave auction in the next town. The forum was thick with men, landowners, merchants, retired soldiers, sightseers all circling the pens like wolves. The slaves were always displayed naked, shackled, oiled and sometimes beaten for the viewers pleasure. Marcus preferred the muscular mature ones, seasoned by labor and strong for work. He wanted men who could carry stone during the day and take cock without whining.
A Greek stood on the platform, arms bound, chest heaving. Twenty years old, maybe. Muscular, scarred from war, but strong. Marcus watched him for a long time.
“What’s his name?” he asked the auctioneer.
“Philostratus. Captured near Corinth. Fought well. Fucks better, but you can change his name at will.”
Marcus smirked. “I’ll test that.”
He bid high. He always did. Not because he had to, but because it reminded the others who held the purse, the whip, the right. When the hammer fell, Marcus stepped forward, grabbed Philostratus by the leather leash and kissed him, hard, possessive, public. The crowd laughed. Some cheered. One old landowner clapped.
“Welcome to Roman soil,” Marcus said. “You’ll learn it from the inside.”
Back at the villa in his private bath house, Marcus bathed in rose-scented water while Philostratus knelt beside the pool, silent. The other slaves watched from the shadows, behind delicate drapes, knowing the ritual. Marcus would take the new one first, break him in, mark him, enjoy his submission. Not with cruelty, but with certainty. Roman certainty. The kind that said: I own you, and you will serve me with your body as well as your hands.
Marcus stood in the circular pool filled knee high, water dripping from his chest, and beckoned for the slave to enter the water.
Philostratus rose. No hesitation. No defiance. Just the slow, deliberate walk of a man who understood power.
Marcus shoved Philostratus forward, palms flat on the pool’s edge, spine bent to expose his ass. He gripped the hips hard, bruising hard, and drove in without warning, without care. The thrust was deep, punishing, relentless.
He fucked like a Roman claiming his rights, brutal, fast, focused. No words. No rhythm beyond the slap of flesh and the grunt of effort. When he’d spilled his seed, it was sudden and fierce, a final slam and a guttural snarl, more wolf than man. Marcus pulled out, already turning away. He poured wine with the same hand that had just held Philostratus down, and sat, silent. Satisfied.
It had been a use, not a moment. Roman to the bone.
Later, at dinner, Marcus dined with other landowners, young men like him, full of coin, and with stiff cocks and lots of confidence. They spoke of harvests, of taxes, of the new edicts from the Imperial Court but always, the talk turned to male flesh.
“You’ve seen the new Syrian batch fresh off the boats?” said Gaius Varro, licking olive oil from his thumb. “Tall bastards. Good for plowing and fucking.”
“I prefer Greeks,” Marcus said. “They fight harder. They submit better.”
Lucius, a younger man with a soldier’s build, leaned in. “You ever fuck a Gaul?”
Marcus laughed. “Once. He cried. I was dissatisfied, so I sent him to the mines as a reward for bad performance.” Marcus laughed at his story as they all did.
They drank. They boasted. They compared scars and sexual conquests. No one questioned the right of a Roman man to take what pleased him. It wasn’t shameful. It was the law. A male citizen should penetrate all he could. A citizen could command. Only the weak were penetrated without honor.
Marcus knew this. He lived it.
At night, most night, Marcus walked the villa’s corridors, choosing who would warm his bed. Sometimes Dama. Now Philostratus. Sometimes both. He liked the contrast, Thracian muscle and Greek grace although he was the one that fucked them both.
Marcus liked the way they obeyed, not from fear, but from understanding. This was Rome. This was the order of things. If they refused they went to the public whip who would tear the flesh from their back and reduce them to meat for the dogs. The flagrum or public whip was a tool of state authority, used to enforce discipline and instill fear. It was a brutal reminder of Rome’s hierarchical power structure.
Marcus fucked the slaves but he didn’t love them. He didn’t need to. Love was for wives and poets. Lust was for men and Marcus Aurelius Florus was nothing if not a man.
In the morning, he rose early, fucked one of the fieldworkers, a big fucker with a massive pair of pendulous balls from Hispania, and then rode to the fields. The wheat was high. The olives were ripe. The slaves bent low as he passed by and Marcus, cock stiff from power and pride, smiled at the horizon.
Rome’s borders were eternal. So was Marcus’ lust and desire.
It was almost enough to fuck his slaves as the fancy too him but Marcus was leaning towards having more planned fun, men available and trained to his specific whim.
It was Publius Severus, his father’s oldest friend, a man with a silver beard and a local reputation for breaking male backs by relentless fucking, who first suggested it.
“You’ve got the money, the Imperial contract for silver mines and the land,” Publius said, swirling wine in a silver cup. “You’ve got the sexual appetite. Why not a harem? Five men. Your own stable. Greeks for grace, Gauls for grit, Cilicians for fire. Keep them trained. Keep them ready. Keep them afraid and terrorised always under the threat of being sent for a public whipping”
Marcus had laughed at first. “What am I, a Parthian prince?”
“No,” Publius said, leaning in. “You’re a very rich and horny Roman, and Romans don’t ask, they take.”
The idea lodged deep with Marcus. He liked the idea of a bath house full of cute ass just waiting for him. That night, Marcus lay between Dama and Philostratus, both had been fucked hard, both silent. He stared at the ceiling, cock still half-hard, and imagined five bodies kneeling in a row. Five men, stripped and waiting. Five asses, five mouths, five pairs of eyes trained on him like dogs.
By morning, he’d made up his mind.
The auction in the town of Praeneste was thick with male flesh. The slave pens steamed with sweat and oil. Marcus walked through slowly, flanked by two existing slaves, both naked, and fucked that morning with their ass holes red and sore and dripping cum.
The men for sale knew why Marcus and his two slaves were here. They watched Marcus with quiet hunger.
The first slave was a Greek. Twenty-five, golden-haired, with the kind of face sculptors begged to copy. Marcus gripped his face harshly through the bars of the cage, turned his head, ran a thumb down the line of his throat.
“Speak,” Marcus said.
“I am Lysandros,” the man said. “I serve.”
Marcus smiled. “You will.”
Next, a Cilician. Dark-eyed, broad-chested, with a scar across his ribs. The slave was brought to Marcus who stepped behind him, ran his hand down the man’s spine, over the curve of his ass. The slave flinched, barely.
“You’ve been fucked by men before,” Marcus said.
“Yes, dominus.”
“Good. You'll take a lot of cock.”
The third was a Gaul from the Anatolian highlands. Blond, thick, with thighs like marble columns. Marcus gripped his cock as he stood there, naked, weighed the meat in his palm, then turned to the crowd and said, “This one’s built for plowing and being plowed.”
The crowd laughed. The slave said nothing.
Two more followed, another Greek, lean and quiet, and a Cilician with a fighter’s stance and a submissive gaze. Marcus inspected each one in full view of the other buyers.
Marcus moved among them, a master inspecting livestock. He touched chests, backs, cocks, ball and asses, without hesitation, without shame. He made them spread their legs. He made them bend and cough.The crowd watched. Marcus wanted them to. This wasn’t private. It wasn’t intimate. It was Roman. These slaves were his to view , his to expose, to position, to use.
At nineteen, Marcus bore the weight of his name like armor. He didn’t need age. He had blood. He had rank and Rome expected this of him: to dominate, to humiliate, to make it known.
So he did. He paraded the commodities before the eyes of the market, stripping them of dignity with every gesture. They would serve him in every way, and they would do it where all could see.
Marcus bought all five as a job lot. Paid in gold. No
They were led to the cart in chains, naked and silent. Thick leather cuffs bound their wrists behind their backs, forcing their chests forward, their shoulders taut with shame. The iron links tugged at their arms with every step, a rhythm of helpless obedience.
Marcus followed, his gaze fixed on the sway of their hips, the exposed curve of muscular asses, the way their adult bodies moved under constraint. The bindings weren’t just practical, they were deliberate. Ornamental. For display.
The crowd knew it too. They laughed, pointed, murmured with gleeful anticipation. The scent of leather, sweat, and humiliation hung in the air.
The slaves didn’t speak. They didn’t resist. Their silence was heavy, crushed beneath the weight of knowing they were no longer men, but flesh, bought for labor, for lust, for spectacle.
Marcus smiled. Not cruelly, but with the calm satisfaction of a young master asserting his claim. At nineteen, he stood tall, robed and unbound, the contrast stark.
Back at the villa, the existing slaves gathered in the courtyard. Dama, Philostratus, and the others stood naked in the full sun of the day, eyes fixed on the newcomers. There was no jealousy. Only curiosity. Dama, Philostratus and the others knew what was coming. They had lived it. They had all been fucked when they came from slave market, It’s just what was done.
Marcus stood before his existing slaves, arms crossed, cock stiff beneath his tunic.
“The new five are mine,” he said. “You will show them how to serve. You will show them how to kneel. You will show them how to take my cock in their mouths and in their ass.”
He turned to Lysandros, the golden Greek, and beckoned.
“Kneel.”
Lysandros obeyed.
Marcus stepped in front of him, gripped his head, and pressed his cock close to the slave’s mouth. He didn’t take him, not yet but he made sure every man saw the position. Saw the power. Saw the promise.
“This is Rome,” Marcus said. “And in Rome, the citizen mounts. The slave bends.”
The courtyard was silent. The air was thick. The harem had assembled.
The bathhouse had been prepared and pulsed with heat and hunger. Incense curled. Marcus stood in the center of his personal pleasure palace, naked, cock rigid, glistening with oil and anticipation. His body was a weapon, veins bulging, thighs flexed, chest heaving with the rhythm of conquest. Around him, the five new slaves knelt in a row, naked, oiled, hard. Behind them, his existing slaves watched silently, eyes wide, cocks twitching, knowing exactly what was coming.
“Look at them,” Marcus growled. “Five slaves. Ten holes. Offerings.”
He took Lysandros first, the golden Greek, trembling but proud. Marcus gripped his hips, bent him forward, and forced his cock in the slave’s ass. No foreplay, just one long forceful poke into his pre-greased ass. No ceremony. No delay. Just the thick, brutal push of Roman cock into compliant flesh. They all watched the Master, they had all been in that position.
Lysandros gasped, fists clenched, ass stretched wide. Marcus grunted, deep, bullish, victorious, and began to thrust. Hard. Rhythmic. The sound echoed off marble: slap, grunt, slap, grunt. Oil slicked their bodies, dripping down thighs, pooling on the floor.
“Watch,” Marcus barked to the others. “This is how Rome takes what it wants, what it needs.”
He fucked, cock pulsing, fucking inside the Greek. Before pulling out, slick and steaming, and moving to the next. This was about showing who was the bull and who were the bitches.
Dagon, the Cilician, bent without a word. His ass was darker, tighter, but no less greased. Marcus gripped his shoulders, and drove in. The slave moaned, low, broken, aroused. Marcus fucked him like a beast, hips slamming, balls slapping, breath ragged. Dagon popped a boner.
Dagon was forced to jerk himself, Marcus liked them all to do this for him. Jerking off while being fucked confused the slave, even if the fucking hurt and the slave hated the fucking, he couldn’t stop himself from cuming.
Marcus grabbed Brennus, the blond Gaul.
“Thick ass,” Marcus muttered, slapping it. “Let’s see how it takes a Roman cock.”
Brennus braced his greased ass. Marcus entered. The Gaul groaned, back arching, muscles flexing as Marcus slid his thick veiny cock inside in one motion. Marcus fucked him harder than the others, grunting like a bull, sweat pouring, cock driving deep. The other slaves watched, eyes wide, cocks leaking, mouths open as Brennus was ordered to jerk himself.
Two more.
The fourth slave was placed on his hands and knees in the middle of the performance areas, legs spread, hole twitching and balls hanging low. Marcus didn’t speak. He just entered like he had before, fast, brutal, relentless. The slave cried out, in pain as Marcus’ cock hit his inner ring and thrust inside. Marcus rode him like a stallion, cock slick, body pounding.
The fifth slave was already leaking, cock stiff, ass flexing in anticipation. Marcus grabbed him, bent him, and entered him while standing with a final, savage thrust. Marcus’ body was shaking now, cock raw from fucking, balls sagging, breath ragged, but he didn’t stop. He fucked the last slave until the slave collapsed, until his own seed spilled, dripping from the slave’ hole.
Marcus stood up, cock softening, body gleaming with oil and sweat and cum. He was rubbed down like a prize stallion
The bathhouse was silent.
Five slaves, used in one mass fucking, dripping asses. His existing slaves watched, naked, cocks hard, faces flushed. They had all been there. The air reeked of sex, of power, of Roman dominance.
Marcus raised his arms like a prize fighter and roared.
“This is Rome,” he said. “and I’m its cock.”
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