Roman Slave Trainer

a Gay erotic story



Even when I was a small child, there were always slaves for sale. No matter where you went in the Empire, even the smallest town had at least one dealer who stocked a reasonable selection, although the smallest towns usually only had auctions on a given day each week. It wasn't unusual in the small hamlets to have sheep sales on Monday, donkeys and mules on Tuesday, slaves on Wednesday, and pigs on Thursday, with household goods usually reserved for Friday.

Perhaps I noticed slaves more, even as a child, because my father dealt in slaves and other livestock and our family income depended primarily on the trade in human livestock. It was always assumed I would grow up to be a slave trader myself and eventually partner myself with my father and two younger brothers.

Even though everyone agreed Rome deserved, as well as needed plenty of slaves, it turned out we couldn't seem to make enough off of the trade itself to support four families: my own, my father and his wife, and the families of my two younger brothers. Maybe one family, like my dad had done, but not four. The business was just too competitive so you could only mark the goods up so much. Furthermore, the big corporations had squeezed out the small merchants like my dad's firm, practically out of the business entirely. It was practically impossible to compete with their low profit per unit, their choice of stock, and their Empire-wide networking where they could get you anything - yes, anything - you might want, no matter how peculiar.

So by the time I had reached full manhood, the writing was on the wall as far as all of us making a living selling human flesh. My father could eke out a living to support himself during his remaining days but his sons were going to have to find something else to support themselves. It was sad, but so typical of the plight of the middle class in the Roman Empire these days where, it seemed, the rich, who owned all the big corporations, were getting richer, and the hard-working middle class was sinking into poverty.


Father had really been good in his business. Both he and my mother had been slaves themselves when they were my age, knowing little of any other life since they both had been born into their master's household through a well managed slave breeding program their master had set up years and years before they were born. As he matured into adulthood, his master noticed how good he was in managing slaves and, despite his youth, he was appointed the slave steward for their master's estate by the time he was in his late twenties. His managerial abilities weren't overly assessed by his master.

My father made sure all slaves knew exactly what was expected of them at all times; he made sure they were almost instantly punished if they weren't putting out their best efforts at all times; he made sure such disciplines were harsh enough to be remembered for a long time and served as a good warning for all the other slaves who may have been thinking of doing the same thing if they could get by with it; he made sure they understood their station in life and accepted it without question; he kept them constantly reminded they were just property of their master and could be sold off to a far worse situation if their primary goal in life was anything less than bringing total satisfaction and pleasure to their master; he made sure the frequent disciplining didn't harm their bodies permanently so their resale value was maintained; and he made sure they ate a good healthy, but inexpensive diet, kept themselves clean and disease-free, and weren't overworked to the point of deteriorating health. And he made sure they came to him, not the master, when circumstances they couldn't control were beginning to interfere with their best output. Therefore, from his master's viewpoint, any problems with owned property were handled before they caused problems for him. To his master, the army of slaves he owned operated smoothly, silently, and efficiently no matter what was asked of them or where they were assigned. To him and others visiting, it was a servile race of sub-humans doing what they were intended to do: working hard, bringing pleasure, anticipating what their betters wanted before they even had to ask, and even breeding a
new crop of replacements on schedule. They gave every appearance of what Cato had aptly coined them long ago: "speaking animals."

Septimus Octavius, my father's wise master, knew a good asset when he saw one, and decided he could make a lot more money out of my father if he technically freed him and set him up in an obligatory business arrangement with his former master, an arrangement frequently employed where slaves demonstrated outstanding business acumen. My father's freedman status left him obligated to his master who provided the capital necessary for a former slave to do business, in this case, buying and selling slaves, which took huge amounts of capital up front to acquire a decent 'starter' inventory. The deal was typical of the times: my father kept half of the profits; his former master got the other half. My father's body was held in mortgage in case of any losses. In other words, if the business failed, my father would be right back where he started, a slave. My father had to report each morning to his master, along with all his other 'clients' as the freedman were called, and turn over the profits made or at least explain when they would be forthcoming and how much. Part of the obligation was also to support his former master in any public ventures, buy any products he needed from his master's other 'clients,' and to serve his master as a slave whenever he might be needed, such as supervising a
special banquet, being called to sexually satisfy any of his master's friends whose eye he may have caught, and, in his case, continue sexually satisfying his master's sister, a widow who had grown used to having my father in her bed three or four times a week over the years. As my father explained freedman status to me, it was sort of a half way point between being a slave and a free person, but the big advantage went to any of a
freedman's offspring. They were all eligible for Roman citizenship following the Roman 'skip a generation" rule in the transition between being a slave and being a free person. Therefore, my father explained with considerable pride, I and my brothers, if Septimus Octavius agreed with the necessary petition, would become citizens when we became of age and that's exactly what happened years after his explanation.

Septimus had been generous in setting my father up in business, giving him 100 silver sesterces right up front - a small fortune. That allowed my father to buy up a good 250 slaves as a beginning inventory. He chose his stock carefully to meet all tastes and the business prospered almost from the start. By the end of the first year, my father was able to pay 50 sesterces back to Septimus as his part of the profits and had an inventory of 280 slaves. Septimus had chosen his freedman business client well.

The big reason for my father's success was his initial decision to specialize in what he knew best. From the time he had become mature in his master's household, a good deal of his time and energy as a handsome young man had been spent as a 'pleasure slave,' the term used by Romans to denote slaves who performed much the same duties as prostitutes if they were free persons. The only real difference was free persons chose their occupation; slaves didn't. Free whores could refuse certain acts or even choose their clients; slaves couldn't, of course. It was only after many years as a
pleasure slave when he was in his mid-twenties that he was designated the master's slave steward, although many of his former duties as a pleasure slave remained, even through his freedman status later. This background gave him an real advantages in picking out the stock best suited as 'pleasure slaves,' how to train them once he had them in his own cages, and how to best market them once they were fully trained to their new life. Like most slaves of his ilk, my father was neither ashamed or embarrassed at being a pleasure slave since it wasn't his decision to start with. It was just part of being a slave as far as he was concerned.

Hence, from the very beginning of his new business, that's all he dealt in: pleasure slaves geared toward the markets in and around Rome itself where the market was large and steady and most any halfway successful Roman had enough money to indulge their passions appropriately, even retiring Legionnaires, small time merchants, truck farmers, slave overseers, civil servants, and supply agents. My father knew exactly what types of bodies would be found appealing; what backgrounds slaves should have to make them easily molded to their new duties; what training techniques were effective in changing even the most recalcitrant slave into a willing sex partner; and what appealed particularly to men and women buyers within that vast vortex of beliefs, customs and expectations that Romans called 'culture.'

He knew from the very beginning of his enterprise who bought blacks for their bed, which boys men found most attractive, which stallions sold best to Roman matrons, what underage Romans were looking for to impress their friends, which citizens were more interested in a naked shaved body to publically display than to bed down, and who was just interested in slaves to provide public sexual displays as entertainments for their frequent dinner parties. He had a good working knowledge of just which Romans were partial to Arabs, Jews, Thracians, Greeks, Spaniards, Asians, Persians, Nubians, Egyptians, Britains, Gauls and all the other big sources of slaves for the Roman markets and what it was about each nationality or race that turned them on. All of this he had learned when he had been a
pleasure slave himself in the household of one of Rome's leading citizens. Over the years, he had swapped notes with hundreds of other slaves bought for the use of their bodies just like himself, heard all the stories from the slaves themselves about who used them, how they were used, and how well they were able to please those they had been assigned to. He had seen for himself how they were displayed publically, how they performed sex with each other to provide entertainment at their master's dinner parties, and how they were often 'loaned out' to serve stud to slaves owned by their master's many friends, always interested in a little extra profit from breeding handsome slaves within their own households whenever possible. He knew from personal experience how you overcame the overwhelming initial humiliation and embarrassment of being turned into a whore, what it felt like the first time you performed in public for the amusement of your betters, how others stared at you when you were paraded around in public with only a collar, your banded genitals, or a tit ring for clothing. He knew how you thought you couldn't get it up one more time after some mistress had drained you four times already today. He remembered clearly the first time his ass had been fucked by one of the slave handlers back in Septimus' slave quarters when he was just 13 and he thought he was going to be split in half by the huge organ shoved far up his tight little ass. And he could remember being 'taught' how to suck off a master by one of Septimus' trainers long before his prick was full grown and how he had gagged and choked that first time. He also reminded himself of how quickly he learned to take even the biggest pricks up his asschute without too much pain, how within a few weeks he could swallow even the largest shafts down his throat and swallow their output without spilling a drop, and how he had fairly quickly learned to fake orgasm so he could keep servicing a women just as long as she wanted without losing his ardor. He was aware of how quickly he learned to disregard others staring at him or commenting on his big prick when he was displayed or performing in public and instead concentrated on the pleasure he could derive out of whatever he was ordered to do. Even when paraded down the street as a pure sexual object, he learned to appreciate the fact others envied his master's ability to own such a slave and from their lustful stares, how much they would like to have him in their own bed for the pleasure he could no doubt give them.

From a confused little slave boy who happened to be well built and extraordinarily handsome, he had turned himself into a bought object who was proud of what his body could do to please others, a slave who was proud of being owned by a rich and powerful master, and a possession that others envied. He was, either by nature or his training, an exhibitionist, a
performer, and a slave who knew and accepted his place in the scheme of the Roman world.

The end result was he knew exactly who to buy to be a pleasure slave, how to train them to absolute perfection in performance of their assigned duties, and, most importantly, how to market them and to whom once they were perfectly trained.

Ten years into his freedman status, his master Septimus had earned his original investment back 150 times; my father had been able to support himself, eventually buy my mother out of Septimus' ownership, and raise three boys as potential citizens, complete with the knowledge of reading and writing Latin (a skill my father never had), knowing a scattering of Greek (a skill my father had picked up over the years in his business dealings), knowing how to count money and make change in a multitude of currencies prevalent in Rome, and, most importantly, how to deal with the human livestock that surrounded us every since he entered the business.

By the time he was beginning to show his age, I was a man who had obtained Roman citizenship along with my two brothers. He had enough funds to take care of both himself and my mother even if they lived clear up to 60 or so, unusual in Rome.

But it was up to my brothers and I to figure out, like he had done, how to turn our own experience into an occupation. All we knew were slaves since we were born, so it was going to have to be something to do with slaves one way or another. I didn't want to buy and sell them like my dad - I just didn't have the business acumen to be good at it. My youngest brother did. I didn't want to breed them either now that breeding slaves seemed to be the most economical way to produce them. But my other brother took a real interest in slave breeding and saw the long range possibilities of improving the breed substantially. He had already signed up to be the master breeder for one of the big corporation's largest breeding operations located right here in the Roman suburbs. No, what interested me was training slaves. I found it fascinating how seemingly most anything could be turned into a fine finished product if you just trained them right. From early childhood, I had been interested in this aspect of my father's business and seemed to have a natural ability in that area if my first products were any example.


One time, when I was about 10 or so, one of my father's new buys had been 'ringed,' a procedure where the foreskin of the slave's penis had been pierced so a thick ring of some metal or other was permanently fastened. This left the slave's uncircumcised prick dangling with a large ring hanging from the end of it and was, of course, handy for leashing the slave or fastening him in his cage at night. It also made it practically impossible for the slave to fuck male or female and gave the slave considerable pain whenever he became sexually excited through the severe skin stretching that caused. For a slave, being ringed this way was practically the end of any sex life - fucking was pure agony for both parties involved and even getting a hard-on was excruciating, let alone masturbating or getting another slave to give you head for a little relief. The end result for such a slave was to learn to control any thoughts or feelings that led to sexual arousal and pray that nobody handled you in that area.

Father, like most dealers, led such slaves around by a leash attached to their penis rings. It was easy to control them that way and was most convenient to leash them. One day, while helping my dad, he asked me bring such a slave over to one of the pens for some reason or other, handling me a leash. I dutifully hooked the leash to the slave's penis ring and led him over to my dad, fascinated by how easily the slave could be led in that fashion and how easy it was for me, even with my small stature at the time, to leash him. I did notice the slave, a full-grown adult, was obviously totally humiliated by having a small child leading him around by his leashed prick. He body was flushed in embarrassment and his fists clinched in controlled rage. Even then, it gave me a feel of raw power to lead such a handsome, well built slave around that way, knowing there was nothing he could do about it despite his humiliation and rage. Like almost all of father's properties, this one was very well hung and exceptionally attractive.

"Doesn't it hurt the slave, dad, if he gets a hard-on?" I asked since I had been around naked male slaves all my life and knew, unless they were drained regularly, they were erect a good deal of the time unless they were overworked, sick, or were just coming off of stud duty somewhere.

"You bet it does, son," my dad laughed. "That's the whole point of ringing a randy young buck like this," he added as he reached over and fondled the slave's genitals roughly. "Keeps their minds on their work. Slaves are just animals basically, son, and if you don't control them carefully, they're out rutting around instead of doing what they were bought to do. Let them revert back to their wild state and they'd be fucking all of the time. That's alright some of the time if they're being trained as a pleasure slave, but it's going to be when and where his owners say, not what a slave wants, especially one destined to be sold to bring pleasure to his owners. This one here, for example, was caught trying to fuck one of the slave girls through the bars of his cage the minute the overseer wasn't looking. As you can imagine, son, this boy's prick gets long enough to reach right through those cage bars when he's all excited, so he would have been able to fuck that slave girl if we hadn't of caught him right away. Normally a good beating stops most of that, but it wasn't a
week until this slave was trying to hump another slave girl right on the kitchen floor even though the whip weals on his back hadn't healed up yet from his shenanigans a week earlier. As the overseer pointed out to me, either he was really stupid, he was going to be a tough one to train properly, or he was pure animal when it came to sex. Didn't matter what it was - it was going to stop and, since this was the second incidence, I
decided to ring him. Don't expect much trouble out of him now," he chuckled as he sharply tugged on the penis ring for emphasis watching the slave appropriately groan in pain. "Watch, son," he added as he continued to massage the entire shaft until it began to swell and the penis convoluted as the foreskin stretched from the incipient erection. The slave moaned, bit his lip to keep himself from screaming, but then was unable to control constant whimpering as the pain from his penis overcame him.

"Master, master," he begged, "Please, master, the pain.. I'll do just what you say, master."

"Quiet, slave. I'm just using you to demonstrate to my son how well a
penis ring works if it's installed properly. You should be honored I chose you to demonstrate it to my son," he responded sharply, massaging the prick even harder as punishment for the slave daring to speak out.

The slave said not another word, but sobbed openly as tears spelt down his cheeks in his pain.

It wasn't another month until that same slave was back in front of my father, this time without the penis ring but with a small amount of blood oozing out of a ragged torn foreskin.

"Son, I wanted you to see this for yourself," my father said as he lifted the slave's prick to assess the damage. "This bastard got so horny he tore that penis ring out and fucked a new slaveboy just thrown in his cage. He not only tore that new slaveboy's ass up with this big prick, therefore damaging my property without permission, but he's damaged his own body, which also belongs to me which he seems to have forgotten." The slave being examined was trembling in fear, as well as having his torn prick being handled so roughly.

"I'm sorry, master...." the slave sobbed. "I'm sorry, master... I
couldn't help myself, master.."

My father slashed him across his mouth with his hand, knocking the slave to the floor if my father hadn't had a good grip on his torn penis with his other hand.

The slave said no more, but continued sobbing and quaking.

"Are you going to sell him to the mines?" I asked, since this was a
common enough fate for slaves that caused trouble.

"No, son," my father smiled appreciating my interest in his business. "It's a reasonable suggestion, but what else could I do?"

"Cut him?" I suggested since it was common enough to castrate male slaves caught raping other slaves or engaging in sexual acts without their master's permission. Although my father stocked only a few eunuchs for clients who liked nothing else, there was a large risk my father would end up with nothing in cutting this slave. Production of eunuchs was a risky business given seven out of every ten of them died in the process since infection often took its toll. As a result, handsome eunuchs brought premium prices, but not everyone could afford them and the market was generally limited to only the wealthiest citizens.

"No, son, but again, it's a most reasonable suggestion. If he lived through it, he'd probably bring at least 2 sesterces all by himself if we could ferret out the right buyer. Some women like them because there's no chance of being knocked up by a slave when you bed them down as well as the fact they don't have those debilitating orgasms, of course. And some masters buy them for their own beds, claiming there's nothing like a eunuch when it comes to fucking. They claim a cut boy puts more into receiving a
fucking because that's the only sex he can experience anymore and so he enjoys being fucked more. But I've fucked a few cut boys myself and, to date, I've never seen much difference as compared to any other slave trained for a master's enjoyment. Any other suggestions?" he teased.

"I doubt you'll whip him to death," I laughed, "or have him crucified as an object lesson for the other slaves in the pens. He'll bring too good a price on the auction block for that, I'd wager." I paused and then added, "If, father, you can ever break this slave to his proper fate."

"Well said, son," my father glowed with pride at my growing knowledge of slave management. Those are all well thought out suggestions, son, but I've got something else in mind for this randy buck," he squeezed the slave's balls so hard the slave shrieked in pain.

"What's that, father?"

"I'm going to trim him clean, throwing all of that torn foreskin to the pigs, so his prick will end up looking as sharp and attractive as any of our other circumcised boys and then, as soon as he's healed, we're going to get serious teaching him once and for all his body isn't his - it's for the use of his owner and only his owner. But since he's so damn randy, I
going to train him for sale to the brothels. That way he'll be doing what the gods must have intended for this boy all along - having his body used day and night by anyone with a few coins in their pocket. After a few years of life in a busy brothel, I doubt if this boy will be quite as randy as he's been since I bought him."

The slave being discussed as if he wasn't even there blanched pure white as the blood drained from his body in horror. Unbeknownst to his new master, his older brother, equally good looking, had been sold to a male brothel catering to legionnaires and poor freedman not far from where he was penned right now and had literally been fucked to death within a couple of years. From what he'd heard about his brother's demise, he'd gone mad once he'd been chained in position at the brothel and put to almost constant use from the rough clientele. No one there cared about his mental state as long as he was still a top choice among the customers, but eventually he stopped eating and, despite efforts to force feed him, he died a thin and haggard shadow of what he'd once been.

"Please, master... Please.. Not the brothels....My brother, master,..." he started out but was cut short by another excruciating squeeze to his balls which caused him to pass out and slump to the floor.

That very day the slave was trimmed to my father's specifications. He ended up healing nicely and his prick was even more attractive in my eyes than it had been before: thick, long, and smooth with a pearly head proudly displayed at all times now. The vigorous training my father promised was delivered without compromise and within a month he was so used to being fucked he hardly whimpered anymore when yet another big shaft entered either his ass or his mouth. Within two months, under a steady whip and a
spiffy new brand, he had been broken to the point where he participated willingly in being fucked and tightened his ass appropriately at just the right moment for a user's heightened satisfaction and was able to swallow even the biggest, thickest pricks all the way down his throat with no hesitation, swallowing even the largest loads without spilling a
drop. Shortly after that he was sold to a brothel as promised, this one at the port city of Ostia where sailors would be his main customers, eager to get their money's worth after months at sea. My father was most pleased at what he sold for, the full two sesterces he had hoped for, more than four times what he had paid for the boy originally.

I had learned from that event. I learned how my father effectively used humiliation and shame as a training tool, how the whip and the branding iron instilled fear as a permanent controlling force into a free spirited slave, and how even the most contumacious slaves can be honed into high profit items on the auction block through an unrelenting training program. As father used to lecture me, "the secret of good slave training is to narrow their options down to where the only thing they can do is exactly what you want them to do." That's what he did with this slave. In the final analysis, the only thing that slave could do was become a
compliant pleasure slave headed for a life in the brothels where he would try to carve out as comfortable a life as possible under the circumstances.

My father, ever the educator, took me to that very brothel to view the slave on his next trip to Ostia where he was attending a sale of Egyptian slaves fresh from Alexandria. The brothel slave recognized us instantly and promptly dropped to his knees and placed his head to the floor in recognition of the honor of our visit. It had been about a year since his sale to the brothel and he was obviously being fed well, exercised properly, and was remarkably free of fresh whip weals or any permanent whip scars - all signs of "settling in" well, according to my father's experienced eye. My father asked to examine him, and, when the slave was in the proper display position with his hands in back of his head and his pelvis thrust out for convenience in handling his manhood, it was obvious he was little the worse for wear. He quickly displayed a full erection of his trimmed prick, a sexy little smile of invitation, and it was obvious he wasn't adverse to my father using him right then and there in front of everyone. His body was, if anything, in better shape than ever, although, upon inspection, his asshole had lost much of its former tightness and his now calloused ringed tits looked like they had received a lot of use in both being rubbed and sucked.

"I see you're prospering in your new home," my father commented to the smiling slave as he reached out and stroked the slave's rampant prick.

"Yes, master, thank you, master," the slave responded rather genuinely. "My new owner limits my usage to only 10 customers a day, master." he added as if this, somehow, was a special privilege. "He thinks such a light schedule keeps his stock retain their youthful looks and assures their appeal, master."

"And is he right?" my father asked.

"A master is always right, master," the slave answered sagaciously, "but I'm sure of it compared to the fate of my brother, master."

"Your brother was a slave too?"

"Yes, master, since we were both captured in the same raid. But he was sold to a brothel without proper training or preparation and the master there thought he could tame him by putting him to constant usage. He died in his first year at the brothel, master. My master here views such practices as a great waste of good slave meat, master."

"Well, your master's right," my father said as he continued stroking his former property. "From the looks of it, you're going to live a long life here in the brothel."

"Yes, master," the slave said while beginning to buck a little in my father's hands from his growing excitement.

"Your customers here are primarily sailors I take it," my father said, "probably as horny as you were when I first bought you, trying to fuck the slave girls through the bars, tearing off your penis ring, and fucking any slave thrown into your cage. You're a lucky boy in that I didn't castrate you, slave."

"Yes, master and I'll be grateful to you forever for that wise decision, master. Otherwise, I wouldn't have much appeal to the sailors, master. They're not much interested in fucking eunuchs, master, although the brothel has a couple of them on hand for those who are interested. My master makes a lot more money off of me being whole, master," he smiled again as he thrust his organs into my father's hands as a symbol of total compliance.

With that, the brothel owner indicated a sailor was waiting to use our former slave and we left to tour the rest of the facility before going back to examine the Egyptian slaves being offered that day. It was a good chance to see how brothel slaves were put to use, especially with my father patiently pointing out what types of slaves tended to turn out most profitable once placed into the heavy demands inherent in most brothel setting.


When I was only seven or so, I asked my father why he kept slaves naked at all times even after he had bought them.

"Why do you think they're sold naked?" my father asked.

"Well, so you can see what you're buying," I answered without hesitation. Even to a seven-year-old, that much was obvious.

"Exactly," my father replied, obviously pleased I was turning out to be clever in the business of buying and selling human flesh. "But there's more to keeping a slave naked than just showing off their charms," he chuckled. "Son, put yourself in their position," he instructed. "How would you feel being shown out in public stark naked?"

"Like a slave," I again answered without hesitation.

"That's my point. But let's go a little further. Let's say you had to remain naked all the time, not just when being sold. Wouldn't you rather be given a little something to at least cover your private parts?"

"Of course, father. Oh, I get it. At least I think I do. I'd feel embarrassed and humiliated if I didn't have a stitch of clothing and everyone around me not a slave did. Then I'd really feel like a slave, but an embarrassed and humiliated slave."

"Those are mighty big words for a seven year old," my father said proudly. "But you're exactly right. I keep all my slaves buck naked all the time and I like it when they flush red with embarrassment when they realize people are staring at them and assessing them with their eyes. It's good for slaves to realize they're just property now and there is nothing like being butt naked to remind them of that. Slaves learn through their embarrassment and humiliation, son. They learn first of all they're slaves now and nothing is going to change that. If their owner wants them butt naked, then butt naked they'll be. It doesn't make a twit of difference what they think about it one way or the other. That's an important lesson for a slave to learn - he's got no say in what happens any more, his master controls his life now. And you know what, son? Even when the slaves have the best bodies in the world and should be proud to show their attributes off at every chance, they still tend to be humiliated by having to show their bodies that way. I think it's more the "having to" than the act itself, which isn't so bad if you have something to flaunt to the public anyway. The fact they have no say whatsoever in displaying their body is the important lesson, son.

But there's another reason I like them naked all the time. I'll give you a hint. It's especially useful if they're males like all my slaves are and are purchased primarily to become pleasure slaves for their new owners."

I thought a long time on this one before answering in that I didn't want to lessen my father's estimate of my cleverness in slave matters. I looked over at a nearby cage holding some slaves about midway through their training and studied them briefly as they stared back at me. Suddenly, I
had the answer, I thought.

"I know, father," I blurted out excitably.

"Yes, son," my father's smile was infectious.

"It's so you can just look at them and tell if your training is working, isn't it, father? If they're showing hard most of the time, the training is probably taking hold. If they're just flac... flac... "

"Flacid," my father prompted.

"Flacid, they're either not responding to the training or they're shooting off without permission," I responsed. "Father, I still think 'soft' is as good as that other big word, but I know I've got to learn that word if I'm going to be dealing in male slaves. Just like you told me to call them pleasure slaves instead of whores and to call it a penis instead of a prick."

"My the gods, you're right on both counts, son. If they're hard most of the time, they're responding to our training and if they're flaccid they're not. That's important feedback on how excited a boy is at any given time and if they're not naked, how are you to know? That's why any trainer worth his salt keeps slaves naked at all times - it's the only way he knows how that slave's body is responding. You are a clever one, son, for figuring that out all by yourself. And, as for that other thing, about using flacid instead of soft.. well, when you're a dealer yourself, I want you to present yourself as real class. The classiest dealers use the big words, son, and their wares reflect their class. The scum dealers use gutter talk and, without them even knowing it, it drives the prices down they are going to get for their pieces of meat. I want you selling that meat in the loftiest of terms, boy, and.... " he paused dramatically... "getting the best prices for your high-class merchandise. You can do a lot with language, son. It can set the tone for a whole market of slaves being offered. Why do you think slaves are always referred to as "boys" instead of "men?"

Again I pondered his question before answering. Finally, I had an answer.

"It reminds them they are as dependent on their master as I am on my father?" I ventured. "And doesn't it tell everyone, including themselves, they're just slaves and always will be. A Roman citizen wouldn't never tolerate being called a 'boy,'" I added.

Father hugged me warmly as his pride spread across his face. "By the gods, I've got a natural born genius on my hands, at least when it comes to understanding human livestock. When you join me in my business, we'll make a killing."

Well, as you know, I didn't join Father directly in his business so that last statement never materialized. But my prescient knowledge of human livestock did come in handy nevertheless.


When I was 16 and almost a man in all respects, my father said there was something he wanted to show me now that I was of age. My eyebrows arched and I broke out in a big smile in that I couldn't imagine seeing anything new or startling at this stage of my life, having grown up with naked slave properties all around me my whole life. Just attending the auctions with my father, which I had done since I was four or so, had taught me the whole gamut of human variation and response it seemed. So my curiosity was piqued.

"Something new?" I asked.

"Something you need to know," he answered with a big smile. "It's important if you're going to be breaking slaves anytime soon."

"Hopefully," I replied, since I had been urging my father to give me several slaves to break for practice, if nothing else.

Without further ado, I followed father to a part of the slave quarters that had always been locked before. Once we entered the windowless room, I
was overwhelmed with the smell - a mixture of sweat, semen and the unmistakable unique scent of human rutting. It was fairly dark inside, lit only by torches in sconces on the wall, but eventually my eyes focused on the scene in front of me. There were two rows of 10 'rutting benches,' those padded A- framed wooden structures where a slave's ankles and wrists could be fastened at the four bases forcing their cunts and/or asses up at just the right height and angle for easy accessibility. We Romans had not invented the device - the Assyrians had I understood - but we had certainly popularized the device around the known world and put it to good use at our slave breeding farms where you saw them practically everywhere. To each bench was manacled some male slaves I'd never seen before, all now freshly body-shaved and oiled so their skin gleamed in the humid air.

"I just this morning bought this lot of 20 off of Delos," my father explained, referring to a dealer located near Mars Field who generally disposed of stock shipped in from the Greek island of Delos, a major transshipment spot for Eastern slaves headed toward Roman markets. The slave merchant had assumed the name of Delos in tribute to his stock in trade. "As you know, he generally reserves the best looking males for me, especially those well endowed."

"You've generally been well pleased with the slaves from Delos," I
commented to indicate I knew exactly what he was talking about. "But I've never seen this room before," I added as I rubbed the ass of a slave chained in place at the nearest rutting bench. "You usually examine their holes at the dealer, don't you?"

"Son, there's something you need to know about new stock I've been reluctant to share with you up until now due to your innocence. But now that's you're practically a man yourself, you need to understand the very first step of breaking a slave into their new ownership. It's sort of a
ritual with we Romans, although I know the Greeks practiced it long before we adopted it. The idea is to teach a slave immediately his body belongs to his new master and offers the slave a way to demonstrate he accepts that new mastery."

"Looks like being sold and collared would tell them that," I
snickered. "Surely they're not so dumb you need a special ritual to get that across. It's so fundamental it's self-evident I would think, father."

"I love your mastery of the language, son. It will serve you in good stead throughout life. But this special ritual sears it into their brain, son."

"So, what is it? Is it something to do with them strapped to these rutting benches. A good introductory whipping? A fresh branding? Ringing their balls? Tattooing an ownership mark on their butts?"

"Nothing that esoteric, son," my father laughed. "It's customary to have the master or his representative fuck them hard first thing - before anything else happens - to demonstrate his mastery of their body. Slaves from within the Empire expect it as part of changing hands and, unless they're a virgin, don't resist it much in that they seem to realize that would be futile. The virgins squeal and holler until they're broken in, then they settle down considerably, especially when they can see for themselves all the other slaves are taking it in stride. The foreign ones, though, if they're new to slavery, put up quite a howl - amusing, almost. But even there they see how the other stock is accepting it and after being fucked a good long while, they settle down and accept it as their fate. What else can they do, chained to the rutting benches like they are?" he chuckled. "With 20 to do today, I thought you might be interested in helping me out with this task. I just fuck them long enough to establish it's my right and then pull out before I shoot. Otherwise, I
couldn't possibly last through all 20 of them. The trainers go to work right after I pull out and fuck them unrelentingly for a good 30 minutes or as long as it takes to let them know they've been seriously fucked and that's the way it's going to be from now on if their new master so chooses."

"You just stick it in all the way, pump hard a few times, and then go on to the next one before you shoot off?" I asked.

"Basically, that's all there is to it. It's just to establish you own their body now and can do anything you want with it from now on. The trainers really open them up, if they haven't been subject to some serious training before now."

"I assume the new slaves have all been properly cleansed inside and well greased?" he asked a nearby trainer, himself a collared slave like all of my father trainers.

"Yes, master. Thoroughly," replied a still handsome man who had an exceptional build and huge equipment and was, like all the trainer slaves, fitted with a prominent nose ring now to denote his trainer status.

My father only bought former pleasure slaves as his trainers, those who were now in their 30s and even 40s and were up for auction again, having lost their youthful looks and fresh appeal necessary for a career as a pleasure slave. Not only were they cheap to purchase, but they had the experience that was invaluable in producing the next generation of pleasure slaves. My father was clever in doing this, of course. Such slaves were most eager to escape the mines or construction gangs in the resale; they loved being the ones giving the orders for a change, they loved doing the fucking instead of always being the ones getting fucked, and they loved having a job where they could utilize the skills they had learned over the past 15 to 20 years. For them, they were now in slave heaven and were not only totally loyal and grateful to my father for buying them up for this new role, but gave everything they had to the training of new commodities destined for the pleasure slave markets. The bothersome nose ring which emphasized their animal status to Roman citizens was a small price to pay for their good fortune, but even that was a status symbol in the eyes of new slaves under their charge.

My father, with me right behind him, then strode to the front of the room and ordered all the slaves to look at him, difficult at best shackled as they were to the rutting benches.

"Slaves, as you know, I am your new master and this," he said pointing to me, "is my son who will be your master also." I swelled with pride being recognized as a master by my father. "As you are no doubt aware, it is customary for a Roman master to assert his property rights over your bodies as his first interaction. Therefore, you have been chained into position to have your new masters claim their rightful ownership of your bodies."

"Master, may I ask a question?" one of the slaves stretched into position over the rutting benches asked.

"Yes, slave, as long as it is brief and relevant," my father warned.

"I don't understand what all those big words mean, master," the ignorant but strikingly handsome Persian boy asked.

"It means your masters are going to fuck you to let you know that's their right from now on because they own you body and soul," my father responded with a slight smile on his lips. "Any more questions?"

The room was silent other than the slaves shifting around a bit on the padded benches preparing for the inevitable.

My father quickly shed his expensive soft wool toga and his freshly laundered undergarments to reveal his own body, still impressive for his age. I immediately did likewise, although I wasn't allowed to wear a toga yet, but an elaborate (and very expensive) belted light wool tunic due to my youth and consequent non-citizen status. My father quickly motioned with a quick flick of his hand for two of the slave attendants standing almost out of sight alongside the outer walls to kneel before us. Without further instruction, they opened their mouths and swallowed our pricks down to the root as they begin suctioning. Within a minute, both of us were fully erect. A command from my father and both slaves (who I now saw were exceptionally handsome lads) withdrew their mouths from our organs, dried our shafts with their hair, and then, reaching to a nearby pot of perfumed grease, gently coated our pricks with the substance. Father then waved them away where they again disappeared into the darkness along the outer walls. The new slaves manacled to the rutting benches could move their heads enough to see what was going on and were obviously impressed with the two slaves immediate and seemingly totally willing complete compliance with my father's almost silent commands. They also, to a man, knew what was coming when they saw the slaves lubricate our erect shafts.

"Ready?" my father laughed.

"Ready," I responded.

Without hesitation, my father plowed into the ass of the first slave in position, followed by that slave's loud gasp as he felt his ass invaded by my dad's formidable penis. I followed his example and shoved mightily into the slave manacled next to his. This new property, a virgin perhaps or at least rarely used up to this point, screamed as I rammed the full length up his chute and began to pump hard. The slave beneath me bucked and quivered as he struggled against his bonds, squealing like a pig being butchered, and I considered having him gagged, but instead just pumped harder and deeper until he passed out which at least stopped all his yelling. I didn't slow down, however, but just kept pumping him harder and harder until father indicated we should go on to the next in line. When I
withdrew, I saw a thin line of blood coming out of that slave's ass. Apparently, he was a virgin and I'd torn him a little, but it would quickly heal and an important lesson had been learned. No doubt he would be much abler to handle a master's demands the next time around, especially after the trainers had worked on that bleeding ass before this session was over. Father's slave had obviously been fucked before and hence could handle the situation in a more civilized fashion.

The next set of slaves were just the opposite. Dad got the inexperienced one who howled and screamed the whole time, while I got a
slave who, despite his youth, had been used rather heavily before father bought him, judging from his rather loose asshole. In fact, the slave beneath me this time on the rutting bench seemed to enjoy being fucked and simply moaned softly as I plummeted in and out of him vigorously. As I
pulled out before I shot myself, I noticed he had already done so and the sticky result was all over the floor beneath him. Both dad and I were surprised how much of it there was and that it was so thick it barely spread on the floor at all.

"Now there's one whose going to be quick to train," father laughed. "We might think of selling him to one of these old goats who likes to drink a young boy's output every morning to keep his youth."

The regular trainers were right behind us, so the moaning, gasping and squealing was solid behind us as we progressed forward. Within a hour, all 20 of the new slaves had rendered their bodies to their new master and the ritual of new ownership had been accomplished. Now their real training began. Twenty new slaves meant an experienced trainer assigned to each one and every one of those trainers was busily teaching the new slaves exactly what being a pleasure slave was going to mean in their future lives.

"They'll be fucked for the rest of the day off and on," father said as we put our clothes back on. "The trainers switch around so the new slaves get used to all the trainers' different sizes, styles, and techniques. They'll be so sore by tonight, most of them will have trouble walking, but my morning they'll be fine, and so the trainers start in on them right away tomorrow and the next day and the next.... By the end of a week or so, they'll feel empty if something isn't stuffed up their butts and by the end of the month, they're beginning to crave it. Within two months, we'll be selling our seasoned goods with a great deal of confidence they won't disappoint their new owners."

"I appreciate you taking me into your confidence. And, father, I am old enough to help you out in this area now I hope you noticed. I'm almost as big as you are already and I'm still growing," I giggled.

"Did you like it?" my father laughed. "That's the big question."

"Have to admit I did," I laughed with him. "From now on, count on my help in breaking in the new slaves."

"Good to hear, son. Sometimes, a young boy like yourself gets so caught up in fucking the women slaves he forgets a handsome boy's body has a lot to offer a young master."

"I hadn't forgotten, dad," I chided him. "That beautiful boy you gave me for my birthday as a personal body slave hasn't let me forget."

"That's why I gave him to you. You had too many lady friends and I
was afraid you were going to knock one of them up and they'd want you to marry them at your tender age. That young slave I gave you is to help keep you drained so you don't get into some woman's scheme for a quick marriage. All the Roman boys from well bred families have a least one slave boy for just that purpose. If he isn't up to the task just tell me and I'll give you another one that is."

"Oh, he's up to it, alright, father. Too eager, if anything. I've had to discipline him several times for being far too aggressive, always trying to rub against me, or trying to stroke me or getting his mouth around my dick every time he's called upon to help me with my bath. It's tiresome some times."

"Don't be too hard on him, son. I threatened to cut his manhood off if he didn't keep you drained all the time. That usually motivates a young slave properly."

"It would motivate me, father," I laughed. "Next time he tries to seduce me into fucking him, I'll be a little more cooperative taking your threat into account."

We both broke down in laughter and, arm in arm, left the room of the rutting benches, now heaving in heavy action as the big pricked trainers had gone into full stride. I had never felt closer to my father and, in addition, had learned another lesson in good slave management.


My oldest brother was obsessed with improving slave stock through selective breeding. Even the doltish Gauls had significantly improved their cattle by such means in just a few generations, the Arabs regularly bred superb racing horses that dominated the Circus Maximus anymore, and the brutish Huns had distinctive types of large dogs who served as guards, shepherds, and even warriors. My brother was sure the Romans could distinguish themselves similarly in the area of human livestock, ultimately producing various types of slaves, each best suited to particular slave occupations. Male and female draft slaves would be strong, sturdy, disease resistant, stupid, and docile. Both genders of house slaves would be beauteous, graceful, reasonably smart, and sexually compliant. Male entertainment slaves, such as chariot racers, gladiators, wrestlers, and fodder for the male brothels, would be handsome, muscular, flashy, aggressive on command, exceptionally masculine in their body build, and sexually indefatigable. Female entertainment slaves, used in the theater and the brothels as well as serve as personal mistresses, would be beautiful, uncommonly sexual, and totally submissive. Thus, basically, he envisioned three 'races' of slaves in Rome's future: drafts, domestic, and entertainment breeds. His goal was to produce those three slave 'races' as soon as possible.

His dream of having the Empire distinguish itself in this area proved difficult to accomplish. First off, it would require a centralized authority who could monopolize breeding operations to pull it off. Unfortunately, neither the Roman Legions, who had practically monopolized the source of newly captured foreign slaves, nor the Imperial House, who technically 'owned' all of the public slaves primarily utilized throughout the empire for construction and bureaucratic administration seemed particularly interested.

The Legions' rather rigid view was that there was an endless supply of slaves yet to be harvested in new conquests who literally cost nothing. Breeding slaves was time-consuming, painstaking if done right in that slaves seemed to resent being used as brood mares and studs just like farm animals without considerable discipline, and costly in that you had to feed the output for a goodly time before they were marketable. Most Roman Legionnaires had a slave of their own by this time - a body to keep their armor polished, their leather oiled, and their bed warm. They weren't interested in waiting a generation to market a new crop. Especially, when the profits of selling off their newly chained captives provided plenty of money from the avaricious slave dealers who followed right behind the Legions in their campaigns.

The Emperor found other monetary pursuits far more profitable: grain commodity manipulation; sale of newly conquered land tracts; sale of public offices; and seizure of condemned political enemies' own properties. Those profits were immediate and required no money up front as slave breeding did. Besides, the vast choice of slaves available in the markets now diminished the value of selectively breeding new stock. Most any citizen with a few coins in his pocket could fulfill any slave fetish he had as long as he was even mildly patience and was willing to browse the slave markets periodically or hire an agent to do so for him or her. The Emperor's own procuring agents, for example, had furnished the Imperial Palace with such extraordinary human livestock from all over the known world that visitors were generally astonished when they first viewed them.

Large corporations generally operated at least some breeding farms, either for highly specialized markets, like brothel slaves, or simply to guarantee an endless supply of slaves for the markets if the foreign sources dried up. Over the years, they had learned that domestically- bred slaves were easier to manage, more accepting of their status, and required considerably less discipline if they had been reared properly at the breeding farms themselves. Besides, the worst characteristics of the stock could be eliminated fairly easily, such as overall ugliness, puniness, idiocy, infertility, poor resistance to disease, and inherent sour or uncooperative dispositions. But their approach to breeding was simple and straightforward: forced coupling on demand among those decent looking, big, strong and sturdy, and who had survived their slavery without too much damage.

Female slaves were bred starting at around 15 and kept pregnant a good deal of the time until they couldn't be bred any longer, usually when they were around 35 or so. Infant mortality was incredibly high so the female broods typically produced only about 10 to 12 slaves that survived to their peak marketable age of around 15 to 18. Despite that, the broods had been pregnant most of those 20 years of breeding. Breed masters grumbled that the broods tried to abort themselves if they weren't carefully watched and even killed their own babies at birth if given the chance. Some of the broods tried to starve themselves to death and consequently had to be force fed to maintain a healthy pregnancy. If the new products survived their own mothers before they were transferred to the safer environs of the slave nurseries, they were then subject to many diseases that decimated children in Rome at that time, made even worse by having so many babies together in one place it seemed.

You didn't need many studs to service even the largest collections of brood slaves, so you afford to be much more selective in exactly which slaves got this honor. Most males chosen were huge, handsome, and well equipped, but often balked at being mated with just anyone chosen for them despite the sexual relief offered and resented being forced into mating on demand simply to produce more slaves who would be treated no different than they were, a practice usually reserved for the lowest animals. Suicide wasn't unknown among the selected studs, who seemed to care less they were destroying their master's valuable property in the process or hampering the progress of the mighty Roman Empire. The studs generally required careful watching and a driver who wasn't afraid to use his whip brutally.

All of this added to the cost of producing bred slaves, who were having a tough time competing with captured slaves at auction despite the obvious advantages due to their high price. Thus, the big corporations were cautious about entering the slave breeding enterprise with full commitment at this point in time. Perhaps, later, when the supply of foreign slaves dried up completely, but now... they were just too expensive it seemed.

Thus my brother found himself a loner in his dreams of vast slave races being bred as signature products of the Roman Empire. With his limited capital, he operated his own breeding operations on a small scale, not unlike many other 'slave farms' dotted across the Empire here and there. His concept of breeding the perfect 'designed' slave never wavered, however. He would visit the vast farming estates owned by the aristocracy where huge herds of chained slaves worked the land under a constant whip, quizzing the farm stewards as to who was the most productive slave they had; who had lived through the epidemics that plagued the land on occasion; who gave the least trouble to their supervisors; who took the lightest whippings to keep working steadily, which female workers had little trouble in child bearing despite their heavy work loads, and on and on until the poor stewards were exasperated with his questions. When such slaves were identified, he then looked them over, usually still in place within their chain gang, their unshaven hair matted and filthy, their backs and rumps covered with whip scars and brands, their ankles bleeding from the manacles rubbing against them constantly, and their necks calloused and raw from the heavy iron collars welded around their necks. They reeked from their own shit running down their legs, their piss spattered across their front, their sweat unwashed since the last rain, and for the young males, the sticky juices leaking out of their pricks from constant unmet need. Such rural draft slaves were never given relief time to meet their personal needs and had to shit and piss while they worked. Nor were they ever allowed to have any sexual relief, being carefully chained each night to prevent even stroking themselves since it was felt this took energy away from their work. The females were equally filthy, but most had swollen bellies - the result of the overseers and handlers using them at night where they were chained into position for such assaults. Most were worked right up to delivery when they knelt, keeping the others chained to them from doing their work, and dropped their litter in the dirt beneath them until the overseer grabbed it up and whipped the slave woman back to work, her afterbirth simply left in the fields as fertilizer. Many slave women died from such treatment, but slave managers considered it necessary to maintain good discipline and women slaves, especially the generally ugly big-boned stock sold to the farms, were cheap enough so no one gave serious thought to altering the system.

My brother then offered to buy up the sturdiest, biggest male and female slaves he could find so recommended and who, upon inspection, looked good in his eyes. He gave preference to males heavily hung who looked the role of a stud in his eyes and who were dripping heavily in need, and females who were heavy in yet another pregnancy, judging from the already old stretch marks scarred onto their once-again swollen bellies. Most stewards weren't authorized to sell stock on the spot without the express approval of the absentee estate owner, but my brother had an easy solution to that. He generally brought along a small passel of slaves he'd bought cheap somewhere and offered them as substitutes in the chain gangs for those the steward would sell him. That way, he suggested, the absentee owner would never know the difference since the slave count would be the same, and, once the collars and shackles had been transferred to the stock he provided, who would know the difference once the hair grew out and got matted and their backs filled with scars. The steward would pocket the purchase price and make a neat profit at the expense of the man hiring him, who obviously had plenty of money to start with and who probably cared less about the steward's need to save for his old age. And, if the steward already had saved for his old age, he could always give the steward a slave of his very own in lieu of any money changing hands. At this point, he generally pointed out a fresh looking, cleanly shaved young boy or girl that would be perfect to warm the steward's lonely bed at night and were certainly more appealing than these ugly animals he had to look at day and night here on the farm.

Such a deal invariably brought results and my brother brought back to his breeding operations the sturdy males and pregnant females he thought would be the best stock to breed his perfect draft slave. Over time, the scheme worked and indeed my brother's bred slaves did gain a small reputation as excellent draft slaves worth the extra money they cost. He didn't have the capital to branch out beyond draft slaves, however, and production never reached the level where he ever got beyond a modest, but reliable, income for he and his family. In that respect, great wealth always avoided him, just like it had my father, but, like my father, he could take pride in what he had accomplished, even though it wasn't exactly what he had dreamed of.

When I visited him a few weeks ago, he was hard at it when I first arrived. He was leading one of his studs by his nose ring to a 'rutting bench' where a huge boned woman about 30 had been fastened. The stud's nose ring was fastened by a short leash to a ring on the back of the slave women's neck collar, thus forcing him into position to fuck the

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Jul 9, 2014

Historical, Slave, Roman

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