Hey everyone,
Just thought I'd post a thread here so everyone can see what this category is all about.

Just post a little about you and what you are looking for. 
For Example, here is mine:   



I am a middle-aged guy from the Nashville TN area. I am looking for guys who are interested in doing artwork together, either story-writing, comics, alters, DAZ, possibly videos, etc.  Nothing necessarily sexual, just to hang out and have fun.

I walked out into the arena. My young, smooth body glistening in the sunlight. This was my first fight in the arena, but I was ready for it. As the son of one of the greatest lanistas in this town, I was well-acquainted with the arena.


I also knew my enemy well, the “great” champion of Antium. He was a highway robber who had killed my father and mother as they traveled from the city. I was only fourteen at the time and vowed my revenge. I stood before the magistrate and demanded the man's head. Instead, a rival lanista bribed the magistrate into letting the man fight for him in the arena.


I watched every fight, hoping to see him fall, instead, I saw him turn from a murderous villain into the “hero” of the city when he slew two gladiators brought by a Roman Senator. Being too young to own my father's gladiators, I was forced to sell them off, retaining only my personal servant, who was only a year older than I. Although I was still well off financially, I spent very little money. Most of the people who saw me walking the streets to the market, only saw some small, lanky boy and looked down on me as one to be pitied.


For the next few years, I had kept a very solitary life. I accepted no guests. The only companion I had was my servant, who, at times, seemed to be more of the master than I was. I spent my time training myself in my father's ludus and he was my doctore. For at least 14 hours every day, he would give me a brutal workout. Each passing hour, my young body ached and yearned to quit from the exhaustive pain. Most other men, better men than I, would have given up. Several times I passed out from the heat, but my servant was there to dowse my head with water and get me back up. My body was still weak, but my mind and heart were fixed.


Each month, I grew stronger and stronger, feeding myself on the same meat and gruel that my father had fed his gladiators on. At the crow of the rooster, before the light of day, I started my sword training until the sun was directly overhead. The heat of the afternoon sun gave me time for my endurance training. In the evening, was my strength training. As the finale of the strength training, I had my servant chain me against the wall and give my abs a long, gut-punching work-over until I could no longer stand on my own feet. He would then, drag me to my bed and lie with me for the evening. When the rooster howled in the pre-dawn light, I was up again.


Each day was the same schedule, with the exception of one day each week, when we would spend the morning in the market purchasing our needs and conducting what little business I could. By the peak of the sun, we lunched and took off on a a six-hour run along the coastline or up into the hills.


Without a break, I trained every day, preparing myself. Through all the pain and turmoil, my heart and mind were focused on one goal. If no other gladiator would arise to avenge my father's death and bring this villain down to the dust, then I would.


Four long years seemed to pass in short time. My pecs and shoulders bulged into hardened rocks. My once smooth belly, transformed itself into a granite washboard. The few times I could see my own reflection, I stood in awe. I, who was once a small gangly boy, was now a chiseled warrior.


I went to the magistrate and presented the challenge against “Antium's greatest champion.” At first, he was reluctant. He kept questioning my skills as a gladiator, and perhaps, I should challenge some lesser to gain more experience first. But, I was not about to become some common spectacle for others' entertainment. This was to be my only fight.


The magistrate knew of my lust for vengeance and justice. “Well,” said he, “You may not have the experience of being a gladiator. But, you most certainly have the heart.”


So here, today, I stand under the blazing sun in the hot sands of the arena. The crowd had heard of my challenge and it seemed that all the city had come to watch me avenge the death of my parents. It was astounding to see how quickly the fickle crowd, who had always cheered on their beloved champion had turned against him in an instant. I stood there, blade in hand, awaiting the last entrance that the champion will ever make.


The horns bellowed and the crowd booed as the other gate opened. He walked out from the darkness into the light of day. His massive muscular figure gleaming in the sunlight. I watched him as he flexed for the crowd. I was unmoved by his flaunts. All I could think of was how those same muscles would be tensing up when my sword ran him through. I enjoyed watching his little show, knowing full well, that his powerful physique would soon enough be doing a final encore.


He spread out his arms arrogantly and turned around haughtily, a mighty spectacle for the crowd to behold. He didn't seem to care about the disapproval of the crowd. He didn't need them. After all, he had his blade and it was far too easy to turn a crowd. A small tingling of doubt cast its shadow over me. I tried hard to subdue it. But, my heart began racing in my chest. Hatred and anger with even a slight touch of fear boiled over. After a quick salute, I made my charge.




He stood there, as I mustered my vengeful rage into a powerful courage and made my dash at him. My sword arm was fully cocked for the kill. The crowd was awed by my muscular, youthful beauty as I charged my opponent. Time seemed to briefly stand still. The ladies longed to have their legs and arms wrapped around my strong youthful hips. The older men desired to be or at least have me. I was a young god in their eyes, a god of youth, a god of strength, a god of justice, a god of beauty. Those four years slaving away myself at home had paid off. I was, for this brief moment, the new champion and the desire of all.


What was really about five seconds seemed more like an eternity as I made the charge. He might have strength and experience. But I had justice, heart and speed on my side. I got in close enough proximity to almost collide with him. I aimed the tip of my blade at his chest and was about to thrust my sword straight into his heart, when I felt a heavy hit to my gut, almost as if he had kneed me there.


I heard a loud gasp “Uuhhhh!!”. I wasn't sure if it was from him, me or the crowd. I bent forward and looked down at my gut to see his blade buried about six inches into my navel. My eyes widened in disbelief, shock ran throughout my body, causing me to drop my sword. This couldn't be. I looked up at him, my face flushed. His arrogant eyes squinted from his sly grin.


My stomach sickened. This was supposed to be justice. I looked again at my firm, strong body and realized that, though clothed in tightly toned muscles, I was still a weak young man. I had spent years training and toning, only to lose it all in a single quick instant.


He placed an arm around my shoulder. His chest pressed partly against mine as he whispered in my ear. “You had the heart of a warrior, but lacked the skill.”


My knees began to shake as blood ran down my belly and legs. My breathing was still strong and powerful. I felt as If I was going to pass out, but, he began rubbing my back gently. “Not yet,” he whispered. “You tried hard, now, the least you can do is die like a man.”


He slowly added pressure on the blade and I felt my whole abdomen begin throbbing violently as he buried the blade entirely through my gut. The sharp point sticking out through my back. I arched forward from the searing pain, my chest resting against his arm, my cheek pressed against his massive bicep.


He rubbed his hand tenderly between my shoulder blades and gave me a couple pats. “Now, that's a good boy. Go to your daddy.” With that, he yanked the blade out of my gut. The sharp, almost electric pain caused me to let out a muffled cry as I fell down to my knees. I bent forward, placing my hands over my wounds, the streaming blood trickled between my fingers.


I felt light-headed and dizzied as I fell over to my side. The sands around me were soaked red around where I lay. I looked up to see him raise his sword high in the air, my blood still dripping from it, while the crowd erupted out into great cheers. He had regained their favor and was again their champion. My abs muscles heaved together with a couple of pounding thrusts. I let out a couple quiet gaspy sighs. My bare legs gave a final squirming seizure and all went still........

https://www.dropbox.com/s/l9vcd8zy31oku9...3.jpg?dl=0

https://www.dropbox.com/s/55ah7svphfjlsvy/bar9.jpg?dl=0

Quote:

Quote:https://www.dropbox.com/s/8ro1o8xdmk3q33...r.mp4?dl=0

ouch.

Attached Files

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Ocodus

by

Gladlover


Ocodus watches as the two gladiators that Cashius and he will fight today enter the arena. They carry shortswords and bucklers, as do their opponents. The crowds are looking for a good fight. If they wanted only killing, there would be no shields. The sun is high and hot. Sweat rolls down Ocodus' chest and across his belly. Only his headband keeps it from his eyes. He has convinced himself that the sweat is from the heat, but fear sits hard in his gut. He knows that he will die in the arena, he wonders if it will be today.

"Ocodus … do you know them?" Cashius asks.

"I've seen them before. The taller one is a Moor. He has a few kills, the other is an Arab, new to the arena," Ocodus replied. He deliberately lied. He knew both men had fought many battles before. Cashius, while lean and muscular, is a small man, and relatively new to the arena. Ocodus thought him to be unlikely to survive for long. Most of his kills have been against untrained slaves. He needed him to hold off the other man until I can kill the tall one. Both were strong men. Their shoulders and chests were developed from everyday practice with a sword, their bellies hardened through hours of grueling work. Cashius would be no match for either of the gladiators. He will be dead in a few minutes. If he can only hold off the other man long enough, Ocodus might survive. He gestured to the shorter man. "You take that one." He gestured toward the Arab, the stronger of the two, sending Cashius to his likely death. "And remember, if we both win, you'll have to fight me … and I will kill you if I have to."

"I know," Cashius replied.

At the sound of the drums the combatants stride before the emperor. They shout their pledge of loyalty in death to his majesty. They all know that three of them will fulfill that pledge. Ocodus turns to face the Moor as Cashius moves across the arena to face his opponent. Trumpets sound and the warriors drop into their fighting stance. Ocodus lunges quickly, hoping to strike a quick killing blow. His opponent sidesteps away from the attack. Ocodus backs away, to look him over. A dark man, deeply tanned, coal black hair and eyes to match. He moves in and slashes. Ocodus uses his buckler to block the stroke, jabbing toward the Moor's leg. He shouts as Ocodus' blade finds his thigh. The wound is not deep, but blood flows down his leg as he backs away. Ocodus presses the attack on his wounded adversary. He lunges forwarded again, thrusting his sword and forcing the man to raise his buckler to protect himself. The Moor brings up his sword to parry the blow, and slashes again. Ocodus steps into the Moor and shoves him back with his shield. The Moor stumbles as Ocodus presses the attack. Ocodus again uses the buckler, and strikes his opponent in the face. The Moor staggers, nose and mouth bloodied, heavily stunned, his sword and shield dropping to his side. Ocodus thrusts again. This time his blade finds the belly of the Moor. He cries out as the pain shocks him trying to raise his sword again. Ocodus knocks it from his hand with his buckler. He thrusts again, pushing his sword deeper in the Moors belly. The Moor groans loudly as the blade slices through him. He buckles over as the blade exits his back and the hilt of the sword strikes his belly. Ocodus twists the sword as he pulls it from the dying man. He grabs his belly and staggers toward Ocodus, who stabs him again, above the first wound. His whole body jerks at this new wound. He falls to the sand as Ocodus pulls the blade from him.

Ocodus watches as the Moor pulls himself into a fetal position, blood pooling around him. Ocodus kicks him onto his back. He groans again as his guts painfully shift inside of him. His teeth are gritted and his eyes squeezed tightly as he fights against the agony, squirming in the bloody sand. Ocodus can see his erect manhood beneath his breechcloth. "The gods reward for a warriors death," he thought. Ocodus puts the point of his sword against the Moors chest. His eyes open as the blade nicks him, and he looks his killer in the eye. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but Ocodus doesn't give him the chance as he drives the sword deep inside of his chest. The Moor grimaces again. Blood spurts from the wound when the sword is pulled from him, and he spasms as his heart beats his last. His features relax as death takes him.

Ocodus raises his bloody sword to the emperor. He has survived another match. Screaming from across the arena interrupts his adulation.

The other gladiator is killing Cashius. Cashius is on his knees, blood and entrails pouring from a long slash across his belly. He looks toward Ocodus, hoping for a salvation that will not come. The Arab thrusts again, this time into Cashius chest. He arches back as the blade finds its way inside of him. Cashius gasps for air but gets none. The sword is pulled from his body, and he falls back. The Arab puts the blade into the hollow of his throat and thrusts, ending his suffering.

"Goodbye my friend," Ocodus spoke to himself, "you have done well." He sees that the gods have rewarded Cashius in the same way that they rewarded the Moor.

Ocodus and the Arab move to the center of the arena. Both drop into their fighting stance and begin the struggle. The Arab rushes and strikes first with an overhead blow. Ocodus is lucky to get his buckler up to block the sword. Ocodus tries a weak thrust but misses. The Arab strikes again, this time Ocodus dodges away and slashes. The Arab quickly parries that blow, catching Ocodus' sword by the hilt. The force spins Ocodus away, barely able to hold onto his sword, he turns to see the Arab attacking again. Again he parries the Arab's powerful blows. Ocodus steps into the Arab and locks swords with him. He steps forward and tries to trip the gladiator, but the Arab pushes him back, slashing again. Ocodus screams as the sword cuts into his pec. He feels the steel strike his breastbone as he jerks away, swinging his sword wildly. His shield arm is weakened from his wound, and blood streams from his chest. The Arab slashes again, now aiming for the shield. Each blow sends a blast of pain through Ocodus. Soon the shield falls from his hand.

Ocodus raises his sword, his shield hand pressed to his wounded chest. He knew his chances of survival were slim. He glanced over at the corpse of Cashius. "I'll be joining you soon, my friend," he thought.

He slashed as well as he could. The Arab used his shield to force him back. He was playing with him. Ocodus was weakening. Soon the Arab struck another strong blow, this time sending Ocodus' sword across the arena. Now he was doomed. The Arab rushed, and Ocodus grabbed his sword arm. Suddenly he saw stars as the Arab's buckler smashed into his head. His next sensation is white-hot pain in his gut as the Arab's sword slices inside of him. Ocodus freezes in agony and grabs the blade, slicing his hands. Arab continues his thrust, shoving the sword through him. His muscles clamp tightly around the blade.

Ocodus throws his bleeding hands over the Arab's shoulders and presses himself against him. More pain follows as the Arab jerks the blade up, and then out of his belly. Ocodus breaks his grip, and falls back to the sand. He arches back as his final agony overwhelms him. He bloody hands grab his wound, and he fights to sit up, hoping for relief. Through it all, he feels his manhood stiffen. "The gods … reward me." His thought was broken by a prick on his chest. Above him was the Arab. Ocodus lay back, his time was now. The sound of his bones breaking followed by the blade cutting inside his chest sent him into spasms of agonizing pain. He squirmed on the blade until the Arab pulled it free. His arms fell to his side and his body jerked in its death throes. Suddenly the pain subsided. His manhood was coming, the orgasm soothing his passage to the hereafter. Soon his body relaxed in the afterglow of death.

The crowds cheered as the corpses were removed from the arena. All were stripped of their breechcloths and loaded naked onto a cart and taken to a mass grave. It seemed ironic that men who were mortal enemies would lie together naked throughout eternity, but that is the way it always was.

Glarus and the Celt

by

Gladlover

Glarus had been selected by the arenamaster for the day's final bout. The master always gave the crowd a good battle to end the day's entertainment. By the end of the day, the crowd would be drunk and excited by blood lust. Glarus was used to the attention. He had been a gladiator since he had been a teenager, and was a crowd favorite. He had killed many times before. He wasn't sure who his opponent would be. It was usually a prisoner of war, or a slave from one of the less advanced provinces. It humored Glarus that many of the outlying provinces were considered barbaric, yet Rome was the only one that considered man-to-man combat to the death entertainment. It had given him a good life though, and he enjoyed it immensely. His arena slave prepared him for the battle, oiling his muscular body, and then preparing his weapons, a gladius and a small buckler. He looked over and noticed a tough looking young man, being prepared for the arena. "He must be my opponent," he thought. He wasn't as receptive to the oiling as someone who had fought here before. Shorter than Glarus, not quite as muscular, he was still a superb physical specimen. A strong, lean body; a broad chest leading to a flat abdomen that was strong, but didn't ripple with muscles. His strong shoulders were those of a man who hunted, not a man who made his living with a sword, like Glarus. Glarus' chest was much bulkier, and his abs much tighter. He wondered who this man was. His dark hair and eyes held no clues. His skin was pale; he obviously hadn't been training in the hot Roman sun, as the deeply tanned Glarus. The arena slave noticed that his master was eyeing the other man.

"He's a Celt," the slave whispered, "just got here the other day." The arenamaster likes them because they put up a good fight, but he wants them killed quickly, before they make trouble amongst the others.

Glarus knew that the Celts were fearsome warriors, noted for ripping arrows from their chests and bellies and continuing the fight until they would bleed to death. He wasn't worried. Today would be no different than any other day in his mind. One of them would die in agony for the entertainment of the crowd, and the other would live to fight again.

The Celt had been captured in Britain, and brought to Rome as a slave; his size and strength made him a perfect fit for the arena, he was too strong and surely too dangerous for most slave duties. He had been raised as a hunter, and killing another man was no different than killing any other animal. He knew that he had no way out of the ring. He knew his destiny was to die impaled on a blade of steel. He had been stabbed before. It was agonizing, but he knew he could tolerate the pain and keep fighting. During the wars he had seen men writhe in torment as he sliced their bellies open, and he knew that his death would be just as excruciating. But he fantasized about the rapture of a warrior's death that would ease his way to his final freedom.

Glarus walked down the tunnel to the ring past the butchered bodies of the previous contestants Stripped naked, covered with blood, some with entrails hanging from their wounds. Glarus had his weapon and shield. The Celt had no weapon, and was escorted by a guard. They both knew that one or the other would end up as the men whose bodies lined the passageway. It didn't scare either of them. The sun shined brightly as they walked into the ring together, naked, except for sandals and flimsy loincloths. The Celts weapon and shield were on the sand in the arena. There was fresh sand applied to the blood from the previous matches. There was a short ceremony. The crowd cheered at the mention of Glarus' name. His opponent was introduced by his heritage. Trumpets glared and they began to square off, to the crowd's noisy approval.

They circled each other, sizing each other up. The few blows that were exchanged were parried by a sword or blocked by a buckler. The crowd shouted for more action.

The Celt bellowed angrily at his adversary. Glarus didn't understand what the words were, but understood their meaning. The Celt eyed his opponent looking for weakness he could exploit.

"You'll be dead before you get the chance," Glarus thought out loud.

The Celt charged Glarus, screaming, sword over his head. The Celt was quick. Glarus sidestepped the attack just as the Celt swung toward Glarus. The Celt was very strong, one blow could be fatal. Glarus jabbed as The Celt went by. He spun to avoid the blade, but not fast enough. He yelled as the blade sliced into his side, just beneath the rib cage. The cut wasn't deep, but he could feel blood dripping down his side. There was pain, but the Celt ignored it. It would be nothing like the pain he was going to inflict on this Roman pig. He slashed towards Glarus' muscular pecs, this time coming across his body, and drew a painful gash across Glarus' chest; Glarus stumbled back, the pain telling him that the Celt would fight through his wounds. Blood dripped down his chest, a quick check telling him that it wasn't serious.

The Celt saw an opening and charged again. Through his pain he charged swinging wildly at Glarus. Glarus stepped aside and slashed across his adversary's flat belly. The Celt tried to pull back, but the blade caught him just to the right of his navel, and sliced deeply inside him, exiting halfway across his belly, strewing pieces of skin and gut across the ring. The Celt let out a death cry; he knew that he was being killed. The blade had cut through his gut and he could feel the blood pouring down his belly, both inside and out. The searing pain in his gut wasn't visible on his face. He glared at Glarus in anger, not agony.

Glarus felt his manhood stiffen. His reward was about to come. The wound would be fatal; it was a matter of time. He was impressed that the Celt could fight through the pain. He had wounded men like this before. Most of them had dropped to the soil, hoping for a mercy from the crowd that never came. Glarus stabbed them in the chest, ending the agony in their bellies. He watched his opponent stagger towards him with fury in his eyes. "This one isn't afraid of death," he thought. It excited him even more to kill such a strong warrior.

The Celt mustered up his last reserves of strength, thinking that he would take this bastard to hell with him. He spat a curse at Glarus and charged again, thrusting wildly at his throat, pulling himself off balance. Glarus jerked back at the last moment, avoiding the attack, and thrust to the advancing gladiators belly. The blade went into the Celt's belly just above his navel. He shouted in agony as his guts were ripped again, his stomach muscles tightening around the blade, but providing no protection as it blade tore his skin open and slid easily into his intestines. "Aaahhhh!" the Celt cried out deafeningly as he dropped his sword and buckler, his body shocked from defeat, and knowing that the freedom that death would bring was approaching. Glarus stepped forward, and forced the blade through him to the hilt, showing 10 inches of bloody steel out of his back back. The sweaty gladiators were chest to chest. The Celt arched back and grabbed his killer's arm. Glarus twisted the sword as she pulled it from the Celt's body. "Uuughh," he grunted as he doubled over in torment. The small slice from the blade was now a gaping hole. He fell to his knees grasping the wound, blood spurting over his hands and down his belly. He looked at Glarus as his body turned cold, and darkness began to close in on him. His manhood was stiff; his death rapture was approaching. He pulled himself up, hands to his wounded belly, and opened his chest to receive the death blow.

"What a man," thought Glarus.

He didn't have to wait long. Glarus turned his blade and thrust just beneath the Celt's left pec. The turned blade slid between his ribs, and deep inside his chest split his heart in two. He arched back grimacing, mouth agape and eyes squinting, the agony so intense that he couldn't scream. He fought for a final breath as Glarus put a foot against his chest and pushed him back pulling the sword from his chest as he fell. The Celt lay dying in the sand, convulsing from the anguish of his wounds. His manhood burst out, soaking his groin and numbing his pain with the ecstasy of orgasm. With a few final spasms, the pain subsided and only the ecstasy remained as the world became dark, and he got his freedom.

Glarus stood over his vanquished opponent, his manhood spurting in victory from beneath his loin cloth, onto the dead Celt's chest. The crowd cheered as he held the bloody sword over his head and gazed at the dead body beneath him. He took his victory walk around the arena, his juices dripping down his legs, the crowd shouting their approval. The attendants put a hook into the Celts chest, and drug his bloody corpse to the tunnel.

As he walked back through the tunnel, he saw the Celts' naked, gutted body, and stopped to admire his handiwork one more time. "They always have a look of surprise on their faces," he thought. The Celt was no different. Glarus looked into his dead eyes and spoke, "Better you than me."