Brad was a cocky American. Some damned cowboy, who had no clue as to his place in society. He had grown up bouncing between youth ranches for troubled teens, until he met the duke's son. They both turned 18 within a month of each other. When the duke's son decided to return to his home, he brought Brad back as a stable hand.


While Brad's attitude was in need of being checked, he was most certainly good with horses. He had been working in the stables for 4 years. Carrying buckets of food and water really taxed his strength and the result was a firm, muscular build.


The duke's son would sneak out regularly to the stables, where Brad was and the two would hold private encounters in the straw of an empty stable. Brad loved it. While he was always to be submissive as a servant, those encounters made him the master of the future duke. What could be more exhilarating than making his master's son kneel before him, or to make him groan from pain and pleasure.


Rumors began quietly circulating about Brad and the duke's son. One night, the duke took a few of his men and went out to the stables, catching the two young lovers.


The duke dragged his son back to the manor house, leaving his men to handle Brad. Ever so cocky, Brad pulled up his pants and looked at the duke's head servant. “So, what you gonna do now? Fire me?”


The head servant only gave a mere smirk..... “Sort of.” To that, he gave a nod to the five men with him and each one pulled a cross bow from his back.


Brad was shocked. “What the hell is this?” He stood arrogantly by the wall. He was already pissed from being treated as an inferior, but the nerve of these bastards, threatening him like this. They didn't need weapons. All they needed to do was tell him to go and he would gladly leave.


The duke's men each locked an arrow in his bow and held it in front of them. “What the f**k is this? You're going to kill me?” Brad could see from the look on the lead servant's face that this was the case.


“You should have thought twice before creating such a scandal in the duke's household. You're nothing but a filthy stable rat, thinking you could screw your way into the manor house.”


“So, what? Now you're gonna kill my for f**king his son. Why not kill him for f**king me?”


“His father will deal with him. You, on the other hand, would most likely use this to blackmail the duke into some sort of annual income. We will not stand for you tarnishing the name of this house.”


Brad watched as the servants all aimed their bows at his bare chest. His mind quickly jumped. His initial thought was to run like hell. He could feel his bare feet clench against the floor. No, he thought. I'm not going to run.


Brad looked defiantly at the servants. He spread out his arms and braced himself against the wall. He raised his chin and glared at the head servant. “F**k you and your master's house.”


With that, the arrows let go. Brad felt the first two hit him in the chest, causing his chest to twist first to the right, then to the left. A third arrow nailed him below the navel, causing his hips to jump forward. The final two rammed into his upper abs, forcing him to bend forward.


Brad, merely let out a hardened grunt when the arrows began slamming into him. The bow from the arrows forced him backward towards the wall. He grasped the wall, forcing himself to remain standing. He stared down at the five arrow protruding from his handsome body.


He could feel the blood in his lungs. His manhood began throbbing out it's final burst. It took all he could to stay standing. He grasped the wall with all the strength in his hands. He could not show any weakness to these bastards. His anger was flaring, but he knew anything he tried, would only make the pain worse. His facial expression flowed between anger, pain and fear,


A sickening feeling began crawling through his stomach as the blood trickled out of his wounds. His breath was becoming stronger, heavier. He could taste the blood in the back of his throat. His breaths gargled as he sought to hold in the air. His mind began blackening. He felt his back sliding down against the plaster wall as his life finally faded.

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.

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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.