(02-17-2020, 01:29 AM)Arrowagony Wrote: Most people forget that in moments of intense excitement there are periods of intense lucidity which reveal both the non uniform and non universal nature of time. The events of my death were one such moment. I was a soldier in the Roman army and it was at the battle of Carthage where I was killed. In hindsight I was destined to be slain on that day. Every man in Roman dress present at the battle lost his life. So it was inevitable that I would be killed too. We were outnumbered and the weapons of the enemy was formidable. No tactical military decision would have reversed the outcome of the battle. There were stories of a handful of cowardly mercenaries that ran away disguised in the robes of fallen Carthaginians, but they weren't Romans, in fact I struggle to call them men!

There were two constituent parts to the excitement that I felt in battle: killing and being killed. One was the thought and act of killing other soldiers, usually other men who wanted to kill me. Killing is not an abstract act that happens in isolation, it Is I that kills an other. This alone would have been enough to sustain the genuine unrelenting hard on I experienced during any battle. The first time I fought it had come as a surprise. Afterwards the men with more experience suggested I do as them and strap my penis to my thigh with a leather sheath when fighting to not distract them or myself in the throes battle. In addition it somewhat protected me from suffering a mentally and physically painful and slow death where the erect penis is sliced off by a sword or axe blade. Being well endowed made one a target for being "cut down to size". Like most male soldiers I loved this strong sexual excitement I felt in battle. It enabled us to overcome the fear of battle. This aspect of ancient warfare seems to have been removed from the history books. I would be hard with anticipation before I thrust my gladius or pillum into the other man's chest, waiting to hear his cry or scream, to watch the surprised look of agony on his face, the disbelief in his eyes, to feel the spray of his blood, to see him fall down and die. And I loved it. It was always great, always slightly different, a stifled scream, a guttural moan, an embarrassed look. Sometimes I would kill ten men in a battle, sometimes I would even kill twenty men. Oh it was lovely to be in battle. It was intensely sexual and made so hard. I often came as I killed soldiers. My cock would explode, spurting ejaculate down my right thigh, to which it was strapped with an open leather sheath. My right sandal and the toes of my right foot would be spattered with cum. Fellow soldiers would know whether I had had a "good day" in battle by glancing my sandals! It felt marvellous releasing my load as I killed another man, and then seconds later doing it again. Of hcourse I could not always recharge fully between kills, but it felt good anyway to pull the trigger even if there was no bolt loaded.

The second constituent component was the thought and fear of being killed. Needless to say this was more theoretical and abstract as up until this point I had not experienced the act of being killed by another. However the excitement of potential death was very real which was in no way diminished by reciprocal act of killing. And for me it had always been very strong and arousing. The night before my first battle as a new Roman recruit I had a strong erection, the whole night long, thinking about being killed in battle the next day. The other men, aware of the phenomenon made fun of my restless night and wearing "my sword" to bed! I was embarrassed but then as we marched into battle I noticed that most of the men were hard too and I realised they were just as excited about being killed. I relaxed a bit, just a little and began to enjoy being so hard and fully erect as I marched into battle. I feared being killed by arrow warfare. I felt that I was impotent to prevent my own death by an enemy archer. An arrow could skewer a man in plate armour at 200 yards. My first battle was against the Egyptians and their prowess with the bow using charioteer archers was legendary. I will never forget the utter terror as they drove towards us with the rumblings of the distant chariots growing louder like approaching thunder. And then when I thought my erection couldn't be any harder I heard the whoosh of their bows as they unleashed a deadly rain of arrows. I badly wanted to grab my erect cock and masturbate to release the unbearable tension that I felt growing in my throbbing cock. Seconds later men beside me screamed as they were skewered. I heard many Romans screaming. It was a horrible sound, the sound of hundreds of fully grown men screaming as they were killed. But it only made me harder as I feared suffering the same fate. I saw my fellow soldiers skewered by the deadly indiscriminate shafts. Some died quickly. One soldier was skewered through his helmet. His face was completely red as the blood streamed down his dead face with open eyes and mouth. Another soldier I recognised was clutching a shaft that had been shot through his throat. His mouth was open in agony but he was unable to scream. His eyes were pleading for help. I felt ashamed I couldn't do anything apart from maintain my hard on. I looked away to see an older centurion staggering backwards. He had been skewered through his chest by an arrow that he was clasping with blood red hands. At first he grimaced in silence as his face contorted in agony. But then he could not contain his agony and let out a guttural scream: "AGGGHHHHRR!" and dropped to his knees. Between his legs I caught sight of his enlarged erect penis. He let go of the arrow with his left hand and felt for the shaft tip sticking out of his back. "OH MY GOD!" The elderly soldier uttered as he realised he was going to die. He keeled over onto his side and writhed and groaned in agony. I undid his sandal buckles and removed them from his mature feet because I wanted his fancy centurion sandals and he didn't need them anyway. Actually I'm wearing those very same sandals today. His death throes were both a horrific and a huge turn on. The sight of that barefoot centurion dying hard in agony made me so aroused. I was so glad it was him and not me. But if a soldier that experienced could be killed, I realised that I could too, at any moment! Another new recruit turned around to watch me steal the old man sandals. "Hey! I want the old man's sandals" he yelled before being drilled by a shaft through his back. He uttered a protracted "UGHHHH!!" grasping the bloody arrowhead protruding from his breastplate. Another shaft protruded from his tunic - he was just as hard as me! I also took his new sandals and left him barefoot where he had fallen dead.

I watch the arrowhead rotating slowly as it drills into the armour breastplate of thick hardened leather that encases my large chest and torso. I am amazed as I never realised that arrows spin! I am surprised how detached I am about this observation, almost as if this wasn't my body that I am watching being drilled by this spinning shaft. But as the shaft continues to spin, I observe the arrowhead tip begin to penetrate the leather armour. At this point the thought strikes me that it would be a good idea to stop the arrow from continuing to spin and drill into my armour otherwise IT WILL PENETRATE MY ARMOUR and pierce me. It is a cold thought, forged with lucidity, not as one my imagine born out of panic. It seems bizarre how much time there is to think. I decide to grab the slow moving arrow with my empty left hand. But nothing happens! My arm doesn't move. As a soldier it goes against my years of battle experience, but I need to stop this arrow or I WILL BE KILLED, so I drop the gladius in my right hand to clasp the arrow with it. But nothing happens. The gladius is still in my hand, gripped firmly by my blood drenched fingers. In horror I realise that the slowly spinning arrow is not spinning slowly! It is drilling into my chest a normal speed. It is my perception of time that has changed. I now notice my limbs responding to the impulse to clutch the shaft I'm being drilled with. They are moving but with speed of the hands of a clock, almost imperceptibly slowly. I'm being killed in slow motion! My hands won't reach the arrow in time to stop it! Oh My God!! I notice how hard I am. I feel the arrowhead penetrating my sternum. I can see some bone dust and fragments amid a fine mist of blood droplets being expelled as the arrowhead slowly proceeds through my breastplate armour. I can hear my sternum splintering and shatter with the violent momentum of the arrow pushing into my chest. I understand why all those arrowed soldiers clutch the shaft protruding from their chest in futility. Like me, they were all trying to stop the arrow before it killed them! And like them I will fail. It is the horrific secret arrowed men learn at their death. I will make the same useless pose, clutching the shaft that will skewer me. The spinning slender bronze bodkin arrowhead disappears through my decorative leather armour. Incredible pain radiates from my punctured chest in pangs of intense agony that contorts my weathered male face and forces me to grimace. The arrow breaks through my breastbone and slides deeper inside my rib cage as I watch in utter horror, incable of altering its steadfast journey through my chest cavity! Around me soldiers appear as statues in various stages of delivering and receiving death. A fellow soldier, skewered through his chest by an arrow, is in the process of falling to his knees screaming. The bloody arrow is sticking 6 inches out of his back! He too is clutching the arrow shaft as he arches backwards writhing in his final agony. The poor man is suffering horribly. I realise I am in for a similar fate! Oh my God! My arrow's sharp bodkin easily pierces my lung sack and enters the spongy lung tissues. I feel my warm blood slowly filling my lungs. At first there is a pleasant warming sensation. But as the experience continues there is sharp searing pain, and as the air volume of my collapsing lung reduces with the filling blood I feel a terrifying feeling of drowning. It is agony to breath and as I open my mouth to breath in I cough. In the distance a man's arm is outstretched holding an undrawn bow. His other hand is open at his chin where he released the arrow. He is smiling at me. There is a glint in his eye. The arrow entering my chest is his arrow. He is grinning with the anticipation of my death throes. Oh my God he is going to get off on my death! I hate the thought of my death giving pleasure to this lowly enemy archer. How is it right that this bowman can shoot a senior Roman centurion to death. Then I recall all the old soldiers I slayed without any mercy. How they obliged me with their erotic death throes, their embarrassing death dances, the death faces they made as they contorted and grimaced in awful agony, and the screams and groans they uttered as I dispatched each and everyone of them to a horrific death. It made me hard and it still makes me hard thinking about killing those disgusted poor old men. And now it is my turn to perform for my fucking archer. Why me? Does he enjoy killing old men? - He doesn't look much younger than me! Maybe it is the centurion uniform or perhaps these sandals that I'm wearing. Will he brag about slaying this old centurion with his friends or wives? The arrow punctures my heart. There is a disconcerting noise as a spray of blood spurts rhythmically from my chest. I know this is fatal and I WILL DIE. I'm so going to my death now. The thought of certain and inevitable death turns me on hugely. My strapped penis is bulging in its leather sheath trying to erect. The arrowhead bursts through the central heart wall into another atrium before slicing through my aorta. A spasm of the most excruciating pain emanates from my failing heart. Amazingly it continues beating with the arrow shaft through it, but also generating an agony like I have never experienced. I just want to die now! I want to die unnoticed, that my men won't see their centurion enduring such a horrific death, distracting them from their fighting duty to Rome. Just when I thought the agony had reached its maximum the arrow bursts through my spine sending a crescendo of pain that reverberates throughout my entire body. Against my best efforts I throw my head back and my ugly contorted face looks skyward. My opening mouth emits a deafening blood curdling scream involuntarily: "AGGGHHHHRR!!". Let my death throes begin so that I can get this over! My screams delight my grinning killer who watches me intently. His arrow breaks out of my back and out through my armour. The red dripping shaft sticks out a full 6 inches. At last my hands are clutching the part of the shaft that protrudes from my breastplate. I arch my back in agony and scream again. I stagger backwards trying to remain standing, as if that will prevent my death. I don't want to be here. But I know there is nowhere to go and die alone quietly. I look foolish clutching the shaft as I stagger screaming. I sink to my knees. This act pleases my bowman. I think of all the men I killed and how I loved when they fell to the ground too. I know what he feels. The Roman men glance at me in horror with dropped jaws and look away. I am an awful reminder of their own mortality. Unfortunately for most, their fate will be to endure an arrow death today too! I feel the blood dripping on my sandalled bare heels, the figure of a kneeling arrowed soldier, killed in battle. I hear another cry: "UGHHHHRRR!!". It is my bowman who has been shot with an arrow. Lovely! Fucking lovely. All men die and I fought hard and died like a man.