Dillon

Separation Day

I love his smell. I peel back the thin blanket so that I can enjoy it more. He smells of the smoke from the cooking fires, he smells of the goats that he tends, he smells of the olives from the groves where the goats feed, he smells of the oil he eats on his bread, and he smells of sex. But mostly he smells like a boy; a wild smell, a smell of the outdoors, a smell of wildflowers and weeds, a smell of tree sap, a smell of mud, a smell of the sea, a smell of copper. Why boys smell so good when they sweat and men reek, I don't understand. Something changes when hair appears in their arm pits and a boy crosses that line and becomes a man. That sweetness leaves them along with their childhood. They take on the obligations of a man and the stink along with it.

He is my gift for the anniversary of my separation day. He is a gift from my owner, Appius Minius Drusus. It was nearly two decades ago on this day, back when I was just ten years-old, that I left the family I had been born to, having been bought by Appius Drusus' father, Egnatius. That was my separation day. Appius Drusus is a primus pilus, senior centurion of the first cohort of the Second Ala, a much decorated cavalry soldier. As an alaris, he has traveled far. As primus pilus, he has gained much wealth. The boy in front of me, in whom I am inside, is a part of his conquests.

The boy is strange, that is sure; but, then, many of the slaves brought back from abroad are strange. This one has hair that is fiery red and eyes of a deep green. His skin is pale, but freckled. Somehow the sun seems to make them multiply. But, in those places the sun rarely sees, there is a creaminess. Somehow the red from his hair seems to add a very light, almost unnoticeable, tinge to his skin and makes him seem less ghost-like, unlike our other slaves from the north.

I am a vernae; a slave because I was born the son of slaves. That gives me status over our war slaves. My father was villicus, manager of the villa where I grew up. As Romans, and as skilled tradesmen, our lives have been relatively easy. While it is true that our bodies are not our own, while it is true that we can be bought and sold, and while it is true that our very lives lie in the hands of our masters, we are far too valuable to subject to the abuse or the harsh conditions suffered by those slaves taken in war. I would never have been granted the right to be between the legs of the boy that I am coupled with now, if not for that.

The boy was clearly not a slave, whatever his former life. Not meaning that he hasn't been used in the way I am using him now; clearly he has. That is common for a boy who has reached his years. Only the son of a lord may not have played the games that boys play with each other, or given into the charms of some youth yet to have found a wife. Even before they are old enough to don a loin cloth, boys learn the call of their sweet-finger and begin to experiment with friends. But all slaves must learn, regardless of their age, that their bodies are there for the taking, and that they must submit to whomever and to whatever is demanded.

That does not mean that slaves are taken and used without regard. A slave is a property of value; a value that must be protected. No slave can be taken by another without the permission of the owner. All owners, at least those that care, treat even those slaves designated to give pleasure with care. The reckless treatment of any property; animal, slave, equipment, is considered the sign of a greedy, thoughtless owner.

He squirmed beneath me when I first took him last evening. I had to pin him to the ground with my body to gain my entry. Once inside of him, however, he submitted and allowed me my pleasure. It is the pride left from his former life that leads him to still resist. At least he does not cry out.

He lies on his side in front of me, his lower leg curled up toward his chest, his upper leg thrown back over my hip. Although I cannot fuck him as deeply in this position as I might like, it allows me to run my hand over his chest and groin and to fondle his sweet-finger and his boyish eggs. Manhood is approaching for this boy, the color of his sex parts have deepened and his eggs are ripening, but he has yet to develop any hair. I will continue to enjoy him for the next few years when I am allowed, but then he will grow too old.

I move slowly in-and-out of him. The straw rustles beneath us with each gentle push. It is the only sound in the barn where I sleep except for the few animals stirring with the approach of dawn. I'm in no hurry this morning and will enjoy him for as long as I am capable. I run my hand through the vee of his groin and down to his sweet-finger. It is soft, and I enjoy playing with it. His face is passive and he absentmindedly plays with a bit of straw. A grimace is all the reaction that I got from him when I entered him. Now, he's just waiting for me to finish.

His ass was greasy from last night even though he had gone out to relieve himself and to expel the seed I had left in him. Still, I made sure to stretch and to oil him again. He is the property of my master, after all. I would no more ruin this boy than I would any of our livestock.

I do not know the particulars of the boy in front of me, but I imagine his story is like that of any other boy who is a slave by virtue of war. After his village was overrun by our soldiers, he, like the other boys and girls from his village, were stripped, lined up, and allotted out to the officers and soldiers. His good looks and strong body meant that he was selected early, in this case by Appius Drusus. And, since Appius Drusus' taste lie with girls, I imagine he was passed to one of his lieutenants and warmed that man's bed for the trip back to Rome. At least he was saved the fate of those with no value as slaves. Given to the men of the infantry, they often don't survive being passed from one man to the next.

Despite the care with which we are treated by our masters and fellow slaves even slave boys get used against their will. I have seen it happen and it has happened to me.

I was eight; I had been in a loincloth only a year. I had been sent by my father to deliver a message to a neighboring villa. I had run all of the way there, anxious to deliver the message quickly and to earn my father's praise. Tired and sweaty, I trotted back. I had passed down into a shallow gully, dry from the lack of rain, small clouds of dust swirling about my feet, when passing through some reeds I heard a commotion in front of me; the air full of the noise of goats and boys. Unsure what was happening, and not eager for trouble, I crept forward. Emerging from the thicket, I stood behind a tree and watched what happens when a boy is not careful.

His small flock had strayed too closely to theirs. He was a tall boy, but quite thin and black as the night. His hair was tightly braided, pulled back over his forehead, and hung to his shoulders. He wore beads made from bones and wood around his neck and there were more beads woven into his braids. I had seen him many times tending his flock, standing in the shade of a tree, one foot braced against his knee, staff in hand. The way he stood reminded me of a stork.

Now he crouched and spun about as the other boys circled him. His staff was out and he thrust and slashed the air. He knew what they were after as did I; my sweet-finger going stiff as I watched and anticipated what I would soon see. While he held them bravely at bay for now, I knew they would get him in the end. Even the strongest bull will come down if the pack of dogs is big enough.

The five boys who circled him were all old enough for tunics, although they wore just a loincloth, like I did; spending all day in the sun and the dust tending to sheep and goats made anything else impractical. The oldest two probably had entered manhood, the other three I doubt had. They laughed and mocked as they circled and, occasionally, one would dive in toward the dark boy. The dust rose about them as their feet pawed at the earth in their dance of violence and sex.

To his credit, he lasted a long time. The dust had made a fine, grey coat over his body except where streaks of sweat had fallen from him. I could see him slowing as they kept him moving and circling. Finally, the staff of one of the boys behind him caught his ankle and he fell to his knees. And they were on him.

I lost sight of him for a few moments but I could tell he continued to struggle. His attackers had gone quiet while they wrestled him, their lust rising. My own hand had gone inside my loincloth and I stroked myself slowly, the fire in my groin growing. Then the pile cleared.

He was face down in the dust; the younger boys holding him in place. One boy sat at the dark boy's head, his feet on the dark boy's shoulders, and he pulled the boy's arms to him. Two other boys sat on his legs. I watched as the oldest boy stepped in between the dark boy's legs. He reached down with his shepherd's knife and slit the thong that held his loincloth. Then he yanked it free and tossed it carelessly to one side. He removed his own as he kneeled between the boy's thighs. I watched in fascination as he peeled open the dark boy's ass and laughed. He spit into his victim's crack and angrily drove a finger inside, the others encouraging him. Then he spit in his hand and rubbed it over his manhood.

My sweet-finger had led me out from my hiding spot. My loincloth was pulled to one side and I openly stroked myself. My fever grew as I heard the dark boy squeal and I watched him thrash about as he was penetrated.

Out in the open, I was spotted by the younger boy holding the dark boy's arms. I could tell that he told the others I was there, because they all turned to look at me. Even the older boy paused in his thrusting and looked back over his shoulder at me. Something that one of them said made them all laugh and one of them called me over. Yet, despite the fire in my groin, I knew that if I went over there, I'd find myself in the dust beside the dark boy being used by the others as well. Instead I kept my distance.

The dark boy's struggles didn't last long. He seemed to accept that they would all use him. He lay their quietly while they each mounted him in turn.

That day, the gods smiled on me. The young boy holding his arms would occasionally look up at me. Then came a time his look lingered and I watched as his eyes shifted to my right. Had I hesitated or moved the wrong way, I would have been their second victim. Instead, in a flash, I stepped forward, and then darted around the tree that had been hiding me just as another boy shot past. He had been sneaking up behind me.

I dashed back down the path through the reeds and down to the gully. He had slipped and fallen in his attempt to grab me, but I knew he would be up and after me within seconds. Being a bigger boy, I also knew he would catch me before long. And so, as I crossed the gully, I leapt sideways into the reeds, burrowed in a few feet, then laid still. An instant later, I heard his feet pound past me in the soft dust.

I knew he would continue another ten yards to the where the reeds stopped. There, at the edge of the field, he would realize what I had done and circle back, so I used the opportunity to crawl further away from the path. Then I lay as still as I could.

He came back quietly, hoping to hear me moving. I lay in the reeds, poked by the weeds, my nose full of chalky dust and crushed, dried fronds. I felt the soft, tickling legs of a spider disturbed from its web as it danced over my back. An overwhelming urge to pee came over me, but, despite all these distractions, I lay perfectly still.

He crept back and forth on the path looking for me for several minutes, then he began to call to me, trying to coax me out. Eventually, he left to join the others, undoubtedly to have his turn with the dark boy. When I was sure he was gone, I wiggled forward like a snake to the edge of the reeds and watched from there.

Another boy was having his turn, his muscular buttocks dimpled each time he thrust in. I could hear his grunts over the laughter and taunts of the others. Soon he was done and another took his place. They went on like this until each had their chance. Then they gathered their gear and, laughing the whole time, disappeared with their goats beyond the crest of the hill.

The dark boy lay still on the ground. I approached warily, not out of fear of the boy, but attentive to the potential return of the others. He lay flat and still. Although most of his body was coated in the fine, grey dust, his face was washed clear by his tears. I would have thought he was dead, if I hadn't seen him blink.

Looking around, I quickly found his water bag which I dropped next to him. I then gathered his loincloth and staff. By the time I returned, he was sitting up and taking small sips of water. I crouched in front of him and watched.

He had wiped his face with his dusty hand leaving streaks across his cheeks. His necklace was twisted around his neck, and it was a shaky hand he raised that righted it. I couldn't help but look and admire his long, but thin cock. Any other day I might have reached out and fondled it, but today was not that day. I saw that I was right when I had guessed earlier that he had not yet entered manhood.

Despite his ordeal, he had work to do. He would not be forgiven for losing any of his flock, even with what he had gone through. He rose after only a few more moments on the ground. I watched as his boyhood slipped behind his loincloth. He gathered the remainder of his things. Then, before rounding up his small flock, he gave a small bow, pressed my hands between his own, and said something gentle in a language full of clicks and buzzes.

The memory has excited me, and I find myself thrusting into the red haired boy with more energy. I can tell it bothers him. He gives a small grunt and brings one hand back and presses it against my hip. I angrily brush it aside and push into him harder and deeper than before. He grimaces as I do, but he also needs to know that I will use him as it is my wish. One hand continues to fondle his boyhood while I wrap the other around his chest and pull him tightly back against me. Our bodies are sticky with our sweat.

My turn came when I was ten. It was just after my separation day, the day I was sold and left my family. I had moved with my new master and his household to Tivoli where they summered. Since I was old enough to have left my family and my original master, I was also old enough to move from a loincloth to a tunic. I was proud to be in the dress of an older boy or a man. I was proud also, to wear the colors of my new master's house; a plain white tunic trimmed in indigo. Although I was eventually to apprentice to the caprino and work with the livestock, for now, since I was still small, I was attached to the household. I ran proudly through the streets of Tivoli that were cooled by the forested hills and crowded with the families and servants of those who had left Rome for the worst of the summer months. Like before, I was running an errand, delivering a message for the household. I was anxious to make a good impression and to please the villicus with my speed and dependability. And, I'm afraid it was that very ambition that brought my trouble.

I turned onto one of the more quiet streets. I was frustrated because the vendor I needed to reach was close, but I had to circle a large block to get there. I passed a stable attached to a boarding house and glanced in as I raced past. Suddenly, I skidded to a stop and backed up. I could see clearly through the barn and out a door on the other side to the very street where I needed to be. I had only to cut through the barn and I would be there. I walked cautiously up to the large door and peered into the darkness. It was dead still. The few horses I could see stood quietly in the lazy afternoon. Nothing else stirred. While I wasn't sure if it was allowed, I couldn't imagine not being able to dash through with out being seen.

I moved through at a fast jog. I could see the light from the far door, but had to duck about various stalls, pens, racks of harnesses, and feed bins. I was three quarters of the way through, my pace was quickening; I was congratulating myself on my cleverness when I suddenly found myself flat on my butt.

"My, my little tadpole! Why such a rush?" I couldn't seem he clearly, only his silhouette against the sunlight from the far door, but I could see he was a big man. He smelled of horses, hay, and sweat. I had run right into him and bounced off his large belly.

There was something about him that worried me, something about the sound of his voice. I could hear the menace in it. I scrambled backward slowly, not wanting to show my fear, but wanting to put some distance between us before I stood up. I relaxed a bit when he didn't follow me.

"Leaving already?" he asked with a soft chuckle and leaned against one of the stall doors. With a few feet between us now, I stood warily and brushed the dirty straw from my new clothes. Then my blood went cold.

"Handsome boy like you, why not stay for a bit," he suggested and I watched his hand go down and rub his crotch.

I thought I was going to make it free. I kept backing away and he didn't follow. Then, when I had enough distance that I was sure I could run without him catching me, I turned. And when I did, I realized why he hadn't followed.

The boy I faced was about three or four years into manhood. His build was thick and strong. There was something about his face that was off, almost as if it were lopsided. It gave him a dull look. His mouth hung slack on one side and his lip and chin were chapped from a constant stream of drool. Already his manhood was rigid. The thick pole stood out from the bottom of his short tunic and he was stroking it slowly with one hand.

There was little room to maneuver, but still I tried. The boy caught me easily. He laughed as I fought to break free, holding me out from his body so that I could not strike him. His expression became lustful and sinister the longer and harder I fought.

I tugged and hit at him for some time, frustrated and angry that I could do nothing to break free. Then, as I began to tire, he pulled me close and began to tear at my tunic.

For some reason, that thought, the thought of my new clothes being ruined, frightened me more than the thought of what they wanted to do to me. I grabbed at his hands to stop him from tearing it.

"Please! Please stop! Let me take it off! I'll take it off. Don't ruin it, please!" I couldn't believe what I had just said, but I said it.

"Stop!" the big man said sternly, and the boy quit pulling at my clothes. I shrugged myself free of his grasp and stood between them, breathing heavily, my mind on fire with fear.

I stood there for several minutes; frozen, knowing it would be better if I cooperated, knowing that I couldn't fight but unable to make myself do it. Finally the man stepped forward.

"Come, come, tadpole. You know what's going to happen. Let's get it done." He touched my shoulder lightly.

I felt smaller than ever as I stood there naked before them. The air that washed over me felt cool despite the summer warmth. I stood for a moment with my new tunic in my hand. The man took it from me gently and carefully hung it next to the leather harnesses. Then, one hand still on my shoulder, he led me toward a dark corner, the boy following along behind. My cock and balls seemed to shrivel up into my body from fear and I felt a warm stream of piss run down my leg to mix with the urine of the horses in the straw on the floor.

I wasn't sure when I began the chant, but at some point, as we walked, I heard myself repeating softly, "No, no, no �" When we arrived at a small room where the two of them slept, it became louder. The room had no window and the gloom was chased away only by a single, small oil lamp. There, in the doorway, I could make my feet go no further and I began to sob aloud.

"No, no, please no!" I whined, my voice breathless. My feet were planted for only an instant when the man grabbed my hand and began to pull. At the same time, I felt the boy come up close behind me and push me across the threshold, his hard cock poking into my back.

I began to resist more vigorously but the big man was not fazed. My panic heightened as I saw the boy rip his own tunic over his head. His body was sweaty and dirty, the head of his cock glistened angrily.

My voice turned to a single syllable as the man gathered me tight against him and carried me to one of the pallets. Clearly this was the room where they slept. "Nnnnnnnnnn�." I cried.

"It's OK tadpole. It'll be over with quick, I promise." One hand had shifted down to my crotch and seemed to try to coax my balls to come back out from where they had hidden themselves.

"Please, please, please, please, please," came from me in a whisper as he laid me face down on one of the pallets. I felt his crushing weight follow me down.

In that moment I made a decision. I was finally able to break through the paralysis of my fear. Remembering the moment I saw the dark boy resign himself to what was happening those two years ago, I reached the same point.

"Please go easy?" I pleaded, and buried my face in the blanket.

"Of course tadpole. Be brave!" he whispered, the hair from his beard tickling my cheek.

I felt him lift up and heard the scrap of cloth against skin as he removed his own tunic. I could hear the boy's heavy breathing as he knelt close to watch and heard the rhythmic slap of his balls against his thighs as he stroked himself.

My ass cheeks were parted and I felt the man's slippery finger push gently, but insistently into me. He worked whatever grease he had around my hole and up inside. One finger didn't bother me. The other boys and I had often inserted our own small cocks into each other so I was used to having something that size in me. The second finger was a bit more difficult to take.

I kept my head buried in the blanket under me. Bundling up a bit of it, I shoved it into my mouth and bit down hard. His fingers left me and I concentrated on keeping my anus loose.

As brave as I tried to be, I couldn't help but crying out as he entered me. I started to kick my legs in protest before I caught myself and stilled them. I forced my cries into silent sobs as his body came down on mine once more. He huddled over me, his hairy chest on my back, and began to thrust himself into me, my body rocking back and forth on the blanket and the straw.

"Oh fuck, little tadpole. What a wonderful little ass you have," he said, his stale breath washing over my face. One of his hands went back and stroked my thigh and ass.

Some boys like things up inside. They're always willing, sometimes begging, for another boy to mount them. I was not one of them. Still, after some time, the pain left.

He was careful with me; I can tell that looking back. He never pushed in as far as he could go. His thrusts never got angry, they were just insistent. And, in a short time, they built in intensity. He came with a small sigh.

I wish I could say as much for the boy. Despite the commands of the man to go easy, the heat in his crotch made that impossible. The man's warmth had left me only an instant when the boy was on me. He jammed himself into me hard and the terrible burning returned despite the fact that I was slippery and stretched. His breath was winey and sour, and he kept trying to turn my head and stick his tongue in my mouth. His thrusts were so hard and mean that my hips chaffed against the blanket.

He was up on his hands, his back arched. It brought his hips close to my ass and pushed his angry pole in hard and deep. I clutched the sides of the pallet to stop the sliding back and forth. I buried my face in the rough blanket once more, but could not stop myself from crying. The burning became unbearable, but still it did not stop.

His breath came out in animal like bursts in time with his thrusting. He dropped down, his weight on me, which brought some relief to my ass. The small dark room echoed with sound of flesh slapping on flesh. Finally, when I thought I could take no more, when I thought my body would give up and I would die, it ended.

Or, at least I thought it ended. I glanced back and saw him squatting between my legs. The hunger had not left his eyes. His pole had not lost its rigidness. Again he was stroking it and it made a soft, squishy sound from the slime that coated it. My ass still burning, I crawled into the corner knowing I couldn't run. He followed me with his pole leading the way.

"Suck it," he said in a husky whisper, and he grabbed me by the hair and shoved it into my face.

Suddenly a loud slap resounded and he stumbled sideways. The big man stood looking at him angrily, my tunic in his hand.

"Enough!" he barked at the boy, then he turned to me.

"Here tadpole, let's get you on your way. You've done all we can ask of you."

With one hand under my arm, he helped me up from the pallet. He knelt in front of me, dropped my tunic over my head, then tied the cord around my waist. With one harsh look back at the boy, he led me back out of the barn and to the very door I had been trying to reach.

I remember little of what happened after that. I was terribly shaken. My body ached. My mind was numb. More than anything, I felt a terrible embarrassment. It felt as if all of Tivoli had seen what had happened, had stood there and watched me used. And, it felt as if they all laughed.

Learning only later that I had completed my errand and delivered my message, I found myself approaching our villa. The villicus stood by the front gate watching impatiently up the street for me. I trotted up, my head down. He started to step forward, his face stern, when he was stopped by a hail from inside the gate. A moment later, our master, Egnatius Drusus, Appius' father, appeared.

I stopped in front of them, waiting to deliver the return message to the villicus. My anus still felt loose and I shifted about on my feet, struggling to keep things inside. Suddenly I farted, and as I did, I felt a stream run down the inside of my thigh. I stood with my legs together to hide what shamed me. Then I looked up and saw both men staring at me.

Egnatius Drusus dropped to one knee and put his hands on my shoulders. He studied me, his face full of concern. I stayed silent, my eyes on my feet, but still my tears betrayed me. I felt his hands nudge my knees apart. I kept them together until I heard his soft voice urge me to trust him. He saw the viscous, milky stream and knew what it meant.

He called back over his shoulder to Appius, then just two or three years into manhood. He took him a few steps away and whispered to him. I saw Appius' jaw tighten as he looked over at me, then he came and took me by the shoulder. Still, before I allowed myself to be taken away, I stood proudly as I could, and delivered my message.

I finish with the red-haired boy on his stomach and me on top. My last pushes are strong, but I remember to take care with the boy, as he is not mine. He's up quickly and grabs his tunic before heading outside into the cool dawn. I like looking at his strong, smooth thighs and pert, round ass. He'll clean himself up and then return to feed the livestock and muck out the stalls. Later he will take the goats out to the pasture. I might wander out there later and take him again.

I rise and stretch, then reach for my own clothes. I hear the livestock stir as the boy returns to the barn and begins to throw hay. The smoke from the kitchen fire wafts through. It's just been rekindled from the ashes of last evening. The fire is still young and so it's smoky. I go to join the boy in the barn.

I still run errands to the vendor on the street across from the barn. Now I saunter through the barn unmolested. The big man is still there and he still, after all these years, calls me tadpole. Yet the years have made me bigger and him smaller. His eyes have grown milky, as well, so he no longer sees as well.

For many years after that fateful day, I would see him standing on the street outside the barn. At first I gave him a wide berth. Still, he never failed to offer a friendly greeting. And slowly, over time, I grew comfortable enough to return his greeting, and we began to talk. We talk still.

The boy never stirred from the barn, at least during the day. Sometimes when I would talk to the big man, I would see him lurking in the shadows of the barn. It was rumored that he only went out in the night. It was also rumored that he often slunk in the shadows of dark alleys and took his pleasure from the lonely and unsuspecting. Then, one morning, on the first anniversary of my separation day, almost a year to the date that he raped me, he was found dead on the street, his belly gutted, his genitals sliced from his body and stuffed in his mouth.

They've never found his killer.

I fondle my knife and smile.

The End