The yard was its usual self. Exertion, and sweat, mostly male. Powerful men, some mature, some in their teens, but mainly men who were gloriously aware that they were at their prime, manhood celebrated. As he entered he was aware of his singularity in this company. He had lived a long, very long, time, and desire, dirty, selfish lust had grown with every passing year. He felt really good. That is to say he felt really bad, fucking, nasty, vicious and voracious. He had no concern for anyone or anything except satiating his extraordinary capacity for sex. Of course there was one exception, and he casually glanced upwards to see if she was watching. This muse, this priestess, this human goddess, was so extraordinary he hardly dared to think rationally about her. His carefully disguised searching of the upper stories revealed nothing obvious. Perhaps she was already absent on business, or as equally likely she was enjoying the early morning thrusting of one of the favourite males. His very existence depended on her, and since coming into her service, half a life-time ago, self-preservation had taught him how to organise his thoughts and tastes to fit in with his brief. For example, his pride and his testosterone absorbed mind never consciously focused on her at all. She was just there, the reason for all this pushing and pulling of weights, the running, the lifting, the fighting, was this amazing and dominating female. He behaved and thought, regarding Milady more like a trained animal, reacting on instinct. He was a master of the double think, he could despise all women, and the same time fear and respect her, even appear to worship her. He would never admit or even register to himself a hint of his submission to a “fucking cunt”.

This latter understanding was deeply, deeply submerged. Had she known he harboured a sneering misogyny his life would have been a toy to her. Fortunately for him he managed a perfect front of respectful male subservience. Having neither friends or family unconnected with her establishment gossip or boasting never presented opportunity for speaking his mind. All his thought went into the joy he derived from hurting beautiful males. And believe it or not, so successful was he at arse-licking a powerful woman, she had put him in charge. He had to provide objects, male objects, a few isolated young big-titted slutty women, but mainly, former gladiators, boxers, fighters, etc. As Chief Handler in her household, he was required to present these, and anticipate what new muscular male would elicit a compliment such as... “this is delightful, Handler, you’ve surpassed yourself again.” The now elderly, homosexual dissipated, sadist as I said did not like being the servant of a woman, a wealthy, young sexual abuser of men, but needs must when the devil calls, and by the gods, the devil called loudly in this household. To say she was an “an abuser of men” is somewhat like saying an apple represents an orchard, she drove men to the limits of endurance and sanity. She whipped, she caned, she tortured them with a venom that had to be seen to be credited. Her assistants, seasoned in her service, had been known to faint (or vomit) while witnessing her at work. The Handler prepared them, and repaired them. He wouldn’t be able to afford a stable of staggeringly attractive young muscular studs of his own, his modest stipend prevented even a thought of independence. So, while he was branding a beautiful muscle slave, and relishing his screams of agony, he did it for himself, conveniently forgetting she might be observing from one of the many spy holes, or simply be waiting to use this specimen herself as soon as the Handler had done his job.

Today’s work was on a familiar, tough, huge-chested, big armed, fiercely handsome ex-gladiator. A marvellously masculine object. However this man mountain would keep challenging the Mistress. So far, and in the many months he had been captive, neither fear of any amount of pain, or degradation could subdue his spirit. It was as if he was a fiercely loyal agent of a foreign country determined never to betray fellow spies, he would go to the grave in screaming agony but never yield. Even more irritating was that this object’s defiance was not obvious, he didn’t waste his energy in verbal contempt of his torturer. He neither spat in the face of the guards or cursed under his breath. To an inexperienced Master or Mistress he might appear a compliant object, one who knelt without objection, who placed his magnificent arms and legs in position for the shackles, who extended his glorious backside conveniently for the marathon caning sessions, but this one never let go of his pride. While the Handler found this rather exciting, the Mistress found it boring. She was near to admitting defeat and getting rid of him, something rare in this establishment. The Handler and those in the know, which was all but the lowest in the place, all feared the consequences. It had never happened before. She needed a submissive, not the near laughter and “do your worst” attitude that came naturally with his phenomenal physical strength and alpha male personality. The Handler had thought long and hard about this uppity fucker and had a few ideas up his evil sleeve. Yes, boy, he was going to enjoy your body, your sexy, muscular, totally fucking dominant male body.

His first idea was to pit him in a wrestling match against another of the objects. He had selected a younger, slim but still muscular, reject from the gladiatorial school. This beautiful young Adonis was chucked out for no other reason than failing to recognise the principle arse he was intended to worship, literally. The gods had given him a heavenly mouth and tongue but he deliberately appeared to be unaware of whose cock he was supposed to suck, and for whom and when he was meant to bend over, his buttocks stretched obscenely apart by his own hands while looking backwards with a “please ram it up my boy-hole with all your strength for as long as you will” invitation in his youthful blue eyes. The man he had so offended was the guy in charge of his training. Some of these hot, fucking sexy young muscle boys really don’t have the sense they were born with. What is the point of their existence, if not to quench the lust they inspire. Common gossip held that Caligula, when bored, would order two of his favourites in the Pretorian guard to fuck each other in front of him, his purpose being that he could experience the exquisite thrill of jealousy. It is to be hoped that the two sexy guardsmen had the wit not to enjoy themselves too much. Serves the young fucker right, was the handlers attitude and privately hoped, in fact he certain, with a word or two here and there, that he was about to become the cumdump of the entire yard. What an amusing irony that this young fighter was pathologically anti same-gender fucking. So the Handler told them that the winner this morning would use the loser like a cunt, in front of the all the occupants of the yard. This totally confused the hot, younger guy. He didn’t want to be fucked like a cunt but neither did he want to fuck this mountain of muscle that he was pitted against. He decided that the lesser of the two horrors was to win, at all costs. He had no idea who he was up against. And the Handler encouraged his totally false sense of superiority...”He’s old enough to be your father, strong but slow, and he hasn’t realised that he is fucked up and fucked out, a loser, a has-been. Just keep on your toes, and you’ll have him pinned before he can fart or belch.” The Handler was an arch manipulator, and the sexy young fucker hadn’t a clue. “Do I really have to bugger him, sir?” “It’s the tradition here, you wouldn’t want to disappoint the guys? Anyway, it isn’t sex, think of it as humiliation, part of the wrestling itself.” Ye gods, the Handler was pleased with himself The bout was, as the Handler had said, quite short, brisk in fact, he hardly had time to get in a few encouraging and vicious whacks with his whip on the naked backs of the ill-assorted opponents before, to loud cheers and ungenerous jeering, the bout was decided. As he knew it would be, the outcome was the exact opposite of what he had, so kindly, predicted to the lithe, Adonis-like, young man. The older big guy could have broken his arm, leg or neck as easily as a twig. And now he was fucking him as if his cock were a weapon of death, hoping he could kill the arrogant young bastard with every thrust. The boy, to his shame, was screaming in pain and humiliation. But our big guy was giving him a lesson in respect. With a triumphant bellow and arching of his back he came up his arse. He threw the boy from him, as no more than a cum-rag. So far so good, thought the Handler, he will be feeling particularly chirpy when he visits me later.