Happy New Year!

Here's wishing you all a happy, healthy and prosperous New Year in 2020

Regards,

Chris 

Skank & Dreyfus

Purveyors of prime male slaves

Lot 18

Whatever your slave requirements, Skank & Dreyfus are guaranteed to have one to suit your every need.

Whether you are looking for a handsome, buffed, smooth-bodied pleasure-slave, a multifaceted domestic servant or a brawny, muscular, heavy-duty slave you are sure to find one to suit your requirements among our livestock.

Pictured is a prime specimen from our catalogue of industrial slaves best suited to hard labour on a farm, a construction site, in a factory, as a member of a draft haulage team or labouring in a quarry.

Slaves in this catagory are more muscular and rugged. They are  offered for sale "au naturel" in that they retain their body hair which many believe adds to the appearance of brute strength and lasting endurance. Certainly, lot 18 exudes those qualities and more.

Like all our industrial slaves, lot 18 has been "broken in" , trained to work hard and is most responsive to an overseer's whip.

And as is routine at the Skank& Dreyfus slave-dealership, he has been thoroughly checked by one of our inhouse vets and found free of any defects. The purchaser of this slave will be given a written guarantee attesting to his robust good health. 

Skank & Dreyfus Sales Catalogue

Lot 27

The firm of Skank and Dreyfus is recognised as the city's leading slave dealership and as purveyors of prime, male slaves to a discerning clientele. 

It is a reputation of which Messrs Skank and Dreyfus are justifiably proud and one which they defend most rigorously by ensuring their merchandise is of the highest quality.

No slave is just thrown onto the auction-block. All slaves must undergo a training course to prepare them for service to their new owners before they are offered for sale. This includes a rigorous exercise programme to improve their muscularity making them pleasing to the eye, slave etiquette, all aspects of domestic service and of course, they are trained to surrender their bodies to their masters for sexual pleasure.

Here is Lot 27 from our current sales catalogue and it doesn't require words on my part to describe the quality of the slave. The saying a picture is worth a thousand words could be applied here. 

One has only to look at Lot 27's smooth, hairless body and pumped up muscles  to see the preparation he underwent to prepare him for auction.

What owner wouldn't be proud to own such a magnificent slave? 

Gong man

(Rank Organisation)

Slightly off track. How many of you remember going to the cinema and seeing the gong man introduce a Rank Organisation movie 

Adopted by Rank as their trademark in 1932, the semi- naked gong man became the symbol for all of their movies. Actually, over the years, there were four different gong men all chosen for their brawn and these included fighters, wrestlers and athletes.

It wasn't until much later that I learnt the gong wasn't real; in fact it was made from papier marche and care had to be taken not to actually hit the fragile gong. The deep resonating boom of the gong - which always gave me goose bumps - was made by a musician striking a small Chinese gong called a tam-tam.

As a very naïve and impressionable young teenager, I really loved watching the gong man introduce the movie and even though it only lasted a few seconds, it was the highlight of the movie for me. Originally, the  gong man "struck" the gong three times but this was later reduced to one.

Even as a boy, I was fascinated by the naked, male body and without realising, it was a pointer to my own predilection. To this day, I am held spellbound by the naked male.

Therefore, seeing the Rank gong man with his gleaming, oil coated, naked torso and flexing muscles always stirred me. 

In  my imagination, the gong man was a white slave sounding the gong to announce the arrival of his exotic Arab master and this was a fantasy role I longed for.

Why am I writing this? Over the holiday, I watched an old Rank movie from the "Carry on" series and I was re-introduced to the gong man and through him to one of my earliest erotic fantasies. 

Erotic fantasies never fade away!

   

A Merry Christmas to all of us - both Masters and slaves!

Oh deer! Oh deer! Such a horny lot!

In my part of the world, it is Christmas Eve already and we are getting ready to relax and celebrate. 

It won't be long now before Santa and his team of reindeer appear in the skies above..

Yusef, the Warrior

Tales from the Crusades 
The Warrior

Part Four

Written by Jean-Christophe

Yüsef had fought valiantly - but vainly - against overwhelming odds. In truth, the outcome of the unexpected skirmish was a foregone conclusion and defeat was inevitable. Outnumbered, Yüsef and his Saracen comrades had been no match for the Crusaders lead by Raynald de Châtillon, Lord of Oultrejourdain.

Despite his belief in the rightness of his own cause, Yüsef was overwhelmed by the absolute fanaticism of the Franj. Surely, these Unbelievers aren’t merely men; they must be evil djinns, the spawn of Shaytan. 

Yüsef and his small band of holy warriors had been caught unawares by a numerically stronger troop of Crusaders. The ensuing battle had been brief but merciless. Yüsef and his comrades had stood back to back and valiantly fought the Franj inflicting death and injury upon them with their flashing, bloody scimitars. And yet, as they fought, they knew their situation was hopeless. Worn down by successive waves of Franj warriors, they were finally overcome and in those final, few moments, Yüsef prepared for death. But an honorable death was denied him that day; Raynald de Châtillon had other plans for his captives and their lives were spared. Stripped of their weapons and roped together, Yüsef and the other survivors – they totalled seventeen – were marched into captivity at his fortress of Al-Karak. 

Raynald, a man of overweening pride, ambition and greed, saw himself as a petty king answerable to no man whether it be the Christian king, Baldwin of the Latin kingdom of Jerusalem or Saladin, leader of the Saracens. He was an implacable foe of all infidels in general and of Saladin in particular and he’d once belligerently proclaimed, “What is the value of an oath sworn to infidels?” 

He’d recently broken the truce between King Baldwin and Saladin by attaching Moslem merchants and pilgrims from the safety of his stronghold at Al-Karak and he’d recklessly decided on a bold course of action that would ultimately lead to his own undoing and death at the hands of his arch-enemy, Saladin. 

Boldly and perhaps unwisely, Raynald decided to take the war to the Saracens on their own ground and even to the gates of Mecca itself. He planned to launch five galleys on the Red Sea to harass Arab merchant shipping and to attack Arab ports on both the Egyptian and Arabian shores. 

The logistics of such a plan would have proved daunting to a lesser man other than Raynald. But his intense hatred of the infidels and the burning need to take the “battle to the enemy” consumed him with such passion that he never considered the task as impossible.

The Red Sea lay surrounded by Arab lands - indeed many people in those remote regions had never seen a Franj - and the purchase of five galleys posed a problem. Even there, the reputation of the hated Crusaders was well known and it would prevent a true believer from ever trading with a despised Franj. 

Undaunted by this, Raynald de Châtillon devised the ingenious plan of having his artisans at Al-Karak prefabricate the galleys and then to transport the components and oar-slaves over the desert to the Gulf of Aqaba at the southern end of Oultrejourdain. Here his artisans would assemble the galleys before launching them into the Red Sea and chaining his oar-slaves to the rowing-benches. 

Even some of Raynald’s strongest critics among the knights and nobles of Outremer were impressed with the audaciousness of his plan. And while some among the Crusader barons and nobles had serious misgivings about openly provoking the Arabs, others praised him for his boldness and courage. On the other hand, the Arabs, alarmed that he was venturing into their territory, saw him as a common pirate. 

On their arrival at Al-Karak, Yüsef and his fellow captives were stripped naked, branded, collared and made ready for their new roles as Raynald’s galley slaves. The noisome dungeons of Al-Karak were overflowing with captives taken by Raynald during his raids on caravans of merchants and pilgrims travelling through the Syrian Desert. All were to see service as Raynald de Châtillon’s galley slaves and Yüsef joined their unhappy number. 

The days following his branding were spent locked in an overcrowded, unsanitary cell with other prisoners. Yüsef spent most of that time drifting in and out of a fitful, feverish sleep. Each time he awoke, the pain of his brand reminded him of where he was and he cursed that fact that he’d been denied a warrior’s noble death on the battlefield and made to suffer the ignominy of being the slave of “Brin Arnet” the name by which Arabs called their arch-enemy, the most detested of all the Franj, Raynald de Châtillon.

Yüsef understood that he’d enslaved and he could only speculate about the fate that awaited him. Would he be taken to a slave-market and sold? Or would Arnet use him in some other capacity? Perhaps his fate would be to labor on the fortifications of Al-Karak. On his arrival, he’d seen gangs of near naked slaves toiling under the Christians’ whips as they added to and strengthened the fortress’s impregnable walls. 

But even in his wildest imaginings, Yüsef had no inkling of the fate that awaited him. 

They came for Yüsef and his cellmates in the predawn gloom and marched them out of Al-Karak into an open area just beyond the main gates. Yüsef was reminded of a caravanserai where travelling merchants stayed overnight with their goods and camels. In fact, Yüsef saw gangs of slaves busily loading the backs of loudly protesting camels with provisions for a long journey. The sun was barely above the eastern horizon and already many of the heavily laden ships of the desert were being goaded to their feet preparatory to beginning a journey to some as yet unknown destination. Yüsef was amazed at the feverish activity taking place at such an early hour and instinctively, he knew this activity didn’t bode well for him. 

As Yüsef shivered, he wondered if it was from the early morning chill - which always precedes the fierce, desert heat of the day - or fear of the unknown. More likely it was because of the ominous cracking of the overseers’ whips as they lashed the hapless slaves into a single line ready for shackling.

Yüsef and his companions were given into the custody of a brutal overseer who wasted no time in chaining them into the coffle ready for their long, desert trek to the coast. 

The march proved arduous and Yüsef suffered much under the relentless whips of his infidel masters. He’d barely taken his first, awkward steps before an inpatient overseer’s whip snaked out and wrapped itself around his naked torso. The angry red stripe left by the whip was only the first of many that Yüsef would feel before journey’s end.



                                                                    >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

 BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! 

The loud sound of the tambour overrides the creaking of the oars while the rattling of his chains drowns out Yüsef’s labored breathing.  Above him, from the central walkway, the whip-masters drive the galley-slaves to back-breaking effort and the air whines with the sinister hiss and crack of whips scourging their sweating, naked bodies. And, of course, these exhortations are answered by the agonized cries of the chained and helpless victims. 

The sun hangs like a molten ball of hot metal in a cloudless, blue sky as the galley slices its way through the still, mirror-like surface of the Red Sea. The sun broils Yüsef’s naked, whip-shredded body, his throat is parched and his tongue clings to the dry roof of his mouth. Yüsef wonders how many hours have passed since he was last given water to drink. He doesn’t know precisely as time means nothing to him; a galley-slave’s time is measured by the beat of the drum and the number of oar strokes he is forced to row each minute. But he remembers his last drink was given to him in the predawn semi-darkness prior to beginning this day’s torments. 

Yüsef’s placement at the oar is one of the least desirable ones. Positioned next to the walkway, he is an easy target for the impatient whip-masters and several times this morning he has felt the fiery sting of the lash on his back. 

As he strains at his oar, Yüsef is confronted by the ranks of sweat-sodden slaves in front of him. He sees their long, matted hair and beards and the filth of their unwashed, sun-blackened bodies. Each back is a crisscrossed patchwork of stripes; some are old and scabby while others are more recent and still oozing blood.

The forward and backward motion of his oar places an intolerable strain on Yüsef and opens up the whip cuts on his back causing him to audibly wince in pain. And yet, he rows with all the strength he can muster in the vain hope of avoiding an over-zealous overseer’s whip. 

Today, as he rows, Yüsef’s naked body is racked with pain. Rowing places enormous stress on every muscle in his body and they scream out for relief. However, they’ll be no relief until day’s end when the galley seeks refuge from the open sea and anchors overnight in some secluded cove or inlet.

His body tells him it has reached the limits of its endurance and his mind screams – ENOUGH! 

But his fear of the whip keeps him toiling at his oar. His sweat trickles down over his naked torso; its saltiness irritates the lash marks on his back, it stings his eyes and enters his mouth adding to his thirst. His muscles flex and strain under the unrealistic demands made of them and his tortured lungs gulp in the hot desert air drifting out over the sea from the nearby land. 

Yüsef’s head is a void; empty of all thoughts and impervious to all but the mind-numbing and repetitious beating of the drum, the monotonous to and fro motion of the oar and the awful pain he feels. His body no longer belongs to him and it ceases to function as a separate entity; he is but one cog among many in the vast engine of chained muscle that powers the galley.

And in the loneliness of the night, slumped over his oar, Yüsef thinks about his loss of freedom and he curses the cruel fate that denied him a warrior’s glorious death on the battlefield. Bitterly, he thinks about the Franj who have condemned him to everlasting slavery and of his agony at the oar. Vehemently, he damns their unbelieving souls to the everlasting torments of Jahannam.

And as 23 year old Yüsef considers the bleakness of his existence, he realizes that he already suffers the torments of hell on earth; the living hell of the galley-slave. 

Despairingly, Yüsef loses all hope!  

This was a post to another group some years ago. Amalaric did the artwork, i provided the words.

Failure to please!

The obligations for a slave to his master are very simple. Among these, he must be totally submissive, unswervingly loyal, obey all commands given to him immediately and without question and devote his life to serving his master and giving him the pleasure that is his due.

The owner of this young pleasure-slave is justifiably angry. Whilst being used sexually, the slave seemed distracted to the point of indifference and failed to please his master. His responses to his master's energetic fucking were lacklustre and unresponsive.

Therefore, it is entirely appropriate for the master to cane the slave for his "failure to please" and to concentrate the pain on his offending ass. 

Once he has finished caning the slave, the master will try again and no doubt, that reddened ass will be more "open" to the master's advances.

Source of video unknown: text is mine.

Nova Baiae

If you are planning a vacation on Nova Baiae then you really should include a day's sightseeing on one of our tourist galleys.

Nova Baiae is like a precious emerald set in a sparkling aquamarine and turquoise sea. Although small, it is a place of great contrasts consisting of white, sandy beaches, high, rugged cliffs, rich, fertile farmlands, and high, mist-shrouded mountains covered in heavy rainforests. And its true beauty is best observed offshore.

For that reason, it is highly recommended that you take a day trip aboard one of our slave powered galleys which circumnavigate the island in eight to nine hours.

While on board your every need is catered for. Throughout the trip, you will be served refreshments and a gourmet luncheon by own onboard slaves while you sit back, relax and take in the natural beauty of Nova Baiae as your senses are lulled by the creaking and swishing of the oars. 

Below deck, the galley is powered by muscular, naked slaves and you are free to watch as they provide the motive power for your trip. You can witness the sweating, grunting slaves as they bend and stretch to the oar keeping time with the beat of the hortator's drum. You'll hear the cracking and swishing of the slave-drivers' whips and the loud thwack as cruel leather bites into naked flesh followed by the slaves' cries of pain.

All this is authentic and designed to give you, the tourist, an insight to life aboard a Roman galley.

And for an additional, small fee, you can even experience being an overseer. You'll be given a whip and shown how to effectively use it and then be free to encourage the oar-slaves to greater effort.

For the tourist, it a trip not to be missed and it should be high on your list of things to do

Artwork by Wrock: the text is mine 

Thank you!

According to the blog's statistics, as of today, there have been over 15,000 page views recorded since I made the first post on 30 April. 

And those visiting the blog are from many countries including the US, Australia, the UK, Ireland, France, Italy, Spain, Germany, the Ukraine, the Czech Republic and several Asian countries..

Thank you to those who have visited "Slaves through the Ages". You have made my efforts all worthwhile.

The reality is that I do enjoy making up my posts. As I have said before, i do so to fulfil my own erotic fantasies and I love the idea that other like minds might find interest in them too.

Once again, thank you for your interest and support. 

Regards,
Chris

Got'cha!

A scene from Nova Baiae ref: Chapter 10

The moment when the unsuspecting eighteen-year-old Jake Williams was lifted from a deserted street by illicit slavers and made to disappear. 

Hustled into the back of a van, he was quickly stripped naked, hogtied and gagged before being rendered unconscious. 

When he awoke, he found himself in a coffle of other naked, young men who were loaded onto a vessel en route to the private and mysterious island of Nova Baiae where he was given his new slave name of Telemachus.

Picture sourced from the internet and its origin is unknown.

Io Saturnalia!

As we approach the Christmas celebrations, it's interesting to recall the ancient Roman tradition of Saturnalia held to honour  the god, Saturn and to mark the winter solstice.This was a period that began on 17 December and ended on either 23/ 24 December of the Julian calendar.

It began with a sacrifice to the god, Saturn at his temple in the Forum and was followed by a public feast. It was a time when the normally formal Romans relaxed and indulged in a week of fun. 

The Roman poet, Catullus called it "the best of days".

In observing Saturnalia, people decorated tree and greeted one another with "Io Saturnalia" (pronounced "yo Saturnalia") and exchanged fun gifts and small figurines made of wax or pottery known as sigallaria. 

No doubt, it was a time of feasting, gluttony and drunkenness - not unlike our own festive celebrations. During Saturnalia, it was common for the Romans to wear fancy dress and masks. Some historians relate this to our own observation of Hallowe'en. 

For me, the most interesting thing about the festival, was the treatment of Rome's slaves. During Saturnalia, masters often cooked meals and served their slaves as equals. Of course, they weren't equal and after 23/24 December, all pretence was dropped and the slaves resumed their wretched roles in Roman society.

"Io Saturnalia!"

. 

You're next!

Securely locked in the holding-pen immediately below the selling platform and auction-block, this new slave listens apprehensively as another wretched slave is sold. He hears the frenzied shouting of the buyers as they outbid one another and the realisation that he is soon to take his place on the auction-block causes him to tremble.

The auctioneer's helpers have prepared him by coating his impressive body with a high-sheen slave oil. This is done so that his physique is better displayed as he flexes and poses on the auction-block for the buyers' visual appraisal.

Soon the overseers will return and fit chains to his ankles an wrists and fasten a collar and leash around his neck. Then, he will be led up the steps to the platform and made to stand on the block.

The slave's natural instinct will be to baulk as he is led up the stairs. He will pull back on his leash in a futile attempt to delay the inevitable. However, a few cuts of the overseer's quirt will convince him to co-operate.

Once on the auction-block, he will be ordered to primp and preen to better display his naked body. As he does so, the bright sunlight will be reflected in the oil coating his body thus highlighting the workings of his muscles.

The purists among the buyers will disapprove of the stark whiteness of his buttocks. They will frown at the midriff break between the tan of the slave's upper body and his legs. However, they will allow for the fact that until a few days ago, the slave was a free man and he would never have walked around buck-assed naked. No free man does!

Anyway, after a few weeks working completely naked in the open, the colour of his ass will match the rest of the slave's hide.

And there could be an "upside" to this. Without realising it, the buyers' eyes will be drawn to the porcelain whiteness of the slave's ass and their focus will be centred on the pertness of his ass-cheeks and the cleft that divides them. The buyers' lustful imaginations will go into overdrive as they gaze upon the ass-crack and wonder about the erotic pleasures hidden within its depth.

This slave should sell well!

Picture sourced from the internet: the text is mine.

Re: Nova Baiae

I have submitted Chapter 10 of this story to nifty.org. 

Once it is approved by the group's administrators, - hopefully in the next day or so - it will be found under Gay male/Historical. 

Regards, 
Chris

The Slave-pens of Volpiscus

(Reference Nova Baiae)

The story I am currently working on is "Nova Baiae" which I know some of you are following at nifty.org. 

Writing this story is very enjoyable as it feeds both my own erotic fantasies and my love of ancient history.

I came across this picture - source unknown - and it reminded me of a thread I recently wrote into the story. This dealt with the sale  of a newly enslaved eighteen-year-old who was renamed Telemachus by the slave-trader, Volpiscus and then sold to the inn-keeper, Soterus.

In the picture, Telemachus is chained up ready for inspection by Soterus while under the watchful eyes of Volpiscus armed with his cruel whip.

Source of artwork unknown; the text is mine.

It pays to display

The owner of this male brothel likes to display his "goods for hire" by having them stand in a window fronting on to the street where  passers-by and potential customers can view them. 

The window casement is small and narrow enough to obscure most of the whore-slave's body from view but large enough to erotically centre attention on the slave's muscular torso. Who wouldn't stop to admire the whore-slave's powerful chest and biceps, the large nipples just crying out for attention and its hard ridged belly muscles and erect cock. 

As an added bonus, the potential client can reach through the open window and touch the slave's cock and balls before ordering it to turn and display its ass for his assessment.

If the client likes what he sees - and feels - then, inevitably, he enters the brothel and fucks the slave - for a fee.

The slave on display is obviously new to whoredom as evidenced by its white midriff. Until two days ago, it was a free man who was enslaved for non-payment of government taxes. His sale was a "win-win" situation in that the proceeds of his sale recouped those taxes and the brothel owner added fresh slave-meat to his stable of desirable whores.

This is the slave's first time in the window and it is still a virgin. 

It could be the slave is in for a "rough first ride"! 

Picture found on the internet and source unknown; the text is mine.

The Branding Table 

The wise owner ensures all his livestock is branded whether it has four legs or two.

Branding an animal or a slave is important for two reasons. Firstly, it states publicly that the animal or slave is your property and that you are its legal owner - most important if the animal or slave ever strays.

Secondly, for a slave, the brand has a phycological effect in that the slave now knows its true status is that of an owned object. 

In the case of the slave, branding should be carried out with great care otherwise a poorly applied brand can spoil its appearance and lessen its value on the auction-block. Most slave-owners take pride in seeing their mark of ownership cleanly outlined on the slave's body.

Therefore, it is wise to employ a professional brander to mark your slaves. Branding with a hot iron is a precision skill and only comes after much practice. The brander must know precisely how hot to heat the iron and for how long to apply it to the slave's flesh to achieve a desirable, crisp outline. 

For that to happen, a branding table is essential. As can be seen from the attached photo, the slave to be branded must be stretched taut and completely immobilised so that it doesn't move as the brand sears itself into its hide. Any movement, no matter how slight, has the potential to blur the brand. 

Two final comments: The site for the brand must be carefully chosen. Ideally, the brand should be applied to the fleshy parts of a slave's body i.e. its ass, pectorals, biceps and similar locations. It's best not to apply it to the less fleshy areas of its belly or groin where the abdominal walls are thin as there is a risk of causing internal damage.

And secondly, you have to detach yourself from the slave's suffering.You need to steel yourself against its pleas to be spared and its screams as the branding-iron is applied. You need to trust the brander; after all, he knows what he is doing and slaves rarely die on the branding table 

Most certainly, the slave will feel pain and discomfort as the new  brand heals itself. Although, the pain will cease eventually, the slave will always remember the agony of the branding-iron and never forget that is now just property and a "marked object".

Picture sourced from the internet: the text is mine.

A victim of the black-market slave trade.

This is Yuri, who until recently was a sailor at the Russian naval base at Sevastopol on the Black Sea. 

Unfortunately for Yuri, he attracted the attention of the illicit slave-traders who saw his potential as a slave. Stealthily, they stalked Yuri biding their time until they could make him disappear and when the opportunity presented itself, he was "lifted" and spirited away to Istanbul in Turkey. 

After being trained in his future role as a pleasure slave, he was sold at a secret slave auction that caters for a very rich and exclusive clientele of wealthy businessmen who are connoisseurs of prime, young, male slave flesh. 

Naturally, with his good looks, magnificent physique and impressive cock and balls, he attracted much attention. The bidding for him was very competitive and  he was sold for a very high price to a Middle-Eastern oil oligarch. 

Yuri now serves his new owner in several roles. He is his Master's personal body slave, bath attendant and bed-buck. And as a courtesy, Yuri  is also loaned by his wily master to other business men  as a "deal sweetener" and "used" to broker new contracts.

Meanwhile, the Russian navy listed Yuri as being AWOL and after a fruitless search he is now officially declared a deserter.

I found this picture on the internet some years ago and used it at my former tumblr blog before it was deleted. I don't know its origins and the text is mine.

  

All alone!

Soon, this new slave will find himself in the loneliest place in the world; standing naked and shackled on the auction-block as he is made to obscenely pose his body and display his magnificent physique for the buyers' lascivious edification. 

Their crude comments will accompany their demands for the slave to "flex" and "bend and spread". Their lewd laughter and coarse jokes will ring throughout the auction-room as the slave's body is suffused crimson from shame and humiliation as he bends at the waist and parts his ass-cheeks and strokes his cock to a rampant erection.

As the bids for the right to own him are shouted out, he will watch desperately to see who buys him.

He sincerely hopes - and prays - that it won't be the grotesquely overweight buyer sitting in the front row. 

Artwork by Bazz, another of my favourite artists. The text is mine.

Note: Looking at this erotic picture reminds me of why I unashamedly love the male physique. The slave portrayed  is truly a thing of beauty and it is why I consider the human male to be the peak of creation, evolution or whatever power you believe in.
Chris

The Novice

Holy Island, Northumbria, 793 A.D.

The monks of Lindisfarne Monastery on Holy Island were taken  by surprise. 

A fleet of pagan Northmen made an early morning raid on their monastery indiscriminately killing and looting. Holy relics were desecrated and trampled underfoot and the priceless treasures of England's centre of early Christianity were loaded aboard the boats ready to taken back to Scandinavia. 

The older monks were mercilessly slaughtered and it was said the head of the community suffered the slow and agonising death of the "blood angel". 

However, the younger monks and novices were spared. Like the looted treasures, they were valuable commodities as slaves.

They too would be loaded aboard the longships and taken to a Viking stronghold in Sweden from where they would be transported down through Rus, along the river Dnieper to the Black Sea, to the slave markets of Constantinople and Baghdad where young, Christian, male slaves were in constant demand.

However, as we can see from the picture of the young novice, who had committed his life in service to his God, his body was also desecrated. He lost count of the number of times he was brutally raped by his captors after his capture at Lindisfarne until his arrival in Constantinople.

Still, by the time he stood naked and in chains on the auction-block, he would be well skilled in his new duties as a slave.

Pictures sourced from the internet some years ago. The text is mine. 

Thank you!

Thanks to all those who support this blog by visiting it, viewing the posts and taking time to make comments. 

From my perspective, your contribution is what makes the blog work. Without your participation it wouldn't exist.

Chris 

Oh c'mon! Cut the crap. this isn't a real slave auction. It's just a party game, isn't it?

What do you mean by 'shuck down and lose the jeans we want to see you buck-assed naked'.

We all know real slavery doesn't exist, don't we?

So why are you acting as though it does?

I'm not really a slave, am I?

This artwork is a very recent one by Amalaric as it appears on another site. The text is mine.

Behind the scenes at a slave auction

When a buyer attends a slave auction, he only sees the end product as it stands on the auction-block as the auctioneer extolls its virtues and calls for - 

"Your bids on this prime piece of slave-flesh, gentlemen".

The buyer is unaware of what is happening behind the scenes; of the sheer misery and the stark terror of the slaves as they await their turn to be sold and their reluctance to co-operate with the auctioneer's assistants.

This new slave, his muscular naked body oiled to perfection to better display its impressive physique, had listened as other slaves before him had been driven up onto the selling platform. He listened in mounting horror as the auctineer had ordered the wretched slaves to povocatively pose their bodies and to "bend and spread" their ass-cheeks. He listened to the crude, ribald comments and laughter of the buyers and he knew that soon he would be the subject of their lewd remarks.

Now, it his turn to climb the stairs to the waiting auction-block and overcome with fright, his legs fail him and he falls onto his hands and knees. No amount of abuse or cajolling from the overseers will get him to his feet.

The overseers are reluctant to use their whips or straps on the slave - afterall, they don't want to mar his appearance as the auctioneer displays him to the buyers - and the decision is made to allow the slave to crawl up the steps on all fours. Even then, it is hesitant and so an overseer resorts to hard ass slapping to motivate it. 

Eventually, the slave realises it has no other alternative than to co-operate and it begins the climb upwards to the auction-block and its assignation with the waiting buyers.

Video sourced from the internet; the text is mine.   

Nova Baiae

For the information those who are following this story, I have just posted the latest chapter to nifty.org

It should appear at nifty.org under Gay male/Hisorical within  the next day or so.

Regards,
Chris 

Victims of the Spanish Inquisition

Cadiz, Spain, 16th century

These three young English sailors were part of a crew of an English privateer captured in an unsuccessful raid against a Spanish treasure ship returning to Spain from Mexico with a cargo of looted gold and silver.

English privateers were a constant thorn in the side of the Spanish who complained bitterly to Elizabeth1 about their predatory raids against Spanish shipping and the stealing of their treasures.

From expediency, the wily Elizabeth publicly condemned the privateers but, at the same time, she gave her tacit approval for their activities as long as she received her share of the looted Spanish treasure. 

Sadly, for these young men - survivors of an unsuccessful attack on a Spanish treasure ship - they were taken to Cadiz and judged by the infamous Inquisition. Their offence - seen as an attack on the Spanish Crown - was regarded as a capital offence which  carried the death penalty; usually burning at the stake.

However, during the interrogation of the three, the inquisitors noted their outstanding physiques and muscular bodies. In reaching a guilty verdict, they decided it would be "wasteful" to reduce such brute strength to ashes when it could be put to better use. 

Accordingly, the three sailors were spared the death penalty. Instead, they were sentenced to the royal galleys for the term of their natural lives. 

Here, we see them being taken from the Inquisition chamber to the galley harbour where they will be stripped naked, branded with the Spanish king's royal seal and then chained to an oar of one of his Most Catholic Majesty's royal galleys.

Within days, they will sweating and straining at the oars keeping  time with the insistent beating of the drum as they are continually lashed by the cruel whips of their Spanish slave-drivers.

Artwork is one of Amalaric's earlier works which i have always admired. The text is mine.

The Branding Iron

A glowing, red-hot branding iron is the one thing all slaves fear the most; even more than the hippopotamus or rhinoceros bullwhip.

However, it is a fate they can't escape. Like all domesticated farm animals, they must wear their owner's mark on their naked hides to identify them as "property".

Artwork by Amalaric; the text is mine.

Glaucus is led away into slavery

Glaucus of Korinthos

or

The Spoils of War

Part 2: “Face to Face with the Romans”

This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of eighteen years.

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris) May 2011

Chapter 2: “Face to face with the Romans”

                                          “There’s not a ruin left to tell

           Where Corinth stood, how Corinth fell

The Nereids of thy double sea

  Alone remain to wail for thee”

                                                                     - Antipater of Sidon (2^ndCenturyBC)

We have been stopped in our tracks. I watch as the Roman decurion and his two companions advance toward us. Using their unsheathed swords, they gesture for us to stop.

Desperately, I look around for a means of escape. But there isn’t any. They stand before us halting further flight while behind us a Roman patrol has set up a blockade preventing anyone from escaping the clutches of the marauding bands of soldiers.

All around me are the terrible sounds of pillage and rape; the sorrowful cries of a city in its death throes. I hear the terrified, panic-stricken citizenry confronted by a triumphant, merciless enemy. I listen to the pain filled screams of people being put to the sword, the vain begging to be spared, the pitiful pleading of our virtuous matrons and maidens to the gods to spare them the shame and horror of being raped. I hear the sounds of smashing from within the houses as they are looted for valuables. I hear the angry shouts of the marauding soldiers as they seek out the bolt-holes of men, women and children trying to hide themselves from a wrathful enemy.  And I watch in horror as all the comely, young men, women and children are dragged away to slavery and uncertain futures.

I am filled with panic and dread; I don’t know what to do. I look to Perimedes and Diagoras for support and instead I see their ashen faces and fear filled eyes.  Already, once before, they have lived through these terrible events when their home had been destroyed and they’d been hauled away into slavery. For the two brothers there is a sense of deja-vu and of history repeating itself. 

Over the years, I learned something of their background. And Father had been mistaken in thinking they’d come from some mysterious land to the North. They belonged to a mysterious people called the Keltoi who dwelt in a fertile, green land beyond the river well known to us as the Rhodanos. I know of this area and its history through the scholarship of my tutors. They’d told me that Hellenes from Phocaea had journeyed there some four or five centuries ago and established a trading colony on the coast at a place now called Massalia which is famous for two exports; its excellent wines and prime slaves to meet the insatiable demands of its Roman allies.

Massalia’s existence had long been threatened by the Carthaginians, the Etruscans and the Keltoi. In order to survive, Massalia had entered into an alliance with the Roman Senate and people and enjoyed the protection of the Roman army.

I know that Rome had been locked in a bitter war with the Carthaginians for political and economic control of the Middle Sea and that a fierce war of attrition had been waged by Scipio Africanus at the very gates of Carthage itself. And like Korinthos, it too fell to the might of the Roman war machine; her buildings and temples were levelled, her culture trampled underfoot, her treasures and wealth carried off to Rome, her people put to the sword or enslaved and the very earth on which she once stood was salted.

Once Perimedes had tearfully told me of his family who lived in a Keltoi settlement which had been overrun by the Romans and their allies from Massalia. The attack on their settlement was unexpected and undertaken as an offensive action by the Romans who’d quickly triumphed over the numerically weaker Keltoi.

Roman justice is swift and without mercy and what followed is now being repeated all around me in Korinthos.

And as always, following closely on the heels of the Roman army were the vile jackals who feast on human misery – the slave-traders. These pariahs have a nose for a bargain and with fat purses attached to their belts; they soon had their slave coffles full for the return journey to Massalia.

Perimedes was distressed as he told me these things and not wishing to add to that distress, I’d not pushed him for more details.

However, I did hear that the family had been sold in the slave market at Massalia. His mother and two sisters had been separated and sold to different owners and his father and older, warrior brother had been bought by a low grade lanista from Nimes to train and fight as gladiators in the provincial arenas of Gaul. Despite their adversities, the gods of fortune smiled on Perimedes and Diagoras allowing them to stay together. Bought by a travelling slave-trader, they’d found their way to the slave-market at Korinthos and into my father’s household.

Despite my panic, I try to stay outwardly calm. I am after all the master - albeit a very young one – and I must assume responsibility for my slaves, Perimedes and Diagoras. I am fortunate that I speak fluently in Latin, a vulgar language that I truly despise. It had been a constant source of friction between my Latin tutor and me; I’d not always applied myself diligently to my Latin studies but he’d persevered and I did eventually learn to speak it flawlessly.

I regard Latin as a barbaric tongue spoken by a coarse, common people whose aristocratic elite have discarded in in favour of my own beloved Greek; the language that lends itself to logical thinking. Can the Roman tongue express itself as eloquently as Greek in the fields of the sciences, the arts, poetry, theatre and rational debate?  Of course, it can’t!  

But now I am glad that I speak Latin. I can at least converse with these three Roman soldiers who now confront us with their swords pressed against our bellies. But suddenly, my courage deserts me and I am lost for words. Like Perimedes and Diagoras, I quake from sheer terror. Will the Romans slaughter us and take our valuables as booty of war.

I listen as the Romans discuss us not knowing that I can understand their every word. I struggle inwardly to speak and to reason with them but something about their demeanours cautions me to keep a still tongue in my head. I decide this is a time when discretion is indeed the better part of valour.

The Romans are delighted with their catch and I hear myself described as a ‘snotty-nosed, Greek brat just ripe for fucking’ as they begin to rough-handle all three of us up. Their venom is directed at me more so than at Perimedes or Diagoras. Quite obviously, the Romans recognise them as slaves and I as their master. Certainly, I take the brunt of their abuse. I’m roughly manhandled one to the other and my head is viciously cuffed by all three. They are joined by their companions still struggling under the heavy loads of their loot; quickly they encircle us like ravenous wolves ready to pounce on their helpless prey.

The decurion speaks to his men and they seize the valuables that we are carrying. It is useless to protest and anyway my fear prevents me from doing so. The soldiers are unaware that I speak Latin but I have to confess I am having difficulty in understanding them. These are rough soldiers, recruited from the dregs of Roman society and they converse in Vulgar Latin which is so different to the language that I’d learned from my refined, Latin tutor.

However, I understand enough of their obscenities to know they don’t bode us well. I listen in horror as they describe Perimedes, Diagoras and me as ‘three young arse-holes’ begging for an injection of a good, Roman cock. They leave no doubt in my mind that the three of us are to be raped.  Quickly they strip us of our clothes and naked, we are forced to our knees. Futilely, all three of us struggle, but we are no match for the burly Romans. I forget about Perimedes and Diagoras; they can fight their own battles. My only thought is for my self- preservation.

My shoulders are seized and my head is roughly forced to the cobblestones so that my arse is elevated. I continue to struggle uselessly but I am no match for the combined strength of my captors. My legs are kicked apart and self-consciously, I’m aware of a new sense freedom as my balls hang low and my sphincter is stretched open. From the corners of my eyes, I see that Perimedes and Diagoras struggle as vainly as I do. The thought races through my mind. Did they endure this same treatment at the hands of their Roman conquerors eight years ago? They have never spoken of it, but then would they. Who could blame them for keeping their disgrace and shame from my father and me?

My mind is a blur; it is a fog of confusion and humiliation. Questions tumble through my fevered brain. How many soldiers will rape me and what will become of the three of us when the Romans have had their way with us? Will they put us to the sword? One part of me sees that as preferable to living with the shame of having being used by these Romans as a male whore. Yet another part of me doesn’t want to die. But if I survive, what will my life be?  However, I already know the answer to that question. I know it will be as a slave to the Romans. This prospect fills me with dread yet I want to live.

Slavery is preferable to death!

Behind me I hear the fumbling of our abusers as they prepare to rape us. Looking back between my legs I see the lower body of a soldier but I’m not able to see him as he unties the knots of his linen subligaculum allowing his rampant cock to spring free. I listen to the ribald comments of his comrades as they urge him on - no doubt impatient for their turn to use me.

Then, as I brace myself for the worst – salvation! A voice, heavy with authority, calls the soldiers to order. I hear the clatter of their armour and weapons as they snap to attention and in unison; they shout their salute to a superior officer.

“Hail, Tribune Flaccus Marcus Bruscius!”

Silence now replaces the soldiers’ unruly behaviour. I kneel with my forehead still pressed to the cobblestones; too scared to move.

“Who are these men?”

The voice is deep and well-modulated – I estimate it as that of a young man in his mid –thirties – and spoken with a refined accent. It is similar to the Latin with which I am familiar.

“Tribune,” the decurion answers, “it’s only a young Greek and his two slaves. We stopped them trying to flee the city.”

“I see! And were they carrying anything with them? Do they carry any documents or other valuables?”

“They carried only these, Tribune!”

Still on my knees, I don’t see the Decurion pass my confiscated papers and other family possessions to the Tribune.

“Get them to their feet!”

Perimedes, Diagoras and I are ordered to our feet not by words but by well-aimed kicks to our arses with metal, hobnailed caligae or marching sandals. Hastily, I scramble to my feet and try to cover my naked shame with my cupped hands.

Curious, I look to see who our saviour is and I am confronted by a tall aristocratic Roman – and I am correct – he is aged in his mid- thirties. He wears his uniform with pride and if I knew Roman customs and army rankings, I would see by the wide purple stripe on his tunic that he is ‘tribunis laticlavus’ - the senatorial tribune and the most senior of the six tribunes in a legion which places him second in command of his legion. Later, I will learn that his name is Flaccus Marcus Bruscius.

The tribune’s eyes bore into me and as they slowly rove over my naked body I blush profusely. As a Greek, my nakedness doesn’t normally shame me. But always my nudity has been at my instigation. This is different; my present nakedness is not of my choosing. I have been stripped naked and now stand before this Roman as naked as any slave on a display platform. And I have the sense that he sees me in this light.

“Is that true, Greek? Were you trying to flee the city?”

He asks the question in flawless Greek and emboldened, I answer him in flawless Latin.

“No Sir!” Despite my loathing at addressing him as ‘Sir’, I decide that I should maintain a certain civility towards him. After all he holds all the cards. “I was trying to return to my father’s house on the far side of the city.”

“You speak Latin? Obviously, you are well educated.  What is your name boy?”

I bristle at his use of ‘boy’ in addressing me. Through my Latin studies, I know the term is often used in a demeaning manner reserved for slaves. Many Roman masters will give a ‘special’ slave a name that is a corruption of their own names and ‘puer’ the Latin word for boy. For example, should a master be called Lucius or Marcus he’ll name his ‘special’ slave Lucipor or Marcipor – literally Lucius’s boy or Marcus’s boy. Is this how the Tribune sees me? Does he see me as ‘his boy’?

“I am Glaucus, son of Clearchus of Korinthos.” I answer proudly.

“Tell me Glaucus, son of Clearchus of Korinthos.” Is he mocking me I wonder? “Who are your companions?”

“They are my slaves, Perimedes and Diagoras.”

“I see! And where is your father’s house?”

“It’s on the far side of the city, Sir.”

“Then Glaucus, you will take me there. And your slaves will accompany us.”

He turns to the decurion and instructs him to.

“Bind their wrists behind their backs and fasten them by the neck one behind the other with Glaucus, the son of Clearchus in the lead.”

“But Tribune! We don’t have any cord to bind them.”

“By Priapus, man. Improvise! Use their clothing to make their bindings. They no longer have need of clothing.”

“Tribune!  What of the valuables we took from them? What do you want done with those?”

“Give me all the documents they were carrying and keep the trinkets to share among you. You keep them; they are legitimate spoils of war. Just as these three are. I claim Glaucus, son of Clearchus together with all his father’s possessions and his two slaves, Perimedes and Diagoras as my ‘spoils of war’.  All three are now to become my slaves.”

The End



The superb artwork I have used for this post is, I am sure, well known to many and is the work of my favourite artist, Baron. His portrayal of slavery through the ages is second to none. The text is mine.