The Founding of Rome.

Tradition has it that Rome was founded on 21 April, 753 BC by the twin brothers, Romulus and Remus.

According to legend, they were born in Alba Longa the sons of Rhea Silvia, a vestal virgin and daughter of Numitor, the King of Alba who had been deposed by his brother, Amulius. According to mythology, Mars, the god of war was attracted to Rhea Silvia and swooped down in the night and raped her thus violating her vow of celibacy as a vestal virgin. Her uncle, King Amulius ordered her to be buried alive as punishment.

Fearing the twins posed a threat to his rule, Amulius also ordered them killed and they were abandoned on the River Tiber and left to die. They were rescued by the god Tiberinus, Father of the River and suckled by a she-wolf before they were adopted by a shepherd, Faustulus and they grew up unaware of their true identity.

Eventually, they discovered the truth of their birth and were involved in a dispute between Amulius and Numitor in which Amulius was killed and their grandfather, Numitor restored as king of Alba. 

The brothers decided to found a city of their own and chose a site of seven hills alongside the Tiber. They disagreed on which of the seven hills to build the settlement - Romulus favoured the Palatine and Remus preferred the Aventine - and in the ensuring dispute Remus was killed. Romulus then named the city Roma after himself. Thus Rome was born out of fratricide, treachery and bloodshed which became the hallmarks of Roman life.

There are other versions of the founding of Rome. Some say it was established by the Greeks while another version credits the city's foundation to the Trojan Prince Aeneas and survivors after the fall of Troy. What we do know from archaeological findings is that humans had used the site for 14,000 years prior to Romulus and Remus.

From its humble beginnings almost three millennia ago, Rome still endures and it very existence still impacts on Western Civilisation to this day.

The Main Event

Above, in the crowded stands of the amphitheatre, the jaded Roman mob is growing impatient. Their bloodlust is at fever-pitch after the morning's bloodletting when they'd watched as criminals were horribly executed and gladiators battled one another - sometimes to the death. 

Rome's early afternoon heat is oppressive and even as sailors haul the overhead canvas awnings into place, they give very little relief from the sun's scorching rays. 

Listlessly, the spectators watch as slaves, using sharp iron hooks, drag the bodies of the dead and dying from the blood-soaked arena to the Spoliarium deep in the bowels of Colosseum. They eat their midday meals and thirstily quaff their wine and watch as other slaves sprinkle sand over the arena's floor to soak up the blood and gore from the morning's entertainment.

Now, with their hunger satisfied, the crowd grow restless and eager for more bloodshed. 

The editor of the games - the man responsible for staging the games and keeping the crowd entertained - uses his imagination in arranging his programmes. He draws on incidents of warfare, history, legend and mythology to recreate his tableaux of death. Recently, he'd heard one of his Jewish slaves talking about someone named Daniel who angered his king, Darius the Mede and was placed in a den of lions as punishment. According to the slave, Daniel's god spared his life and he walked unscathed from the lions' den.

This scenario appealed to the editor and he has arranged a confrontation between man and beast as the main attraction of the day. A young slave armed with a short gladius and a lion will battle it out in the arena. The match is uneven; never-the-less the slave will fight desperately to save his life much to the delight of the blood-crazed crowd. 

For the editor the result is a foregone conclusion. Unlike Daniel's god, the editor doubts very much if Rome's gods will intervene to save the slave. And the watching mob wouldn't want it otherwise.

NOTE: The artwork for this post is by Amalaric and as mentioned in another post, it is one of his works I discovered recently on my computer. Amalaric called this work "Back stage at the Arena" and most probably he wrote a story to accompany it. Sadly, I don't have his story to pass on - I wish I did - and therefore, I have written my own interpretation.

The Honey Pot

Bart Franklin is an 'out-of-towner' currently visiting the big city on business.

Bart is an aggressive 'top' who enjoys nothing more than using male ass. Wherever he visits, evenings will find him trawling through the seedy bars in the wrong part of town looking to score.

Tonight, as he sat drinking at a bar, his attention was drawn to a handsome, young man standing close by to him. The young man smiled at Bart while wriggling his ass, suggestively rubbing his groin and salaciously licking his lips.

Like a hungry trout, Bart rose to the bait and was hooked. 

At the young man's invitation, Bart accompanied him back to his apartment in anticipation of a 'hot fuck'. 

On entering the apartment, Bart was immediately seized by two waiting powerfully built thugs, overpowered, stripped naked and immobilised. He now lies on his belly in an empty room with his wrists and ankles spancelled and listens in horror as the young man speaking on his cell phone says.

"Hey, man! The goods are parcelled ready for pick up. You have my bank account details; when can I expect my commission?"

Bart has heard rumours of the illicit slave trade but he'd always considered it to be an urban myth.

Now, he is living proof that it does exist!.


Picture sourced from the internet: the text is mine.

Being in COVID-19 isolation has given me the chance to tidy up my old files and in doing so, I have rediscovered so many email exchanges from former readers from years ago with whom I have lost contact. As I reread those emails, many pleasant memories came flooding back and I am feeling nostalgic. I wonder where they are now and how life has dealt with them. I wish I knew.

Writing opened up a whole new world for me and I truly appreciate the friendships I made as a result of it. My own life has been enriched by them. 

Another unforeseen consequence of trawling back through my files - and one which excites me enormously - was the discovery of an email sent to me back in 2013 by Amalaric in which he included twenty copies of his magnificent, erotic art some of which I'd forgotten about and haven't seen for years. From time to time, I want to share them with you and pay tribute to one who has contributed so much to our genre and has delighted and entertained us over the years and continues to do so even now.

Chris

The Indian Mutiny: 
Time: Early nineteenth century 

As the third and youngest son of an English aristocrat, the career options for Lord Harry de Crespigny were very limited. The law of primogeniture meant that he could never inherit his father's titles and estates while his two older brothers were alive and he must find his own way in the world. 

Tradition held that the second son of an aristocrat would chose the military as a career while the third son would enter the Church. 

Lord Harry was an active and spirited lad and the prospect of becoming a country vicar appalled him. Really, he couldn't see himself as leading in hymn-singing and giving dull sermons to a captive congregation for the rest of his life. No, he sought something far more adventurous and exciting and with the prospect of making his fortune. Therefore, he prevailed upon his father to allow him to join the private army of the Honourable East India Company and at sixteen years of age, he started his military career as an army Ensign (standard/flag bearer).

All went well for young Harry and after two years service, he was popular with his peers and of course, as a young lord, he was also very popular with the older officers  and society matrons who viewed him favourably as a suitable husband for their daughters. 

It has to be said that at eighteen, things never looked better for Lord Harry and his future prospects for advancement to the higher echelons of the company were assured.

That is until the natives rebelled against the policies and attitudes of their English overlords. Naturally, the rebellion had to be crushed and the ingrates who'd caused it punished and an ongoing war ensured.

Sadly for Harry, he was the sole survivor in a skirmish with a numerically superior group of rebels who spared his life because of his youth, superb young body and handsome features. Instead of having his throat slit like his companions, he was spared and presented to a Mogul prince as a slave. 

No longer a lord, Harry is now just a naked slave who serves as a pleasure-slave in his master's male harem.

Here we see Harry "exciting" himself with a feather as he thinks wistfully of his aristocratic home and family both of which are now lost to him forever. 

Still in time, Harry will adjust to his new life and will even derive some pleasure from servicing his new master.

The beautiful artwork for post is by Theo Blaze another artist whose works never disappoint. The text is mine.