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NERO
By Pueros Chapter I - Conquests (Dacia, in June of the 8th year of the reign of the Emperor Trajan [AD 106]) My name is Bicilus and I am now very old. I narrate my life to a scribe for posterity and hope that he records the saga well for I was witness to many monumental events. I was born somewhere in Britannia before the Romans came. Alas, I no longer know exactly where but I do know that I was very proud of my family, my village and my tribe. My father was a blacksmith and, in times of trouble, a renowned warrior. My mother only performed the usual feminine duties but very well, being rewarded with oversight of the baking of all of our village’s bread. I had an elder brother, whom my father was training in his own footsteps. My sibling was already good at the forge and with a bow and sword. I also had a younger sister, who had inherited our mother’s beauty. Modesty would normally prevent me from saying so but I want this record of my life to be truthful and accurate and I therefore must confess that my sister and I were very alike in physical form. As a boy, I was very proud of my appearance, sadly to the point of vanity, causing me to spend much time on my personal grooming. This was further encouraged by the fact that, despite my tender years, I became aware of being the subject of many unsuccessfully furtive but clearly admiring glances from others of both sexes and varying ages. I am afraid that such apparent secret approval of my looks only gave my body a guilty thrill and stimulated me shamelessly to redouble my efforts to present myself without noticeable flaw. I bathed every morning, which was unusual for my people, and my loving indulgent mother granted me clean garments daily. I was forever combing my long silky fair hair, causing occasional retorts from other youngsters. However, I have to say that these were few as, for some reason, I seemed to be popular with my contemporaries, having many friends and, as far as I can recall, no obvious enemies. We used to enjoy all sorts of playful adventures within the village and the surrounding fields and woods. My favourite pastime of all was to swim with my young male friends on a warm summer’s day in a nearby river. We would choose a secluded spot, well protected by riverbank trees, strip and plunge ourselves into the cool water, where we would frolic for many hours. I appreciated little about sex at first but I did know that I liked to observe the wet naked bodies of some of my prettier playmates, something that frequently caused my small cock to harden. It was a phenomenon that I invariably tried to hide under water or my hands until I eventually realised that most of us experienced the same embarrassing problem. As a consequence, our inhibitions dissipated and we not only were subsequently no longer afraid of exhibiting our arousal but also began to be proud of it, comparing and sometimes boasting about our respective shapes and sizes. I was amazed at the time, and remain so, as to how many different varieties of human male genitalia there seem to be. As we grew older, my friends and I became even more interested in our respective physical forms, leading us to play erotically with each other, normally culminating in masturbation before, or by, our companions. Conversation was now often about sex and, for some, gradually turned to the subject of girls. However, I personally had not yet succumbed to the charms of the feminine form by the time the Romans came and destroyed my idyllic world forever. (Main slave market, Rome, 60 years earlier, in June of the 5th year of the reign of the Emperor Claudius [AD 46]) I was 14 years old and was scheduled to be the next boy to be brought forward to the central viewing position on the low platform in this part of Rome’s huge main slave market. I formed part of the latest batch of captives from Britannia to be auctioned, the adults having already been sold over the previous two days according to attributes, abilities and gender. Today, it was the turn of the boys, whilst the girls would be disposed of on the following day. All of the captives were members of tribes still resistant to the Roman Emperor Claudius’ invasion and subjugation of Britannia, launched three years previously. However, much to my intense grief, I was the sole survivor of my family and therefore would have much preferred to be dead, rejoined with my parents and siblings in the afterlife, than be so dishonoured. It was an attitude that would be immeasurably enhanced over the next few hours. My father and elder brother had been slain in battle, their bravery overwhelmed by numbers and the more effective deployment and fighting techniques of the Roman legions. My mother and sister had never really recovered from being brutally raped by the victorious legionnaires who overran our now defenceless village and they died of illness, exacerbated by exhaustion, during the terrible long journey to Rome. My acute distress at their passing was further intensified by the fact that the soldiers who escorted us simply threw their bodies into ditches at the roadside. On both occasions, I had been forced to watch helplessly from a distance, as the chains that connected my hands to the neck of another boy captive in front, whilst my own throat was similarly linked to a young male prisoner behind, prevented intervention. All that I could therefore do to pay my respects to my beloved mother and sister was to shed tears and pray to our gods that they would be reunited with my father and brother and live well for eternity in the afterlife, despite the lack of proper funeral ritual or burial. The subsequent many days spent marching to Rome were spent in deep remorse. I therefore gave little appreciation to the fact that the journey was made less traumatic by the nature of the roads on which we walked, which were both cobbled and remarkably straight. In Britannia at the time, narrow dirt tracks following the contours of the land were normal. I arrived in the capital of the Roman Empire in a physically very dishevelled and malnourished, as well as mentally distressed, state, although I considered it remarkable that, given my original looks, I too had not been raped. I was aware that other boy captives had been so ravished, some by military gangs. Their tormented eyes, even more downcast than the rest of us, helped to give their identities away. However, it was their awkward gaits after the awful degradingly demoralising and painfully traumatic event, along with noticeable signs of dried semen on their torn clothing or bare legs, that tended to confirm their ordeals. It was only later that I appreciated why I and others had been spared. Those who had been abused tended to be the plainer of our number, as the maintenance of the purity of the prettier ones was deemed essential to sustain top prices when eventually sold into slavery. The supervising Imperial officials therefore tried their best to keep soldiery lusts contained. When I subsequently discovered these facts, I wished that such consideration could have been extended to my sister. I still do not know whether her ultimately fatal multiple deflowerment was solely as the result of the urgent lecherous needs of vengeful legionnaires, as such appalling action could have been undertaken with premeditation. There would have been recognition that frailer young female virgins were less likely to survive the journey to the slave markets of Rome, where amazingly they were also less valuable at auction than their male counterparts. The people of Rome greeted the latest long column of captives from distant Britannia with much verbal disdain and a fair amount of messy but otherwise harmless missiles. I was personally hit on the head and body by rotting fruit and vegetables, my formerly immaculate but now tatty hair being especially despoiled by a pungent cabbage. However, this was later washed away by the disgusting contents of a chamberpot, emptied from a window high above as we were led down a crowded narrow street flanked by tall but poor tenements, the sort of abode in which much of the plebeian population lived in tiny cramped rooms. Many of these buildings were in a state of decrepit repair and looked as if they could collapse to the ground at any moment, which, in fact, a number occasionally did, although not on this day. Nevertheless, I and most of my fellow captives were incredulous at the sight of the city, rarely, before setting out from Britannia, having seen a building made completely of stone, let alone ones from brick, concrete or marble. It was the magnificent splendour of the many public buildings and the shear size of the whole metropolis, the largest in the world, populated by over 1,000,000, that amazed us most. Our journey concluded at the main slave market, which possessed large cellars to accommodate the still chained miserable prospective human merchandise under close guard. Here, we were segregated by age, sex and likely future function. I did not know it at the time but I was earmarked to be a probable catamite for some very rich homosexual, with a particularly high price expected for me. Most of this money would go to Imperial coffers, with the officials, who had safely delivered me to this awful place and destiny, and the auctioneers securing a commission for their efforts. All prospective slaves were permitted the luxury of having their chains removed and being able to wash before they went for auction. However, the satisfaction of cleaning away weeks of accumulated grime was tempered by the fact that the act was carried out after stripping naked, and then remaining so, in fairly public surroundings and by knowledge of what was to come. I and the other boys in my select group were encouraged to pay particular attention to our cleansing and grooming, with market supervisors pointing out areas on our naked bodies requiring further attention until they were finally happy with results. I have to confess that some of my old vanity now returned. Having decided that, if my nude form was to be publicly flaunted, it should look its best, I took great care over my ultimate appearance, which, despite everything that had happened, was in the end not short of being perfect. A few of my friends had survived the conflict in Britannia and journey to Rome to share my abashment at being disported naked in this group of boys in the slave market. Our long walk up the wide steps from the cellars to the cavernous auction areas and then across the crowded facility, to where our particular sale would take place, was only the beginning of our humiliating passage into slavery. This was somehow compounded by our new lack of chains, the resultant freedom of our limbs only reiterating in our minds our helplessness. We knew that we could not attempt escape because there was nowhere to flee to. We were surrounded by a huge hostile city, beyond which lay its vast equally unfriendly Empire. Britannia itself was then on the other side of a tempestuous sea. Our embarrassing naked advance through the market was made worse by the frequent glances from members of the surrounding throng, often pointing at our bare forms whilst apparently opening debates about our attributes with colleagues. Most were male but some females had ignored custom to enjoy the various spectacles on offer. Their interest was drawn by the sight of nude men, women and children, from all over the known world and sporting a variety of differing racial features and skin hues, being constantly examined and sold, rarely in natural family groups, at different venues. By the time that the relatively small but nevertheless potentially very valuable group to which I belonged arrived at our destination, the boy market, I have to admit that the obvious visual attention being paid to us had only reinforced my determination to use my hands to hide my genitalia. I, like some others, did not want anyone to notice my shameful arousal. However, our subsequent display on the low auction platform was accompanied by an instruction to place our hands at our sides. This was conveyed to those of us, like myself, who did not yet have sufficient grip of the local language to recognise the Latin words by a painful rap across the knuckles with the handle of one of the market supervisor’s whips. My degradingly semi-hard cock was therefore subsequently now visible for all to see and, to my shame, this quickly became fully erect despite, or perhaps because of, my demeaning public exhibition. One by one, the boys in my group were ordered forward to the central viewing position to have their naked bodies inspected, prodded and probed in a most intimate way by the many slave traders before their invariably quick auction. There was a reasonably wide selection of beautiful prospective new young male slaves to choose from and few seemed to want to overpay in an unnecessary bidding war for the most delectable specimens on offer. Nevertheless, such was the demand, despite the recent glut, that prime young males in the rudest of health still cost large sums [about $20,000 if the Roman currency of the period was converted into modern day money - Pueros], making them significantly more expensive than their female equivalents. It was now my time to step forward to the central viewing position. The next moments were the most distressingly disgraceful of my life up to that time, although I would suffer much worse to come. Many people came forward to examine me and they had to be controlled by the principal auctioneer and some of his staff to prevent me being engulfed by many hands. Some order was eventually restored and prospective purchasers were allowed to check my features in pairs. They would invariably start at the top and work downwards and so my long fair hair, now clean but in need of a cut, would be the first recipient of their attention. This would be followed by my large blue eyes, into which some peered for a long time, apparently lost in their depths. Nasal and oral passages would be checked, with my teeth, of which I was very proud, as they were bright white and well formed, being afforded particular interest. Hands would run down my neck to check my chest, back or arms. Nipples might be painfully squeezed and a finger poked into my cute navel before manual and visual investigation descended even lower. My smooth uncut genitals, comprising what I considered a nicely proportioned slender cock and fulsome low-hung ball sac, were felt and weighed. The copious foreskin of my hard penis was regularly and uncomfortably pulled back so that the head could be examined. The round curvature of my buttocks, which had gained particular praise from some of my most intimate friends, was fondled before I was made to bend over, with my legs wide apart, so that the virginity of my rear could be ascertained. Many a finger now brushed my anal entrance. The shameful consequence of all this attention resulted in the inevitable, a constant fulsome erection, my degrading unwanted public excitement compounded by the production of much precum. The close scrutiny of my bare body took almost three-quarters of an hour, the longest of any boy on sale that day. However, the subsequent auction was very short, with a startling price quickly eclipsing all others. I was then led off the platform to the man whom I thought was my new master and, as previously instructed, I knelt before him in submission and recognition of my enslavement in his service. I momentarily considered balking and rebelling at this requirement, this final admission of conquest by and subservience to Rome, but fear of the consequences, increased by the sight of the whips in the market supervisors’ hands, rapidly removed the brave but undoubtedly ultimately silly notion from my mind. I did not yet appreciate that the man to whom I had just performed subservient homage was actually my new master’s agent, the very important aristocrat believing that his own attendance at the market would be beneath his dignity. The agent gestured that I should regain my feet before kneeling himself to re-examine carefully his new young purchase to double-check that there were no imperfections. I am now sure that, if he did manage to find any, he would have debated with the vendor to try to negotiate a quiet discount, a bonus that would not have been declared to his client if secured. However, to his annoyance, obvious at the time because he shocked me by concluding his scrutiny with a hard slap across my bare bottom and the utterance of a tut, followed by a Latin word which I now know means ‘perfect’. It seemed that he could not even detect an untoward pimple, with my pink sphincter still stubbornly undoubtedly virginal, something another desperate final close look at and probe could not change. After the agent finally gave up in despair looking for his discount, he escorted me, still demeaningly naked, through the crowds to another part of the cavernous market, around which were fabricated a number of private roofless rooms with wooden walls. The man led me to one of these.
As the agent and I passed through the door of the craftsman’s small establishment, I quickly took in the strange scene within and soon recognised the room’s awful purpose. It was not a difficult accomplishment. My people did not practise such barbarism but I was not ignorant about castration, as stories about Roman eunuchs abounded in Britannia, mainly as a source of fascinated amusement. However, I never ever dreamt, in my worse nightmares, that I would become one. Nevertheless, the imminent reality of such a fate was clearly now evident. My visualisation of the dreadful scene remains vivid in my mind, even now. Ahead, with strong leather ties at each corner, was a large heavy wooden table, discoloured by much blood spilt over the years on its smooth surface. A smaller table was adjacent, with sharpened knife, sturdy leather chew, sewing apparatus and clean rags readied, along with a bowl presumably to house the surgical product. Nearby was a lit brazier with small iron roasting in the glowing coals. The gruesome place represented the trading habitat of the agent’s favourite castrator, who had emasculated many for him over the years, the choice governed not only by the craftsman’s apparent safe proficiency but also by his cheap prices. I did not know it that the time but it was considered essential that purchasers hired experts to geld boys if such was their need or preference, as mistakes could prove very dear. It was one of the reasons why most slave markets, and the main market in Rome was no exception, possessed such skilled craftsmen, accommodated within their own specialist facilities. In order to maintain their presence and make a living, such men had to have and maintain a reputation for reliable efficiency. As a consequence, few clients lost their new acquisitions as a result of unmanning, invariably the surgical removal of the testes, followed preferably by sewing of the wound, although cauterisation might sometimes be deemed necessary. I found out later that emasculation was primarily ordered if the boy was destined to be a household servant and his new master or mistress wanted to be sure that the new slave was not tempted by any females around. The tastes of certain pederasts or the needs of certain specialist male brothels also created trade for the castrators. Unfortunately for me, I was destined for a palatial villa where the immensely rich and important aristocratic master had a young wife and several daughters, each with their female attendants. However, another boy, preferably immensely pretty for decorative purposes, was now deemed desirable to help with heavier chores and he had to be incapable of interfering sexually with the otherwise mainly feminine household. My speedy realisation of what was now supposed to happen was anticipated by the castrator’s own two slaves, sturdy middle-aged men, attired like their older master, to avoid unnecessary soiling of more fulsome garments by spurting bodily excretions, only in loincloths, clearly recently bloodstained because of earlier custom. I am sure that they had already helped in the castration of many over the years for they certainly well knew what was required of them. They grasped the latest arrival firmly before I could finish my anguished appreciation of my new surroundings and could try to bolt. They then advanced me, desperately pleading and struggling, slowly but remorselessly towards the table. A hard punch in my groin eventually made me more quiescent and my agonised tearful naked body was laid face-up and spreadeagled on the table to be bound immovably in place. My ability to resume my noisy but fruitless begging was lessened when the large leather chew was placed between my teeth to protect my tongue and tied firmly in place by cords fixed to the sides. The men finally stepped aside to permit the castrator to step forward to inspect his latest young victim’s endangered genitalia. The craftsman first checked my still erect cock, now pointing towards my navel, and seemed to take interest in how my very fulsome uncut foreskin still hid most of the drooling head despite the fact that my incongruously excited member had to be almost at maximum growth. He then apparently could not help but give the ivory-like surface of the full length of my slender throbbing penis several strokes before moving his attention slightly downwards. My smooth scrotum displayed two, what I considered, delightfully large smooth bulbous orbs, co-joined to form my overall sac. The castrator carefully felt each to locate the contents that had to be extricated. As he did so, my cock quivered and I, along I’m sure with the craftsman, who must have seen many similar sights previously, thought that cum might now quickly spurt from the head. However, none emerged, although I appreciated that what the man was currently studying still had much to emit before its life as a producer of such substance ended. “I presume the brat has been not been fed for several days,” the castrator stated. “I understand that the customary practice for those to be sold into slavery at auction has been followed in respect of the contingent from Britannia,” the agent somewhat officiously responded. “Then, as he should present no problem,” the craftsman accordingly advised, “are we agreed on the usual price?” “That’s fine with me,” his client answered, “and when should he be ready for collection?” “Same time tomorrow as long as you provide a litter for transport,” was the reply. The satisfied agent, whose delicate stomach was presumably not up to watching boys being gelded, departed whilst the castrator bound my ball sac tightly with cord, making my severely constricted scrotal orbs stand firmly upright and darken as the blood supply was terminated. He then turned to discuss once more with his slaves the recent games held by the Emperor Claudius in celebration of his victories in Britannia, whilst the crude genital tourniquet began its task. The castrator eventually returned his attention to my hurting ball sac, which I could see was now purple, and, after giving each scrotal orb a delicate fondle, appeared to decide finally that the time was right to convert the young boy from Britannia into a Roman slave eunuch. He picked up his knife, responsible, I’m sure, for gelding thousands over the years and presumably carefully re-sharpened and cleaned after earlier use, and presented the tip to my genital flesh, just below the base of my throbbing cock. I felt the cold steel threaten my masculinity. My horrified heart pounded as I used all my might to try to extradite myself from the ties that kept me immovably fixed to the table but my efforts proved futile. The castrator ignored my undoubtedly common desperate actions and muffled entreaties, and my vigorously shaking tearful head, and pushed the tip of his blade into my young sac. I felt the penetration. However, it at first hurt only my pride, as I realised that my appalling transformation into a eunuch was now inevitable and would be swift. The castrator then carefully and gradually increased the length of his shallow incision downwards. The resultant pain was gathering in intensity but the mental torment that my mind was experiencing, as my masculinity was being permanently destroyed, knew no immediate bounds. My head thrashed violently from side to side, trying to beg ‘No!’ but I soon recognised that the gesture was useless and a sudden unexpected calm descended on me. I looked down to where the castrator was still pacifically proceeding with his work. Little blood seemed to emerge from the cut he was creating, testament to the efficacy of the tourniquet. Meanwhile, my whole body now shook, despite my tight bondage, as my form seared with further acute sensations, a vividly strange mixture never since repeated but forever at the forefront of my memory. It seemed that my inner self had finally accepted my destiny but this had somehow also perversely and intensely stimulated the dying embers of my sexuality. My throbbing cock rose defiantly upwards from my belly, apparently even intriguing the castrator for he paused to watch. My penis vibrated at an angle midway between the horizontal and vertical, growing to an unprecedented size and with the head seemingly targeting itself at my face. Something that had never happened previously now occurred. My substantial foreskin slid down an emerging cockhead, scarlet in colour with the slit oozing copious precum, which was forming a noticeable shallow pool around my navel. Some of this clear fluid dripped down my sides as my stomach rose and fell in line with my rapid heavy breathing, apparently incongruously acutely excited if not exhilarative in nature. I then felt the irrepressible rise of unmistakable ecstasy in my loins. Despite my terrible circumstances, with my scrotum opened, ready to be emptied, I have to admit that I experienced gathering pleasure of an almost divine intensity that I had not known before. My cock vibrated in anticipation, with the head becoming increasingly exposed, precum positively gushing out of the slit. I noticed that the castrator and his men looked on in apparent expectant awe before returning my eyes to the amazing sight of my genitals, seemingly intent on enjoying one last moment of ecstatic glory. I am not sure, as my mind was becoming lost in the delicious intoxication of the moment, but I think that the table on which I was spreadeagled now shook in line with my body, as my throbbing cockhead exploded. White cum veritably spurted out in several phases. The first splattered my hair and face, leaving a widespread residue on my forehead and chin, as well as on the leather chew engulfing my lips. Some dribbled into my eyes and some past the oral restraint, giving me a taste of my last orgasmic product. Subsequent bursts did not possess quite as much force but were no less bounteous, creating small pools on my chest and belly, where it displaced the precum in my navel, with narrow white streams now trickling down the sides of my young torso. Alas for me, the castrator, probably accustomed to such final outbursts of genital largesse before such harvest could never again be reaped, albeit perhaps in less productive volumes, eventually managed to return his own mind to the task literally in hand, finally ignoring this spectacular exhibition of terminal young masculinity. His incision along the centre of my scrotum was obviously now sufficiently large to begin his search for the small white oblongs hidden within and I felt the anguish of the first testicle, my left, being skilfully manipulated by his fingers into daylight. The castrator looked into my eyes, as I now remained quiet, partly in immediate post-orgasmic reverie and partly through submission to the inevitable. I could be mistaken but the craftsman’s look seemed to convey genuine sorrow for what he was about to do before my muted vocal chords enlivened when I felt his knife finally sever the first spermatic cord, instantly turning me into a half-male. I then saw the castrator lift up the little spheroid that represented half of my masculinity to examine it briefly before placing it in the waiting bowl. Despite my agony and anguish, I managed to notice that the small orb seemed to be remarkably pristine, a dull white with little evidence of blood. The castrator’s fingers now returned to my half empty scrotum to complete my gelding whilst his eyes once more stared into mine, now copiously shedding tears through pain and shame. At the same time, I felt my remaining testis, the last vestige of my true maleness, being quickly located and exposed. The craftsman then said something that I have never forgotten, although I did not know what the Latin word meant at the time. “Pity,” he declared, as the second spermatic cord was cut. My freshly gelded body responded with a remarkable display of expiring masculinity. My form re-entered intense quaking orgasm and my miraculously still-rigid cock re-erupted to spurt more copious bursts of white seminal fluid over my face and torso. Meanwhile, the castrator examined the second slightly smaller freshly severed right testicle before twinning it in the bowl with the previously extracted left. I remained awake whilst the castrator used some of the rags to clean my scrotal wound before apparently deciding that stitching and not cauterisation would be sufficient to reseal the temporary opening in my now empty sac. My consciousness survived the first application of needle and gut but not the remainder. I awoke as a new eunuch in an adjacent room. Roman conquest and emasculation of formerly proud and independent Britannia had now been fully extended to one of the island’s sons. I had been placed on some clean bedding, with my altered genitals carefully bandaged in more of the rags. I lay beside two earlier young customers of the castrator. One was a type of boy I had never seen before because he was black in colour. The other had been a close friend of mine in Britannia. However, none of us currently cared about anyone else, as our personal grief, both in terms of physical and mental torment, was too great. We only possessed thoughts for our deeply distressed selves and so the room remained devoid of speech, although not noise, as the sound of constant quiet sobbing from three young mouths was prevalent. None of us had spoken by the time I was collected at the scheduled hour on the following day and I left without even having the nerve to look one last time at my boyhood friend. The castrator’s two assistants carefully carried me out into outside sunlight before placing me inside a luxurious but dark litter, in which a mere slave would not normally travel. However, it was apparently the only realistic mode of transport to convey me, in my damaged state, to my new home. As the litter was carried through the busy streets of Rome to the patrician quarter, by four slaves belonging to my new master and attired in short but resplendent tunics, I still naively expected my owner to be the man who had bought me at auction. I was soon to discover otherwise, as my lifetime as a eunuch who would observe, and sometimes participate in, great historical, but sometimes terrible, events began. (To be continued in chapter 2 – ‘Marriages’)
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