Owein suffers the ultimate humiliation and seeks the ultimate vengeance...
Gladiator - Part 19: First Blood
by Amalaric
Series: Gladiator
In stark contrast to the fortnight respite at the Senator's townhouse in Rome, and even the forced march of over a thousand miles from far away Britannia, life at the school for gladiators in Capua was hard and brutal. The only pleasurable thing was the rations; the big brutes destined for the arena had to be kept healthy and fit so that their eventual slaughter would be more edifying to the screaming mob of spectators. Though he considered himself a decent sword and spearman, and certainly a tough scrapper, the handsome Celtic prince's strong muscled body was quickly covered with the welts, bruises, and lesions of the practice ground. There was little time for rest or reflection but Owein still managed to take solace in the friendship of the young Barcid Spaniard, Quintus Sartorius, even allowing himself the pleasure of admiring the other man's handsome honed physique as they were run through their course, naked as often as not, in the outdoor classroom of the practice grounds.
"You- Atrebatis!!!" The trainer signaled to a sweat drenched Owein, referring to his tribe, which had become a sort of nom d'arena. Owein threw down his wood practice sword and approached the trainer, standing before him with muscular legs lightly spread and broad, calloused hands held behind his naked back, short shorn blond head bowed in submission. The proud rebel prince had learned much in the months since his capture. Even so, the Celt's sky blue eyes darted to one side where another slave-gladiator, having been already summoned, stood- as naked and perfectly proportioned as Owein himself- waiting mysterious instructions. "Well, boys, looks like we have ourselves the perfect pair; salt and pepper, dawn and dusk..." and it was true; both standing bronzed and naked in the clear light, Owein was, nevertheless, blond with a fair complexion while the other man sported dark hair at head and groin, black smoldering eyes, and skin the color of desert sand. The overseer nodded toward the dark newcomer, 'Atrebatus, meet one of your future opponents, we call him Pugnax because he's such a scrappy motherfucker and,' he hoisted the muscle bound gladiator's slick testicles, which filled the palm of his hand, glancing sideways at Wein, 'I reckon that you and he might just be evenly matched!' Grinning ear to ear at his own crude humor he motioned the naked men to the center of a practice courtyard, 'Get yourselves oiled up, boys,' and whistling to attract some of the other freemen skulking about the place, the overseer bellowed, 'Drag your lazy asses over here, men, and line up to place some bets- Atrebatus or Pugnax...' adding cryptically, 'Who do you think is going to get nailed?'
Having learned the rituals of the school, Owein dipped his hands into a bucket of mildly heated oil and, instead of slatering it on himself, ran strong, dripping hands over the hard muscles of his opponents until, finished, he waited for reciproal treatment. Putnax dipped his own hands into the oil laying great glistening swaths over the Celt's chest and back- all according to form- then...plunging lower, he lathered the scandalized warrior's tingling cock and balls in a single, fast flash before darting with dripping fingers between the horrified Celt's hairy thighs searching the lower crack of Owein's muscular ass with invasive mastery. 'Get your fucking hands off me!!!' Owein shouted, twisting away in a storm of red-faced emotion. Pugnax cracked a slow smile loaded with patient evil and withdrew to the knowing laughter of the gathered onlookers. 'Right! You...', the overseer pointed at a pile of equipment and nodded toward Owein, 'Suit up in that, my excitable Northerner; play the part of 'fire', its the role of secutor for you- now, go get that sword!!' Owein breathed a sigh of pure relief, already having glanced at the alternate mount of equipment; that of the despised retiarius, the effeminate personification of 'water', trident and net. The overseer laughed slyly and nodded at Pugnax, 'Suits you, boy...' then squinting, added, 'but you'd never know it at first glance.'
The two gladiators suited up in their respective equipment- secutor and retiarius- finally, circling one another on the gritty sand as the game commenced. Each muscular gladiator had been given strict instructions, underscored by the 'harmless' state of their weapons (tipless sword and trident, blunted edges); this remained a practice fight, there was to be no 'first blood', at least not resulting in death. Soon enough the clang of metal on metal, swish of the net, jab of the trident, and flailing sword as well as the panting of two muscular men in their prime, each filled with his own kind of pride and determined- even here in a shithole gladiator school- to honor himself with victory...whatever the cost...filled the sultry air. Owein didn't see it coming and, to his dying day, could never identify the culprit, but he would forever recall with sickening clarity the moment he snagged his nimble bare feet on a hobbed foot, thrust purposefully to trip him by someone in the hooting crowd. The tall barbarian fell like a great oak in the forest, dazed wonder creasing his handsome face, crashing to the sand and was immediately rolled helpless in the spider-like web of the retiarius' deftly thrown net. Owein ground his teeth with bitter rage; the taste of defeat was found...but he had yet to quaff the dregs. He gasped as strong arms were quickly bound behind his naked back by a panting Pugnax, deftly removing the supple leather straps of Owein's greaves for makeshift cord. Helpless on his belly in the sand, Owein shrieked as the dark stud, spitting on his hand for lubrication, thrust it once again between the Celt's levered legs before inserting a long pair of fingers into the tight warm tunnel of his clenched asshole. 'Bastard!!!!! I'll kill you...I swear...I'll...' lost in sobs and animal grunts of pain mixed with humiliation as the overseer cut the Celt's protest off in mid-gasp, 'Leave it, Atrebatus!' and, turning toward Pugnax, drawled, 'Good job, boy; I reckon you earned your reward...go ahead and nail him!' The tight crowd of spectators jeered encouragement as the dark gladiator rasped acknowledgement and, withdrawing the offending fingers, replaced them with the battering ram of his eleven inch rock hard cock. Slamming again and again into the Celt's tight hole, Pugnax finally tensed and, shrieking like an animal, shot a load of magma-hot seed into his helpless opponent. Owein endured the assault as well as he was able, sinking through a red haze of pure misery and rage to a semblance of calm; the 'green place' within that reminded him of home. Even so, he believed he would have died there- purely of shame- except for a brightly, freshly kindled flame and that hot fire fed on one thing alone- a desire for vengeance so strong that Owein was able, after his initial sobs of pain and desperation, to stoically endure being raped, face buried in the sand, under the amused gaze of a jaded crowd of hated Romans.
Six weeks later it almost seemed as if nothing extraordinary had happened and, perhaps, to all but the humiliated Celtic prince, what had occurred in the practice fight with Pugnax was somehow normal. Whatever the case, Owein, though avidly learning the brutal skills of gladiatorial combat and, for all to see, wearing his masculine dignity as easily as ever; a different truth let itself be known in the depths of his outraged heart. Owein was certain of only a single thing in his suddenly very cruel world- Pugnax would die, and he would die soon, and he would die by Owein's hand.
The rematch was another week in coming and, though impatient, Owein was careful to appear calm and even uncaring. Once again he stood before Pugnax in the role of the secutor to the other's despised retiarius. Careful to avoid any malicious intent of the spectators and determined, at any cost, to claim his vengeance, the tall Northern barbarian fought with an irressistible combination of consummate skill, eerie focus, and wild, innovative abandon. Pugnax, arrogant in his dark, muscular nudity- and eager for a reprise of his previous reward for victory- never had a chance. In less than five minutes Owein had his adversary splayed on his back impossibly tangled in his own net. The overseer, cynically amused, nodded affirmation; daring the Celt to take his prize in the same way that had been done to him and was shocked by the slow smile that crept across the golden countenance of the Atrebatic rebel. 'Thank you, my lord...and, so, I make my claim...' With a swift, fluid motion Owein grabbed the other gladiator's short dark hair and pulled back, tilting his handsome head and exposing the full expanse of Pugnax's throat with pounding pulse. 'Please...' the croaked request for mercy could barely be heard and wouldn't have mattered anyway. Owein purposefully placed the blunted, tipless end of his practice sword beneath the squared jaw of his defeated opponent and, summoning all of his strength...pushed. The crown of onlookers drew back with shocked expressions as the blunt end of the sword exploded from the top of Pugnax's skull bright red and trailing bits of bone, gore, and dark hair. Pugnax convulsed for a moment then lay still in a spreading pool of blood.
'You'll pay for this, dog!!!' The overseer, red-faced with outrage, reached for his dagger but thought twice as Owein stood to his full height. 'I may be a dog,' and the Celtic prince's tone dared anyone to believe it, 'but I am owned by Senator Varus, not by a pig like you!!' The overseer once again reached for his dagger only to have his forearm restrained by one of the better dressed onlookers. Owein raised his crimson practice sword and should over the heads of the crowd, 'I claim first blood! Send me forth, now, to slake the thirst that, once awakened, never ends...' and, tossing the toy sword in the sand, he turned his back on any threat and strode toward the barracks.
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GayBondageFiction - April 1, 2021, 7:12 pm
Absolutely stunning chapter! Thank you Amalaric!!