By Les Lea
I’d been looking forward to our holiday in Cyprus for a few months and despite my partner’s insistence on visiting all the Greek and Roman archaeological sites, thought I’d get a chance to just relax on the beach. Chris, my other half, loves all that historical stuff and in the past we’ve spent hours climbing over what to me are just piles of rubble, but to him they seem to unlock his imagination and knowledge. He’d regale me with historical info on battles, ancient culture, fables and mythology, which was all very ‘interesting’ but to me didn’t beat laying out on a sandy beach and enjoying the current crop of guys frolicking at the water’s edge. Call me shallow if you like but after working in my crappy job for months on end, I just want to relax when on holiday not have a history lesson. However, we are partners, so I join in and feign enthusiasm when needed and I’m sure he is equally bored as I nudge him for the umpteenth time to draw his attention to some hunk walking along the beach in a pair of shorts or sexy Speedos.
We were looking at this collection of ancient mosaics and I have to say I was impressed by the images and the colourful and clever way those old artisans had created a wonderful piece of art. As I took in more of the broken but otherwise well-preserved image in front of me, I noticed a scene where a near-naked slave was offering an amphora of wine to the master of the house. The well-dressed master seemed to be talking to other men of equal stature who were reclining eating and drinking but it was the slave who drew my attention. A shiver of recognition suddenly ran through my body. I looked up to see where Chris was to tell him but he was chatting to some archaeological types about 50 yards away, not paying me much attention. Suddenly my body spasmed and my mind clouded over. I grabbed the wooden fence that surrounded the mosaic to steady myself but a shock ran up my arms and into my head. All of a sudden… I was that slave.
In that split second of connection it was I who was serving that drink. It was a naked me who was that 18 year-old slave wrapped only in a small yellow piece of cloth over my shoulder and tucked into a loose piece of fabric wrapped around my waist. Other than that I was accessible to all and, as I replenished the cups of the master’s friends, I was groped and man handled by these important and influential guests.
I was there. I could hear every word. I felt my nervousness and terror. I knew the pain and torment he was in… I was in… The master gave an order. I poured the wine. I was hot. It was hot. I was scared. I averted my eyes from the lascivious looks…
I hated being a slave but I could still feel the painful marks on my body where I had been punished for not knowing my place. In the short time since my master had bought me in the market I had to learn a new way of living. From the free man I had been before the Arab pirates had captured me, to just being an object for others to use, had been a very distressing and agonising experience. The pirates had used me on the journey across the seas. They had, by their actions, made me realise I was nothing but an animal as they continually used and abused my body. The physical contact hurt and repulsed me, this was not what my young body was made for but I was made to suffer these degradating assaults time after time. In the market place my pale, firm, naked body had fetched a high price for my captors and my new master licked his lips as I was added to his collection of male slaves.
On that first evening I was washed, cleaned and oiled and delivered scented and, apart from a crown of red flowers on my head, naked to the master’s chamber. For what seemed an eternity he made me do unspeakable things to his body, while he did even worse to my own. If I was slow or tried to hold back in any way I was beaten and whipped until I did as I was told. The agony was terrible, the like of which I had never, in all my eighteen summers, had to suffer the like of before. The pirates had been threatening and demanding but this violence was vicious, intense and often undeserved. I soon learned to do as I was bid instantly… or suffer the consequences.
As I poured more wine into the senator’s painted cup I could see the outline of his inflamed manhood pushing from beneath his robe. I had quickly come to know that look of desire in a man’s eyes and I knew what to expect. My master was a generous man and offered his friends the use of his slaves if they were desired. The fat senator’s hand travelled up my thigh and cupped my manhood. He squeezed and I let out a small involuntary yelp of pain. He smiled as he squeezed and fondled me more turning me around so he had access to my hindquarters. His hands slid into my cleft…
“Are you OK? You look as stony-eyed as these mosaics.” It was Chris, standing next to me with his comforting hand on my bum as always. I was speechless. What could I say? Would he believe in such an experience… especially from me. Would he think I was ridiculing him or taking the piss? He looked down at the mosaic I’d been transfixed by and made a comment about the conversation he’d just had with the man I’d seen him talking to earlier. In fact, very little time had passed at all since my ‘connection’ but my entire body was still electrified by this mental encounter with my… past?