Raided by the Gladiators

“There was an erotic side to the Colosseum. Gladiators were viewed as paragons of masculinity and sexual power.”

My professor’s voice echoes throughout the cold, vast museum. The space is lined with towering stone pillars, mimicking the grandeur of a bygone era. Orange incandescent bulbs bathe the space in a dim, fiery glow. There’s a mystical ambiance here. At first glance, it really does seem like we’re back in ancient Rome.

“The Romans had a very different view of sexuality than we do today,” my professor continues. “Sex acts that we see as normal were considered deeply taboo.”

My mind wanders while he speaks. “History of Human Sexuality” is the class I was most excited for this semester, but it’s grown stale. You can only listen to an old man discuss ancient copulation rituals for so long…

At least we’re on a field trip today. That helps a bit.

“There was no concept of ‘heterosexual’ or ‘homosexual’. There was simply ‘sex’. The gender of your partner wasn’t important and didn’t define you. Ancient Romans only cared about one thing—dominance. A man’s sexual desires reflected his true self. You were either a ‘real man’ who engaged in penetrative sex, or you were a ‘pathicus’. That is, a man who would seek out the passive role—usually in the form of receptive anal sex.”

My eyes trace along glass display cases as the lecture continues. Cracked stone tablets, silver rings, shards of pottery…it’s strange to think these artifacts were once a part of somebody’s daily life. I feel a sense of reverence while gazing at the treasures. The air is thick with the weight of history.

“Allowing a woman to ride you…that would’ve been seen as disgraceful and weak. Getting fucked by another man though…that was the most shameful of all acts. It was fine to be the one fucking, but being on the receiving end was reserved only for the lowest members of society. But even still, some men craved this sexual subjugation. The Romans understood this, and ‘real men’ were happy to use them.”

My eyes settle on a gleaming golden chalice. Unlike many of the other crude and dirty artifacts, this one exudes an aura of refinement. Small sapphires are embedded around the rim. They glitter and emit a mysterious, almost hypnotic glow. I’m not sure why, but I’m drawn to this object. What kind of man would have owned something so opulent? What was his story…?

“Lucius, we should go now. We’ll want to beat the crowds.”

“And miss the best part? Darling, you know that’s not an option.” I wave a hand at my wife before reaching down to grab a chalice of wine.

Made of gold and adorned with brilliant sapphires, the goblet shimmers as it touches my lips. I drink deeply, savoring the spectacle unfolding before me.

From atop my balcony, I have an incredible view of the Colosseum. Down below, two gladiators shout and grunt while exchanging blows. The crowd roars each time their blades clash. Drenched in sweat and caked with dirt, these men have been putting on quite the show. I can tell they won’t last much longer though. I’ve seen enough of these fights to become an expert—and I’ve made a small fortune betting on the outcomes.

Not that I need the money though.

Descended from a line of esteemed politicians, most men in Rome know my name. Here beside my wife, Livia, we sit as a symbol of the upper class—the patricians. Our fine white garb gleams in the sun. Our servants stand at attention behind us. To the common folk, our lives must seem perfect.

But something dark tugs at my heart.

My wife is beautiful and gracious, but our union has been unfruitful. Each night, I slip my cock into her delicate body and fill her with my seed. Despite my best efforts, I’ve been unable to sire an heir. I fear she’s barren, and it’s caused a rift to grow between us. I’m desperate to continue my bloodline, and other nobles now whisper and mock us. I’ve consulted physicians, but none have devised a solution.

These trips to the Colosseum are my only diversion. The battles fill me with adrenaline. They command my full attention, sweeping me away from the rest of the world. When I watch these men, my anxiety fades…

My eyes stay focused on the fight. The gladiators’ shirtless bodies are drenched in oily sweat. Whenever they bring down their swords, their forearms flex and bulge. Their lean abs tighten while they twist and dodge. Those pecs are so big and strong…those shoulders have such an elegant curvature…

My body is nothing compared to these men.

I’m skinny. I’m pale. I’m getting a bit old.

What would it be like to be a gladiator? What would it be like to have such a fit body? I can only imagine how huge their virile balls must be. When they breed, the orbs probably swing back and forth, smacking up against the wet, greasy pussy.

I feel a twitch between my legs.

No. Now isn’t the time for such thoughts.

One of the gladiators in the arena loses his footing and falls to the ground. His opponent hovers over him, holding a sword aloft. My eyes widen. This is the most tense part of any gladiator battle. Will mercy be granted?

The victor is a towering, brutish creature. His cropped blond hair and stubbled face give off a militaristic aura. His sunbaked hide stretches over thick bands of muscle. He’s beefy even by gladiator standards. Those boulder shoulders…those stone column legs…he’s a fearsome foe. I’d never want to face a man like him in the arena.

The man on the ground is leaner and more elegantly built. Substantially younger than his foe, his brown hair is thick and his skin is vibrant. I can see the fear in his amber eyes. His young life hangs in the balance.

The crowd roars as everyone turns to the emperor. He rises from his seat and steps toward the edge of his balcony. Clad in resplendent robes of gold and crimson, he exudes power and prestige. His sharp eyes scan over the crowd, analyzing their reactions to the fight. They shout with their hands in the air, palms facing forward—a symbol of mercy.

Down below, women throw flowers into the arena. The man on the ground has many fans. After today, he’ll owe them a great deal.

The emperor raises his clenched fist into the air—a symbol of power and authority. The crowd grows quiet, waiting with bated breath.

“Spare him.” His deep voice echoes.