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Nifty - Gay - Historical - Roman Slave Trainer

Date: Tue, 27 Sep 2005 19:38:57 GMT
From: "" <>
Subject: Roman Slave Trainer (historical)

by Bill Smith

The Roman Empire: 80 A.D.


Even when I was a small child, there were always slaves for sale. No
matter where you went in the Empire, even the smallest town had at least
one dealer who stocked a reasonable selection, although the smallest towns
usually only had auctions on a given day each week. It wasn't unusual in
the small hamlets to have sheep sales on Monday, donkeys and mules on
Tuesday, slaves on Wednesday, and pigs on Thursday, with household goods
usually reserved for Friday.

Perhaps I noticed slaves more, even as a child, because my father
dealt in slaves and other livestock and our family income depended
primarily on the trade in human livestock. It was always assumed I would
grow up to be a slave trader myself and eventually partner myself with my
father and two younger brothers.

Even though everyone agreed Rome deserved, as well as needed plenty of
slaves, it turned out we couldn't seem to make enough off of the trade
itself to support four families: my own, my father and his wife, and the
families of my two younger brothers. Maybe one family, like my dad had
done, but not four. The business was just too competitive so you could
only mark the goods up so much. Furthermore, the big corporations had
squeezed out the small merchants like my dad's firm, practically out of the
business entirely. It was practically impossible to compete with their low
profit per unit, their choice of stock, and their Empire-wide networking
where they could get you anything - yes, anything - you might want, no
matter how peculiar.

So by the time I had reached full manhood, the writing was on the wall
as far as all of us making a living selling human flesh. My father could
eke out a living to support himself during his remaining days but his sons
were going to have to find something else to support themselves. It was
sad, but so typical of the plight of the middle class in the Roman Empire
these days where, it seemed, the rich, who owned all the big corporations,
were getting richer, and the hard-working middle class was sinking into


Father had really been good in his business. Both he and my mother
had been slaves themselves when they were my age, knowing little of any
other life since they both had been born into their master's household
through a well managed slave breeding program their master had set up years
and years before they were born. As he matured into adulthood, his master
noticed how good he was in managing slaves and, despite his youth, he was
appointed the slave steward for their master's estate by the time he was in
his late twenties. His managerial abilities weren't overly assessed by his

My father made sure all slaves knew exactly what was expected of them
at all times; he made sure they were almost instantly punished if they
weren't putting out their best efforts at all times; he made sure such
disciplines were harsh enough to be remembered for a long time and served
as a good warning for all the other slaves who may have been thinking of
doing the same thing if they could get by with it; he made sure they
understood their station in life and accepted it without question; he kept
them constantly reminded they were just property of their master and could
be sold off to a far worse situation if their primary goal in life was
anything less than bringing total satisfaction and pleasure to their
master; he made sure the frequent disciplining didn't harm their bodies
permanently so their resale value was maintained; and he made sure they ate
a good healthy, but inexpensive diet, kept themselves clean and
disease-free, and weren't overworked to the point of deteriorating
health. And he made sure they came to him, not the master, when
circumstances they couldn't control were beginning to interfere with their
best output. Therefore, from his master's viewpoint, any problems with
owned property were handled before they caused problems for him. To his
master, the army of slaves he owned operated smoothly, silently, and
efficiently no matter what was asked of them or where they were assigned.
To him and others visiting, it was a servile race of sub-humans doing what
they were intended to do: working hard, bringing pleasure, anticipating
what their betters wanted before they even had to ask, and even breeding a
new crop of replacements on schedule. They gave every appearance of what
Cato had aptly coined them long ago: "speaking animals."

Septimus Octavius, my father's wise master, knew a good asset when he
saw one, and decided he could make a lot more money out of my father if he
technically freed him and set him up in an obligatory business arrangement
with his former master, an arrangement frequently employed where slaves
demonstrated outstanding business acumen. My father's freedman status left
him obligated to his master who provided the capital necessary for a former
slave to do business, in this case, buying and selling slaves, which took
huge amounts of capital up front to acquire a decent 'starter'
inventory. The deal was typical of the times: my father kept half of the
profits; his former master got the other half. My father's body was held
in mortgage in case of any losses. In other words, if the business failed,
my father would be right back where he started, a slave. My father had to
report each morning to his master, along with all his other 'clients' as
the freedman were called, and turn over the profits made or at least
explain when they would be forthcoming and how much. Part of the
obligation was also to support his former master in any public ventures,
buy any products he needed from his master's other 'clients,' and to serve
his master as a slave whenever he might be needed, such as supervising a
special banquet, being called to sexually satisfy any of his master's
friends whose eye he may have caught, and, in his case, continue sexually
satisfying his master's sister, a widow who had grown used to having my
father in her bed three or four times a week over the years. As my father
explained freedman status to me, it was sort of a half way point between
being a slave and a free person, but the big advantage went to any of a
freedman's offspring. They were all eligible for Roman citizenship
following the Roman 'skip a generation" rule in the transition between
being a slave and being a free person. Therefore, my father explained with
considerable pride, I and my brothers, if Septimus Octavius agreed with the
necessary petition, would become citizens when we became of age and that's
exactly what happened years after his explanation.

Septimus had been generous in setting my father up in business, giving
him 100 silver sesterces right up front - a small fortune. That allowed my
father to buy up a good 250 slaves as a beginning inventory. He chose his
stock carefully to meet all tastes and the business prospered almost from
the start. By the end of the first year, my father was able to pay 50
sesterces back to Septimus as his part of the profits and had an inventory
of 280 slaves. Septimus had chosen his freedman business client well.

The big reason for my father's success was his initial decision to
specialize in what he knew best. From the time he had become mature in his
master's household, a good deal of his time and energy as a handsome young
man had been spent as a 'pleasure slave,' the term used by Romans to denote
slaves who performed much the same duties as prostitutes if they were free
persons. The only real difference was free persons chose their occupation;
slaves didn't. Free whores could refuse certain acts or even choose their
clients; slaves couldn't, of course. It was only after many years as a
pleasure slave when he was in his mid-twenties that he was designated the
master's slave steward, although many of his former duties as a pleasure
slave remained, even through his freedman status later. This background
gave him an real advantages in picking out the stock best suited as
'pleasure slaves,' how to train them once he had them in his own cages, and
how to best market them once they were fully trained to their new life.
Like most slaves of his ilk, my father was neither ashamed or embarrassed
at being a pleasure slave since it wasn't his decision to start with. It
was just part of being a slave as far as he was concerned.

Hence, from the very beginning of his new business, that's all he
dealt in: pleasure slaves geared toward the markets in and around Rome
itself where the market was large and steady and most any halfway
successful Roman had enough money to indulge their passions appropriately,
even retiring Legionnaires, small time merchants, truck farmers, slave
overseers, civil servants, and supply agents. My father knew exactly what
types of bodies would be found appealing; what backgrounds slaves should
have to make them easily molded to their new duties; what training
techniques were effective in changing even the most recalcitrant slave into
a willing sex partner; and what appealed particularly to men and women
buyers within that vast vortex of beliefs, customs and expectations that
Romans called 'culture.'

He knew from the very beginning of his enterprise who bought blacks
for their bed, which boys men found most attractive, which stallions sold
best to Roman matrons, what underage Romans were looking for to impress
their friends, which citizens were more interested in a naked shaved body
to publically display than to bed down, and who was just interested in
slaves to provide public sexual displays as entertainments for their
frequent dinner parties. He had a good working knowledge of just which
Romans were partial to Arabs, Jews, Thracians, Greeks, Spaniards, Asians,
Persians, Nubians, Egyptians, Britains, Gauls and all the other big sources
of slaves for the Roman markets and what it was about each nationality or
race that turned them on. All of this he had learned when he had been a
pleasure slave himself in the household of one of Rome's leading citizens.
Over the years, he had swapped notes with hundreds of other slaves bought
for the use of their bodies just like himself, heard all the stories from
the slaves themselves about who used them, how they were used, and how well
they were able to please those they had been assigned to. He had seen for
himself how they were displayed publically, how they performed sex with
each other to provide entertainment at their master's dinner parties, and
how they were often 'loaned out' to serve stud to slaves owned by their
master's many friends, always interested in a little extra profit from
breeding handsome slaves within their own households whenever possible. He
knew from personal experience how you overcame the overwhelming initial
humiliation and embarrassment of being turned into a whore, what it felt
like the first time you performed in public for the amusement of your
betters, how others stared at you when you were paraded around in public
with only a collar, your banded genitals, or a tit ring for clothing. He
knew how you thought you couldn't get it up one more time after some
mistress had drained you four times already today. He remembered clearly
the first time his ass had been fucked by one of the slave handlers back in
Septimus' slave quarters when he was just 13 and he thought he was going to
be split in half by the huge organ shoved far up his tight little ass. And
he could remember being 'taught' how to suck off a master by one of
Septimus' trainers long before his prick was full grown and how he had
gagged and choked that first time. He also reminded himself of how quickly
he learned to take even the biggest pricks up his asschute without too much
pain, how within a few weeks he could swallow even the largest shafts down
his throat and swallow their output without spilling a drop, and how he had
fairly quickly learned to fake orgasm so he could keep servicing a women
just as long as she wanted without losing his ardor. He was aware of how
quickly he learned to disregard others staring at him or commenting on his
big prick when he was displayed or performing in public and instead
concentrated on the pleasure he could derive out of whatever he was ordered
to do. Even when paraded down the street as a pure sexual object, he
learned to appreciate the fact others envied his master's ability to own
such a slave and from their lustful stares, how much they would like to
have him in their own bed for the pleasure he could no doubt give them.

From a confused little slave boy who happened to be well built and
extraordinarily handsome, he had turned himself into a bought object who
was proud of what his body could do to please others, a slave who was proud
of being owned by a rich and powerful master, and a possession that others
envied. He was, either by nature or his training, an exhibitionist, a
performer, and a slave who knew and accepted his place in the scheme of the
Roman world.

The end result was he knew exactly who to buy to be a pleasure slave,
how to train them to absolute perfection in performance of their assigned
duties, and, most importantly, how to market them and to whom once they
were perfectly trained.

Ten years into his freedman status, his master Septimus had earned his
original investment back 150 times; my father had been able to support
himself, eventually buy my mother out of Septimus' ownership, and raise
three boys as potential citizens, complete with the knowledge of reading
and writing Latin (a skill my father never had), knowing a scattering of
Greek (a skill my father had picked up over the years in his business
dealings), knowing how to count money and make change in a multitude of
currencies prevalent in Rome, and, most importantly, how to deal with the
human livestock that surrounded us every since he entered the business.

By the time he was beginning to show his age, I was a man who had
obtained Roman citizenship along with my two brothers. He had enough funds
to take care of both himself and my mother even if they lived clear up to
60 or so, unusual in Rome.

But it was up to my brothers and I to figure out, like he had done,
how to turn our own experience into an occupation. All we knew were slaves
since we were born, so it was going to have to be something to do with
slaves one way or another. I didn't want to buy and sell them like my dad
- I just didn't have the business acumen to be good at it. My youngest
brother did. I didn't want to breed them either now that breeding slaves
seemed to be the most economical way to produce them. But my other brother
took a real interest in slave breeding and saw the long range possibilities
of improving the breed substantially. He had already signed up to be the
master breeder for one of the big corporation's largest breeding operations
located right here in the Roman suburbs. No, what interested me was
training slaves. I found it fascinating how seemingly most anything could
be turned into a fine finished product if you just trained them right.
From early childhood, I had been interested in this aspect of my father's
business and seemed to have a natural ability in that area if my first
products were any example.


One time, when I was about 10 or so, one of my father's new buys had
been 'ringed,' a procedure where the foreskin of the slave's penis had been
pierced so a thick ring of some metal or other was permanently fastened.
This left the slave's uncircumcised prick dangling with a large ring
hanging from the end of it and was, of course, handy for leashing the slave
or fastening him in his cage at night. It also made it practically
impossible for the slave to fuck male or female and gave the slave
considerable pain whenever he became sexually excited through the severe
skin stretching that caused. For a slave, being ringed this way was
practically the end of any sex life - fucking was pure agony for both
parties involved and even getting a hard-on was excruciating, let alone
masturbating or getting another slave to give you head for a little relief.
The end result for such a slave was to learn to control any thoughts or
feelings that led to sexual arousal and pray that nobody handled you in
that area.

Father, like most dealers, led such slaves around by a leash attached
to their penis rings. It was easy to control them that way and was most
convenient to leash them. One day, while helping my dad, he asked me bring
such a slave over to one of the pens for some reason or other, handling me
a leash. I dutifully hooked the leash to the slave's penis ring and led
him over to my dad, fascinated by how easily the slave could be led in that
fashion and how easy it was for me, even with my small stature at the time,
to leash him. I did notice the slave, a full-grown adult, was obviously
totally humiliated by having a small child leading him around by his
leashed prick. He body was flushed in embarrassment and his fists clinched
in controlled rage. Even then, it gave me a feel of raw power to lead such
a handsome, well built slave around that way, knowing there was nothing he
could do about it despite his humiliation and rage. Like almost all of
father's properties, this one was very well hung and exceptionally

"Doesn't it hurt the slave, dad, if he gets a hard-on?" I asked since
I had been around naked male slaves all my life and knew, unless they were
drained regularly, they were erect a good deal of the time unless they were
overworked, sick, or were just coming off of stud duty somewhere.

"You bet it does, son," my dad laughed. "That's the whole point of
ringing a randy young buck like this," he added as he reached over and
fondled the slave's genitals roughly. "Keeps their minds on their work.
Slaves are just animals basically, son, and if you don't control them
carefully, they're out rutting around instead of doing what they were
bought to do. Let them revert back to their wild state and they'd be
fucking all of the time. That's alright some of the time if they're being
trained as a pleasure slave, but it's going to be when and where his owners
say, not what a slave wants, especially one destined to be sold to bring
pleasure to his owners. This one here, for example, was caught trying to
fuck one of the slave girls through the bars of his cage the minute the
overseer wasn't looking. As you can imagine, son, this boy's prick gets
long enough to reach right through those cage bars when he's all excited,
so he would have been able to fuck that slave girl if we hadn't of caught
him right away. Normally a good beating stops most of that, but it wasn't a
week until this slave was trying to hump another slave girl right on the
kitchen floor even though the whip weals on his back hadn't healed up yet
from his shenanigans a week earlier. As the overseer pointed out to me,
either he was really stupid, he was going to be a tough one to train
properly, or he was pure animal when it came to sex. Didn't matter what it
was - it was going to stop and, since this was the second incidence, I
decided to ring him. Don't expect much trouble out of him now," he
chuckled as he sharply tugged on the penis ring for emphasis watching the
slave appropriately groan in pain. "Watch, son," he added as he continued
to massage the entire shaft until it began to swell and the penis
convoluted as the foreskin stretched from the incipient erection. The
slave moaned, bit his lip to keep himself from screaming, but then was
unable to control constant whimpering as the pain from his penis overcame

"Master, master," he begged, "Please, master, the pain.. I'll do just
what you say, master."

"Quiet, slave. I'm just using you to demonstrate to my son how well a
penis ring works if it's installed properly. You should be honored I chose
you to demonstrate it to my son," he responded sharply, massaging the prick
even harder as punishment for the slave daring to speak out.

The slave said not another word, but sobbed openly as tears spelt down
his cheeks in his pain.

It wasn't another month until that same slave was back in front of my
father, this time without the penis ring but with a small amount of blood
oozing out of a ragged torn foreskin.

"Son, I wanted you to see this for yourself," my father said as he
lifted the slave's prick to assess the damage. "This bastard got so horny
he tore that penis ring out and fucked a new slaveboy just thrown in his
cage. He not only tore that new slaveboy's ass up with this big prick,
therefore damaging my property without permission, but he's damaged his own
body, which also belongs to me which he seems to have forgotten." The
slave being examined was trembling in fear, as well as having his torn
prick being handled so roughly.

"I'm sorry, master...." the slave sobbed. "I'm sorry, master... I
couldn't help myself, master.."

My father slashed him across his mouth with his hand, knocking the
slave to the floor if my father hadn't had a good grip on his torn penis
with his other hand.

The slave said no more, but continued sobbing and quaking.

"Are you going to sell him to the mines?" I asked, since this was a
common enough fate for slaves that caused trouble.

"No, son," my father smiled appreciating my interest in his business.
"It's a reasonable suggestion, but what else could I do?"

"Cut him?" I suggested since it was common enough to castrate male
slaves caught raping other slaves or engaging in sexual acts without their
master's permission. Although my father stocked only a few eunuchs for
clients who liked nothing else, there was a large risk my father would end
up with nothing in cutting this slave. Production of eunuchs was a risky
business given seven out of every ten of them died in the process since
infection often took its toll. As a result, handsome eunuchs brought
premium prices, but not everyone could afford them and the market was
generally limited to only the wealthiest citizens.

"No, son, but again, it's a most reasonable suggestion. If he lived
through it, he'd probably bring at least 2 sesterces all by himself if we
could ferret out the right buyer. Some women like them because there's no
chance of being knocked up by a slave when you bed them down as well as the
fact they don't have those debilitating orgasms, of course. And some
masters buy them for their own beds, claiming there's nothing like a eunuch
when it comes to fucking. They claim a cut boy puts more into receiving a
fucking because that's the only sex he can experience anymore and so he
enjoys being fucked more. But I've fucked a few cut boys myself and, to
date, I've never seen much difference as compared to any other slave
trained for a master's enjoyment. Any other suggestions?" he teased.

"I doubt you'll whip him to death," I laughed, "or have him crucified
as an object lesson for the other slaves in the pens. He'll bring too good
a price on the auction block for that, I'd wager." I paused and then added,
"If, father, you can ever break this slave to his proper fate."

"Well said, son," my father glowed with pride at my growing knowledge
of slave management. Those are all well thought out suggestions, son, but
I've got something else in mind for this randy buck," he squeezed the
slave's balls so hard the slave shrieked in pain.

"What's that, father?"

"I'm going to trim him clean, throwing all of that torn foreskin to
the pigs, so his prick will end up looking as sharp and attractive as any
of our other circumcised boys and then, as soon as he's healed, we're going
to get serious teaching him once and for all his body isn't his - it's for
the use of his owner and only his owner. But since he's so damn randy, I
going to train him for sale to the brothels. That way he'll be doing what
the gods must have intended for this boy all along - having his body used
day and night by anyone with a few coins in their pocket. After a few
years of life in a busy brothel, I doubt if this boy will be quite as randy
as he's been since I bought him."

The slave being discussed as if he wasn't even there blanched pure
white as the blood drained from his body in horror. Unbeknownst to his new
master, his older brother, equally good looking, had been sold to a male
brothel catering to legionnaires and poor freedman not far from where he
was penned right now and had literally been fucked to death within a couple
of years. From what he'd heard about his brother's demise, he'd gone mad
once he'd been chained in position at the brothel and put to almost
constant use from the rough clientele. No one there cared about his mental
state as long as he was still a top choice among the customers, but
eventually he stopped eating and, despite efforts to force feed him, he
died a thin and haggard shadow of what he'd once been.

"Please, master... Please.. Not the brothels....My brother,
master,..." he started out but was cut short by another excruciating
squeeze to his balls which caused him to pass out and slump to the floor.

That very day the slave was trimmed to my father's specifications. He
ended up healing nicely and his prick was even more attractive in my eyes
than it had been before: thick, long, and smooth with a pearly head proudly
displayed at all times now. The vigorous training my father promised was
delivered without compromise and within a month he was so used to being
fucked he hardly whimpered anymore when yet another big shaft entered
either his ass or his mouth. Within two months, under a steady whip and a
spiffy new brand, he had been broken to the point where he participated
willingly in being fucked and tightened his ass appropriately at just the
right moment for a user's heightened satisfaction and was able to swallow
even the biggest, thickest pricks all the way down his throat with no
hesitation, swallowing even the largest loads without spilling a
drop. Shortly after that he was sold to a brothel as promised, this one at
the port city of Ostia where sailors would be his main customers, eager to
get their money's worth after months at sea. My father was most pleased at
what he sold for, the full two sesterces he had hoped for, more than four
times what he had paid for the boy originally.

I had learned from that event. I learned how my father effectively
used humiliation and shame as a training tool, how the whip and the
branding iron instilled fear as a permanent controlling force into a free
spirited slave, and how even the most contumacious slaves can be honed into
high profit items on the auction block through an unrelenting training
program. As father used to lecture me, "the secret of good slave training
is to narrow their options down to where the only thing they can do is
exactly what you want them to do." That's what he did with this slave. In
the final analysis, the only thing that slave could do was become a
compliant pleasure slave headed for a life in the brothels where he would
try to carve out as comfortable a life as possible under the circumstances.

My father, ever the educator, took me to that very brothel to view the
slave on his next trip to Ostia where he was attending a sale of Egyptian
slaves fresh from Alexandria. The brothel slave recognized us instantly
and promptly dropped to his knees and placed his head to the floor in
recognition of the honor of our visit. It had been about a year since his
sale to the brothel and he was obviously being fed well, exercised
properly, and was remarkably free of fresh whip weals or any permanent whip
scars - all signs of "settling in" well, according to my father's
experienced eye. My father asked to examine him, and, when the slave was
in the proper display position with his hands in back of his head and his
pelvis thrust out for convenience in handling his manhood, it was obvious
he was little the worse for wear. He quickly displayed a full erection of
his trimmed prick, a sexy little smile of invitation, and it was obvious he
wasn't adverse to my father using him right then and there in front of
everyone. His body was, if anything, in better shape than ever, although,
upon inspection, his asshole had lost much of its former tightness and his
now calloused ringed tits looked like they had received a lot of use in
both being rubbed and sucked.

"I see you're prospering in your new home," my father commented to the
smiling slave as he reached out and stroked the slave's rampant prick.

"Yes, master, thank you, master," the slave responded rather
genuinely. "My new owner limits my usage to only 10 customers a day,
master." he added as if this, somehow, was a special privilege. "He thinks
such a light schedule keeps his stock retain their youthful looks and
assures their appeal, master."

"And is he right?" my father asked.

"A master is always right, master," the slave answered sagaciously,
"but I'm sure of it compared to the fate of my brother, master."

"Your brother was a slave too?"

"Yes, master, since we were both captured in the same raid. But he
was sold to a brothel without proper training or preparation and the master
there thought he could tame him by putting him to constant usage. He died
in his first year at the brothel, master. My master here views such
practices as a great waste of good slave meat, master."

"Well, your master's right," my father said as he continued stroking
his former property. "From the looks of it, you're going to live a long
life here in the brothel."

"Yes, master," the slave said while beginning to buck a little in my
father's hands from his growing excitement.

"Your customers here are primarily sailors I take it," my father said,
"probably as horny as you were when I first bought you, trying to fuck the
slave girls through the bars, tearing off your penis ring, and fucking any
slave thrown into your cage. You're a lucky boy in that I didn't castrate
you, slave."

"Yes, master and I'll be grateful to you forever for that wise
decision, master. Otherwise, I wouldn't have much appeal to the sailors,
master. They're not much interested in fucking eunuchs, master, although
the brothel has a couple of them on hand for those who are interested. My
master makes a lot more money off of me being whole, master," he smiled
again as he thrust his organs into my father's hands as a symbol of total

With that, the brothel owner indicated a sailor was waiting to use our
former slave and we left to tour the rest of the facility before going back
to examine the Egyptian slaves being offered that day. It was a good
chance to see how brothel slaves were put to use, especially with my father
patiently pointing out what types of slaves tended to turn out most
profitable once placed into the heavy demands inherent in most brothel


When I was only seven or so, I asked my father why he kept slaves
naked at all times even after he had bought them.

"Why do you think they're sold naked?" my father asked.

"Well, so you can see what you're buying," I answered without
hesitation. Even to a seven-year-old, that much was obvious.

"Exactly," my father replied, obviously pleased I was turning out to
be clever in the business of buying and selling human flesh. "But there's
more to keeping a slave naked than just showing off their charms," he
chuckled. "Son, put yourself in their position," he instructed. "How
would you feel being shown out in public stark naked?"

"Like a slave," I again answered without hesitation.

"That's my point. But let's go a little further. Let's say you had
to remain naked all the time, not just when being sold. Wouldn't you
rather be given a little something to at least cover your private parts?"

"Of course, father. Oh, I get it. At least I think I do. I'd feel
embarrassed and humiliated if I didn't have a stitch of clothing and
everyone around me not a slave did. Then I'd really feel like a slave, but
an embarrassed and humiliated slave."

"Those are mighty big words for a seven year old," my father said
proudly. "But you're exactly right. I keep all my slaves buck naked all
the time and I like it when they flush red with embarrassment when they
realize people are staring at them and assessing them with their eyes.
It's good for slaves to realize they're just property now and there is
nothing like being butt naked to remind them of that. Slaves learn through
their embarrassment and humiliation, son. They learn first of all they're
slaves now and nothing is going to change that. If their owner wants them
butt naked, then butt naked they'll be. It doesn't make a twit of
difference what they think about it one way or the other. That's an
important lesson for a slave to learn - he's got no say in what happens any
more, his master controls his life now. And you know what, son? Even when
the slaves have the best bodies in the world and should be proud to show
their attributes off at every chance, they still tend to be humiliated by
having to show their bodies that way. I think it's more the "having to"
than the act itself, which isn't so bad if you have something to flaunt to
the public anyway. The fact they have no say whatsoever in displaying
their body is the important lesson, son.

But there's another reason I like them naked all the time. I'll give
you a hint. It's especially useful if they're males like all my slaves are
and are purchased primarily to become pleasure slaves for their new

I thought a long time on this one before answering in that I didn't
want to lessen my father's estimate of my cleverness in slave matters. I
looked over at a nearby cage holding some slaves about midway through their
training and studied them briefly as they stared back at me. Suddenly, I
had the answer, I thought.

"I know, father," I blurted out excitably.

"Yes, son," my father's smile was infectious.

"It's so you can just look at them and tell if your training is
working, isn't it, father? If they're showing hard most of the time, the
training is probably taking hold. If they're just flac... flac... "

"Flacid," my father prompted.

"Flacid, they're either not responding to the training or they're
shooting off without permission," I responsed. "Father, I still think
'soft' is as good as that other big word, but I know I've got to learn that
word if I'm going to be dealing in male slaves. Just like you told me to
call them pleasure slaves instead of whores and to call it a penis instead
of a prick."

"My the gods, you're right on both counts, son. If they're hard most
of the time, they're responding to our training and if they're flaccid
they're not. That's important feedback on how excited a boy is at any
given time and if they're not naked, how are you to know? That's why any
trainer worth his salt keeps slaves naked at all times - it's the only way
he knows how that slave's body is responding. You are a clever one, son,
for figuring that out all by yourself. And, as for that other thing, about
using flacid instead of soft.. well, when you're a dealer yourself, I want
you to present yourself as real class. The classiest dealers use the big
words, son, and their wares reflect their class. The scum dealers use
gutter talk and, without them even knowing it, it drives the prices down
they are going to get for their pieces of meat. I want you selling that
meat in the loftiest of terms, boy, and.... " he paused dramatically...
"getting the best prices for your high-class merchandise. You can do a lot
with language, son. It can set the tone for a whole market of slaves being
offered. Why do you think slaves are always referred to as "boys" instead
of "men?"

Again I pondered his question before answering. Finally, I had an

"It reminds them they are as dependent on their master as I am on my
father?" I ventured. "And doesn't it tell everyone, including themselves,
they're just slaves and always will be. A Roman citizen wouldn't never
tolerate being called a 'boy,'" I added.

Father hugged me warmly as his pride spread across his face. "By the
gods, I've got a natural born genius on my hands, at least when it comes to
understanding human livestock. When you join me in my business, we'll make
a killing."

Well, as you know, I didn't join Father directly in his business so
that last statement never materialized. But my prescient knowledge of
human livestock did come in handy nevertheless.


When I was 16 and almost a man in all respects, my father said there
was something he wanted to show me now that I was of age. My eyebrows
arched and I broke out in a big smile in that I couldn't imagine seeing
anything new or startling at this stage of my life, having grown up with
naked slave properties all around me my whole life. Just attending the
auctions with my father, which I had done since I was four or so, had
taught me the whole gamut of human variation and response it seemed. So my
curiosity was piqued.

"Something new?" I asked.

"Something you need to know," he answered with a big smile. "It's
important if you're going to be breaking slaves anytime soon."

"Hopefully," I replied, since I had been urging my father to give me
several slaves to break for practice, if nothing else.

Without further ado, I followed father to a part of the slave quarters
that had always been locked before. Once we entered the windowless room, I
was overwhelmed with the smell - a mixture of sweat, semen and the
unmistakable unique scent of human rutting. It was fairly dark inside, lit
only by torches in sconces on the wall, but eventually my eyes focused on
the scene in front of me. There were two rows of 10 'rutting benches,'
those padded A- framed wooden structures where a slave's ankles and wrists
could be fastened at the four bases forcing their cunts and/or asses up at
just the right height and angle for easy accessibility. We Romans had not
invented the device - the Assyrians had I understood - but we had certainly
popularized the device around the known world and put it to good use at our
slave breeding farms where you saw them practically everywhere. To each
bench was manacled some male slaves I'd never seen before, all now freshly
body-shaved and oiled so their skin gleamed in the humid air.

"I just this morning bought this lot of 20 off of Delos," my father
explained, referring to a dealer located near Mars Field who generally
disposed of stock shipped in from the Greek island of Delos, a major
transshipment spot for Eastern slaves headed toward Roman markets. The
slave merchant had assumed the name of Delos in tribute to his stock in
trade. "As you know, he generally reserves the best looking males for me,
especially those well endowed."

"You've generally been well pleased with the slaves from Delos," I
commented to indicate I knew exactly what he was talking about. "But I've
never seen this room before," I added as I rubbed the ass of a slave
chained in place at the nearest rutting bench. "You usually examine their
holes at the dealer, don't you?"

"Son, there's something you need to know about new stock I've been
reluctant to share with you up until now due to your innocence. But now
that's you're practically a man yourself, you need to understand the very
first step of breaking a slave into their new ownership. It's sort of a
ritual with we Romans, although I know the Greeks practiced it long before
we adopted it. The idea is to teach a slave immediately his body belongs
to his new master and offers the slave a way to demonstrate he accepts that
new mastery."

"Looks like being sold and collared would tell them that," I
snickered. "Surely they're not so dumb you need a special ritual to get
that across. It's so fundamental it's self-evident I would think, father."

"I love your mastery of the language, son. It will serve you in good
stead throughout life. But this special ritual sears it into their brain,

"So, what is it? Is it something to do with them strapped to these
rutting benches. A good introductory whipping? A fresh branding? Ringing
their balls? Tattooing an ownership mark on their butts?"

"Nothing that esoteric, son," my father laughed. "It's customary to
have the master or his representative fuck them hard first thing - before
anything else happens - to demonstrate his mastery of their body. Slaves
from within the Empire expect it as part of changing hands and, unless
they're a virgin, don't resist it much in that they seem to realize that
would be futile. The virgins squeal and holler until they're broken in,
then they settle down considerably, especially when they can see for
themselves all the other slaves are taking it in stride. The foreign ones,
though, if they're new to slavery, put up quite a howl - amusing,
almost. But even there they see how the other stock is accepting it and
after being fucked a good long while, they settle down and accept it as
their fate. What else can they do, chained to the rutting benches like
they are?" he chuckled. "With 20 to do today, I thought you might be
interested in helping me out with this task. I just fuck them long enough
to establish it's my right and then pull out before I shoot. Otherwise, I
couldn't possibly last through all 20 of them. The trainers go to work
right after I pull out and fuck them unrelentingly for a good 30 minutes or
as long as it takes to let them know they've been seriously fucked and
that's the way it's going to be from now on if their new master so

"You just stick it in all the way, pump hard a few times, and then go
on to the next one before you shoot off?" I asked.

"Basically, that's all there is to it. It's just to establish you own
their body now and can do anything you want with it from now on. The
trainers really open them up, if they haven't been subject to some serious
training before now."

"I assume the new slaves have all been properly cleansed inside and
well greased?" he asked a nearby trainer, himself a collared slave like all
of my father trainers.

"Yes, master. Thoroughly," replied a still handsome man who had an
exceptional build and huge equipment and was, like all the trainer slaves,
fitted with a prominent nose ring now to denote his trainer status.

My father only bought former pleasure slaves as his trainers, those
who were now in their 30s and even 40s and were up for auction again,
having lost their youthful looks and fresh appeal necessary for a career as
a pleasure slave. Not only were they cheap to purchase, but they had the
experience that was invaluable in producing the next generation of pleasure
slaves. My father was clever in doing this, of course. Such slaves were
most eager to escape the mines or construction gangs in the resale; they
loved being the ones giving the orders for a change, they loved doing the
fucking instead of always being the ones getting fucked, and they loved
having a job where they could utilize the skills they had learned over the
past 15 to 20 years. For them, they were now in slave heaven and were not
only totally loyal and grateful to my father for buying them up for this
new role, but gave everything they had to the training of new commodities
destined for the pleasure slave markets. The bothersome nose ring which
emphasized their animal status to Roman citizens was a small price to pay
for their good fortune, but even that was a status symbol in the eyes of
new slaves under their charge.

My father, with me right behind him, then strode to the front of the
room and ordered all the slaves to look at him, difficult at best shackled
as they were to the rutting benches.

"Slaves, as you know, I am your new master and this," he said pointing
to me, "is my son who will be your master also." I swelled with pride
being recognized as a master by my father. "As you are no doubt aware, it
is customary for a Roman master to assert his property rights over your
bodies as his first interaction. Therefore, you have been chained into
position to have your new masters claim their rightful ownership of your

"Master, may I ask a question?" one of the slaves stretched into
position over the rutting benches asked.

"Yes, slave, as long as it is brief and relevant," my father warned.

"I don't understand what all those big words mean, master," the
ignorant but strikingly handsome Persian boy asked.

"It means your masters are going to fuck you to let you know that's
their right from now on because they own you body and soul," my father
responded with a slight smile on his lips. "Any more questions?"

The room was silent other than the slaves shifting around a bit on the
padded benches preparing for the inevitable.

My father quickly shed his expensive soft wool toga and his freshly
laundered undergarments to reveal his own body, still impressive for his
age. I immediately did likewise, although I wasn't allowed to wear a toga
yet, but an elaborate (and very expensive) belted light wool tunic due to
my youth and consequent non-citizen status. My father quickly motioned
with a quick flick of his hand for two of the slave attendants standing
almost out of sight alongside the outer walls to kneel before us. Without
further instruction, they opened their mouths and swallowed our pricks down
to the root as they begin suctioning. Within a minute, both of us were
fully erect. A command from my father and both slaves (who I now saw were
exceptionally handsome lads) withdrew their mouths from our organs, dried
our shafts with their hair, and then, reaching to a nearby pot of perfumed
grease, gently coated our pricks with the substance. Father then waved them
away where they again disappeared into the darkness along the outer walls.
The new slaves manacled to the rutting benches could move their heads
enough to see what was going on and were obviously impressed with the two
slaves immediate and seemingly totally willing complete compliance with my
father's almost silent commands. They also, to a man, knew what was coming
when they saw the slaves lubricate our erect shafts.

"Ready?" my father laughed.

"Ready," I responded.

Without hesitation, my father plowed into the ass of the first slave
in position, followed by that slave's loud gasp as he felt his ass invaded
by my dad's formidable penis. I followed his example and shoved mightily
into the slave manacled next to his. This new property, a virgin perhaps or
at least rarely used up to this point, screamed as I rammed the full length
up his chute and began to pump hard. The slave beneath me bucked and
quivered as he struggled against his bonds, squealing like a pig being
butchered, and I considered having him gagged, but instead just pumped
harder and deeper until he passed out which at least stopped all his
yelling. I didn't slow down, however, but just kept pumping him harder and
harder until father indicated we should go on to the next in line. When I
withdrew, I saw a thin line of blood coming out of that slave's ass.
Apparently, he was a virgin and I'd torn him a little, but it would quickly
heal and an important lesson had been learned. No doubt he would be much
abler to handle a master's demands the next time around, especially after
the trainers had worked on that bleeding ass before this session was over.
Father's slave had obviously been fucked before and hence could handle the
situation in a more civilized fashion.

The next set of slaves were just the opposite. Dad got the
inexperienced one who howled and screamed the whole time, while I got a
slave who, despite his youth, had been used rather heavily before father
bought him, judging from his rather loose asshole. In fact, the slave
beneath me this time on the rutting bench seemed to enjoy being fucked and
simply moaned softly as I plummeted in and out of him vigorously. As I
pulled out before I shot myself, I noticed he had already done so and the
sticky result was all over the floor beneath him. Both dad and I were
surprised how much of it there was and that it was so thick it barely
spread on the floor at all.

"Now there's one whose going to be quick to train," father
laughed. "We might think of selling him to one of these old goats who likes
to drink a young boy's output every morning to keep his youth."

The regular trainers were right behind us, so the moaning, gasping and
squealing was solid behind us as we progressed forward. Within a hour, all
20 of the new slaves had rendered their bodies to their new master and the
ritual of new ownership had been accomplished. Now their real training
began. Twenty new slaves meant an experienced trainer assigned to each one
and every one of those trainers was busily teaching the new slaves exactly
what being a pleasure slave was going to mean in their future lives.

"They'll be fucked for the rest of the day off and on," father said as
we put our clothes back on. "The trainers switch around so the new slaves
get used to all the trainers' different sizes, styles, and techniques.
They'll be so sore by tonight, most of them will have trouble walking, but
my morning they'll be fine, and so the trainers start in on them right away
tomorrow and the next day and the next.... By the end of a week or so,
they'll feel empty if something isn't stuffed up their butts and by the end
of the month, they're beginning to crave it. Within two months, we'll be
selling our seasoned goods with a great deal of confidence they won't
disappoint their new owners."

"I appreciate you taking me into your confidence. And, father, I am
old enough to help you out in this area now I hope you noticed. I'm almost
as big as you are already and I'm still growing," I giggled.

"Did you like it?" my father laughed. "That's the big question."

"Have to admit I did," I laughed with him. "From now on, count on my
help in breaking in the new slaves."

"Good to hear, son. Sometimes, a young boy like yourself gets so
caught up in fucking the women slaves he forgets a handsome boy's body has
a lot to offer a young master."

"I hadn't forgotten, dad," I chided him. "That beautiful boy you gave
me for my birthday as a personal body slave hasn't let me forget."

"That's why I gave him to you. You had too many lady friends and I
was afraid you were going to knock one of them up and they'd want you to
marry them at your tender age. That young slave I gave you is to help keep
you drained so you don't get into some woman's scheme for a quick marriage.
All the Roman boys from well bred families have a least one slave boy for
just that purpose. If he isn't up to the task just tell me and I'll give
you another one that is."

"Oh, he's up to it, alright, father. Too eager, if anything. I've
had to discipline him several times for being far too aggressive, always
trying to rub against me, or trying to stroke me or getting his mouth
around my dick every time he's called upon to help me with my bath. It's
tiresome some times."

"Don't be too hard on him, son. I threatened to cut his manhood off
if he didn't keep you drained all the time. That usually motivates a young
slave properly."

"It would motivate me, father," I laughed. "Next time he tries to
seduce me into fucking him, I'll be a little more cooperative taking your
threat into account."

We both broke down in laughter and, arm in arm, left the room of the
rutting benches, now heaving in heavy action as the big pricked trainers
had gone into full stride. I had never felt closer to my father and, in
addition, had learned another lesson in good slave management.


My oldest brother was obsessed with improving slave stock through
selective breeding. Even the doltish Gauls had significantly improved their
cattle by such means in just a few generations, the Arabs regularly bred
superb racing horses that dominated the Circus Maximus anymore, and the
brutish Huns had distinctive types of large dogs who served as guards,
shepherds, and even warriors. My brother was sure the Romans could
distinguish themselves similarly in the area of human livestock, ultimately
producing various types of slaves, each best suited to particular slave
occupations. Male and female draft slaves would be strong, sturdy, disease
resistant, stupid, and docile. Both genders of house slaves would be
beauteous, graceful, reasonably smart, and sexually compliant. Male
entertainment slaves, such as chariot racers, gladiators, wrestlers, and
fodder for the male brothels, would be handsome, muscular, flashy,
aggressive on command, exceptionally masculine in their body build, and
sexually indefatigable. Female entertainment slaves, used in the theater
and the brothels as well as serve as personal mistresses, would be
beautiful, uncommonly sexual, and totally submissive. Thus, basically, he
envisioned three 'races' of slaves in Rome's future: drafts, domestic, and
entertainment breeds. His goal was to produce those three slave 'races' as
soon as possible.

His dream of having the Empire distinguish itself in this area proved
difficult to accomplish. First off, it would require a centralized
authority who could monopolize breeding operations to pull it off.
Unfortunately, neither the Roman Legions, who had practically monopolized
the source of newly captured foreign slaves, nor the Imperial House, who
technically 'owned' all of the public slaves primarily utilized throughout
the empire for construction and bureaucratic administration seemed
particularly interested.

The Legions' rather rigid view was that there was an endless supply of
slaves yet to be harvested in new conquests who literally cost nothing.
Breeding slaves was time-consuming, painstaking if done right in that
slaves seemed to resent being used as brood mares and studs just like farm
animals without considerable discipline, and costly in that you had to feed
the output for a goodly time before they were marketable. Most Roman
Legionnaires had a slave of their own by this time - a body to keep their
armor polished, their leather oiled, and their bed warm. They weren't
interested in waiting a generation to market a new crop. Especially, when
the profits of selling off their newly chained captives provided plenty of
money from the avaricious slave dealers who followed right behind the
Legions in their campaigns.

The Emperor found other monetary pursuits far more profitable: grain
commodity manipulation; sale of newly conquered land tracts; sale of public
offices; and seizure of condemned political enemies' own properties. Those
profits were immediate and required no money up front as slave breeding
did. Besides, the vast choice of slaves available in the markets now
diminished the value of selectively breeding new stock. Most any citizen
with a few coins in his pocket could fulfill any slave fetish he had as
long as he was even mildly patience and was willing to browse the slave
markets periodically or hire an agent to do so for him or her. The
Emperor's own procuring agents, for example, had furnished the Imperial
Palace with such extraordinary human livestock from all over the known
world that visitors were generally astonished when they first viewed them.

Large corporations generally operated at least some breeding farms,
either for highly specialized markets, like brothel slaves, or simply to
guarantee an endless supply of slaves for the markets if the foreign
sources dried up. Over the years, they had learned that domestically- bred
slaves were easier to manage, more accepting of their status, and required
considerably less discipline if they had been reared properly at the
breeding farms themselves. Besides, the worst characteristics of the stock
could be eliminated fairly easily, such as overall ugliness, puniness,
idiocy, infertility, poor resistance to disease, and inherent sour or
uncooperative dispositions. But their approach to breeding was simple and
straightforward: forced coupling on demand among those decent looking, big,
strong and sturdy, and who had survived their slavery without too much

Female slaves were bred starting at around 15 and kept pregnant a good
deal of the time until they couldn't be bred any longer, usually when they
were around 35 or so. Infant mortality was incredibly high so the female
broods typically produced only about 10 to 12 slaves that survived to their
peak marketable age of around 15 to 18. Despite that, the broods had been
pregnant most of those 20 years of breeding. Breed masters grumbled that
the broods tried to abort themselves if they weren't carefully watched and
even killed their own babies at birth if given the chance. Some of the
broods tried to starve themselves to death and consequently had to be force
fed to maintain a healthy pregnancy. If the new products survived their
own mothers before they were transferred to the safer environs of the slave
nurseries, they were then subject to many diseases that decimated children
in Rome at that time, made even worse by having so many babies together in
one place it seemed.

You didn't need many studs to service even the largest collections of
brood slaves, so you afford to be much more selective in exactly which
slaves got this honor. Most males chosen were huge, handsome, and well
equipped, but often balked at being mated with just anyone chosen for them
despite the sexual relief offered and resented being forced into mating on
demand simply to produce more slaves who would be treated no different than
they were, a practice usually reserved for the lowest animals. Suicide
wasn't unknown among the selected studs, who seemed to care less they were
destroying their master's valuable property in the process or hampering the
progress of the mighty Roman Empire. The studs generally required careful
watching and a driver who wasn't afraid to use his whip brutally.

All of this added to the cost of producing bred slaves, who were
having a tough time competing with captured slaves at auction despite the
obvious advantages due to their high price. Thus, the big corporations
were cautious about entering the slave breeding enterprise with full
commitment at this point in time. Perhaps, later, when the supply of
foreign slaves dried up completely, but now... they were just too expensive
it seemed.

Thus my brother found himself a loner in his dreams of vast slave
races being bred as signature products of the Roman Empire. With his
limited capital, he operated his own breeding operations on a small scale,
not unlike many other 'slave farms' dotted across the Empire here and
there. His concept of breeding the perfect 'designed' slave never wavered,
however. He would visit the vast farming estates owned by the aristocracy
where huge herds of chained slaves worked the land under a constant whip,
quizzing the farm stewards as to who was the most productive slave they
had; who had lived through the epidemics that plagued the land on occasion;
who gave the least trouble to their supervisors; who took the lightest
whippings to keep working steadily, which female workers had little trouble
in child bearing despite their heavy work loads, and on and on until the
poor stewards were exasperated with his questions. When such slaves were
identified, he then looked them over, usually still in place within their
chain gang, their unshaven hair matted and filthy, their backs and rumps
covered with whip scars and brands, their ankles bleeding from the manacles
rubbing against them constantly, and their necks calloused and raw from the
heavy iron collars welded around their necks. They reeked from their own
shit running down their legs, their piss spattered across their front,
their sweat unwashed since the last rain, and for the young males, the
sticky juices leaking out of their pricks from constant unmet need. Such
rural draft slaves were never given relief time to meet their personal
needs and had to shit and piss while they worked. Nor were they ever
allowed to have any sexual relief, being carefully chained each night to
prevent even stroking themselves since it was felt this took energy away
from their work. The females were equally filthy, but most had swollen
bellies - the result of the overseers and handlers using them at night
where they were chained into position for such assaults. Most were worked
right up to delivery when they knelt, keeping the others chained to them
from doing their work, and dropped their litter in the dirt beneath them
until the overseer grabbed it up and whipped the slave woman back to work,
her afterbirth simply left in the fields as fertilizer. Many slave women
died from such treatment, but slave managers considered it necessary to
maintain good discipline and women slaves, especially the generally ugly
big-boned stock sold to the farms, were cheap enough so no one gave serious
thought to altering the system.

My brother then offered to buy up the sturdiest, biggest male and
female slaves he could find so recommended and who, upon inspection, looked
good in his eyes. He gave preference to males heavily hung who looked the
role of a stud in his eyes and who were dripping heavily in need, and
females who were heavy in yet another pregnancy, judging from the already
old stretch marks scarred onto their once-again swollen bellies. Most
stewards weren't authorized to sell stock on the spot without the express
approval of the absentee estate owner, but my brother had an easy solution
to that. He generally brought along a small passel of slaves he'd bought
cheap somewhere and offered them as substitutes in the chain gangs for
those the steward would sell him. That way, he suggested, the absentee
owner would never know the difference since the slave count would be the
same, and, once the collars and shackles had been transferred to the stock
he provided, who would know the difference once the hair grew out and got
matted and their backs filled with scars. The steward would pocket the
purchase price and make a neat profit at the expense of the man hiring him,
who obviously had plenty of money to start with and who probably cared less
about the steward's need to save for his old age. And, if the steward
already had saved for his old age, he could always give the steward a slave
of his very own in lieu of any money changing hands. At this point, he
generally pointed out a fresh looking, cleanly shaved young boy or girl
that would be perfect to warm the steward's lonely bed at night and were
certainly more appealing than these ugly animals he had to look at day and
night here on the farm.

Such a deal invariably brought results and my brother brought back to
his breeding operations the sturdy males and pregnant females he thought
would be the best stock to breed his perfect draft slave. Over time, the
scheme worked and indeed my brother's bred slaves did gain a small
reputation as excellent draft slaves worth the extra money they cost. He
didn't have the capital to branch out beyond draft slaves, however, and
production never reached the level where he ever got beyond a modest, but
reliable, income for he and his family. In that respect, great wealth
always avoided him, just like it had my father, but, like my father, he
could take pride in what he had accomplished, even though it wasn't exactly
what he had dreamed of.

When I visited him a few weeks ago, he was hard at it when I first
arrived. He was leading one of his studs by his nose ring to a 'rutting
bench' where a huge boned woman about 30 had been fastened. The stud's
nose ring was fastened by a short leash to a ring on the back of the slave
women's neck collar, thus forcing him into position to fuck the women from
the rear. With a slash of his whip across the slave's rump, the stud, now
fully erect, drove into the woman's cunt and began pumping until, with a
final heave full up into her and a strident yell, he emptied his balls once
again for his master's benefit. Neither slave had shown much interest in
the mating itself , nor did either one show any curiosity as to whom their
partner was. My brother unhooked his leash from the woman's collar and led
the sweat- covered stud by his nose ring back to his cage with a pat on his
rump of encouragement. He then returned, put a plug into the woman's cunt
so the fresh seed wouldn't leak out, and then unchained her and led her
back to her cage. Hopefully, another slave was on the way eventually. Only
then did he wash his hands, freshen his clothes, and begin to act like a
proper host for a visit of his brother. He was that way his whole life -
always business came before pleasure. I suppose that's the way our father
raised all his sons.

My oldest brother had never viewed his wife as much more than a vessel
to produce his offspring, but, like many Roman matrons, she accepted that
role gracefully enough and amused herself with her attendant slave, a
handsome eunuch given her as a wedding gift by her husband. He was much
more interested in males who were big, rough looking, and muscular. His
breeding business provided plenty of slaves filling that bill, so his studs
did double duty - fucking the female slaves during the day; being fucked by
their master during the night.

That night, as a proper host, he offered to share his studs with me.
My first choice wasn't the big burly brutes he preferred, but I didn't want
to offend his hospitality. He let me take my pick of the studs and I
picked one out that was at least decent looking despite the ugly ring in
his snout, was well defined, hairless, and had a nice muscular butt that
looked inviting. He picked out the very stud that I had seen in action
earlier and, once both slaves were fastened by their manacles and their
nose rings to the rutting benches face down, we proceeded to take our

My brother said little while fucking the slave beneath him, nor did
the slave do much but moan softly. I, on the other hand, quizzed the slave
I had chosen while I fucked him.

"Do you wish you were back at the latifunda (the huge plantation)?" I
asked as I steadily plunged in and out of his muscular butt.

"No..... master," he responded between gasps. "It's
... .much.. .. better.. here."

"Then you like making new slaves and entertaining your master and his
friends with your butt and mouth?" I queried.

"No.... master....," the slave gasped truthfully as he adjusted his
butt position to best meet my stokes, "but.... master... it's much better
than being beaten all the time and living in your own
shit.... and.... eating slops,.... master."

"Then you appreciate your new owner?" I asked.

"Yes, master," the slave being fucked answered sincerely. "Life is
much better here, master. Am.... I.... I... pleasing you, master?" he
asked politely as he again shifted his butt to make it easier for me to
plow into him deeper.

"Yes, ........ " I gasped as I arched my back, plunged into him deeply
and drained myself thoroughly.

My brother's orgasm was simultaneous with mine.

When we withdrew, my brother unhooked both slaves from the rutting
bench so they could kneel before us and clean us with their mouths. When
they had finished with that, both bowed their heads and thanked us for
using them. My brother and I ruffled their hair, hooked their leashes back
to their nose rings, and led them back to their cages.


My youngest brother followed in my father's footsteps, first going
into partnership with my father and, later, when my father got too old to
do it anymore, took over the business completely, buying out his two
brothers' shares once he had enough capital to do so.

Like my father before him, though, he was never able to break into the
big time in the highly competitive business of buying and selling human
livestock. It wasn't that he didn't have the motivation or skill or
knowledge of what he was doing. He had all of those traits in abundance.
What he lacked, just like my father, was adequate capital to compete with
the big corporations slowly but surely crowding out the small slave dealers
throughout the Empire.

Nevertheless, he was still able to make a living and support his small
family without worry and his reputation in the field of assaying human
flesh on the market was unparalleled. He and I both knew that if he were
forced out of dealing in slaves directly by the big corporations, he could
still make a most decent living selling his services as a consultant for
large-scale purchasers of slave flesh.

To survive profitably, he stuck with the narrow market niche
originally carved out by my father - male pleasure slaves - and he had
everything my father had and more in selecting slaves not only with all the
necessary physical characteristics to find acclaim in this area, but who
also were most amendable to the intricate training necessary to appeal to
and then hold on to just the right buyer.

His success could be seen in his sales records. Amazingly, the
profits on his goods were not uncommonly in the 400 to 500 percent range,
so he didn't have to sell very many pieces of well-trained, comely male
flesh a year to make a decent living. And that profit was often made in as
little as two months or so if all his talents in selection and training
were going smoothly.

Since he lived nearby, I made it a point to visit him weekly, not only
to carefully examine his newly purchased stock, to check on the progress of
those in training, and to see how much his finished products had brought at
market during the ensuring week. The examinations were always arousing,
involving a lot of stroking the slaves beautiful skin, sucking their tits,
fondling their huge organs, and exploring their well-opened, but still
tight ass holes. Although the really new ones writhed and squirmed during
these blatant explorations of their bodies, they knew resistance would only
lead to devastating pain, and I always thought their barely hidden
resentment of my violation of their body was part of the thrill of
examining them.

Training was my expertise of course, so I wasn't so curious in that
area, but did check to make certain my brother wasn't doing anything
unproductive. He seldom did, not surprising since we had both been well
instructed by the same man in this area - our father. He used all the
standard techniques (humiliation, social facilitation to their slave
status, constant nakedness, control and ownership symbols installed on
their bodies, etc.) as well as techniques explicitly aimed for their new
lives (constant insertion of large training dildos, repeated live fucking
by the trainers, continual positioning on their knees for sucking practice
on the trainer's huge organs, learning to thank their users for using them,
etc.). Heavy discipline (mainly in the form of whippings, lashings, food
deprivation, and isolation) was imposed at all times as he, like my father
always preached, narrowed their options down to where the only thing to do
was exactly what their new owner bought them for - serving as an always
eager, willing pleasure slave in whatever way their new owner wanted
whenever he wanted it.

I couldn't find a thing he was doing wrong in training this crop, so
we spent the majority of our time remembering the pleasant times we had
experienced in our childhood, how fortunate we were to be born to good
parents who took their responsibilities seriously, and blessed we were to
be Roman citizens since Rome ruled the world now. As usual, my brother
wanted me to try out some of his slaves just about to be put on the market
and, as usual, I was happy to oblige him. He had picked out three he was
sure I would be pleased with, and, as usual, he chose well. By morning, I
was completely exhausted, but blissfully satiated. All three had not only
produced the greatest pleasures in their service, but had drained me
completely in the process.

"How were they?" my brother asked when I joined him for breakfast the
next morning.

"Better than ever," I replied. "They drained me completely, but I
can't think of one way they could improve in servicing a new owner.
Whoever is lucky enough to buy them is going to bless you for selling them
to him no matter how much they cost him, believe me, if last night is any
example. They're perfectly trained, brother, but training isn't
everything, even I admit as a trainer. Where are they from?"

"The black one is from our Province of Mauritania, born into slavery,
but sexually naive when I bought him, outside of some dalliances in the
slave pens. As you might guess from all his muscles, he was a galley slave
until his striking beauty caught the eye of a traveling slave dealer who
snapped him up and then sold him to me. The handsome blond is a recently
captured slave from the Germanic regions and his training has been long and
arduous. He had his own woman and children back in some dark forest there
and knew nothing of the pleasures men can have with other men. His training
has changed all that, of course, but he still calls upon his ancient gods
for help when he's assigned to a fifth or sixth partner in a given session.
It doesn't do any good, as you probably already surmised, but only adds to
the excitement of fucking him. The olive-skinned boy with the huge prick is
from an island called Crete and required little training. He had been
owned by a Greek man for several years as a pleasure slave and found few
challenges in our own training here."

"As usual, brother, you picked well," I commented. "They should bring
a nice price when placed up for auction."

"Oh," my brother laughed, "they're not going to be auctioned off.
I've already sold them at an outrageous price to an agent of .. now get
this... the Emperor himself. According to the agent, the Emperor has set
up a small brothel of selected stock just for the use of visiting
dignitaries, foreign ambassadors, returning generals, personal friends of
his, and, of course, the Emperor himself. They're adding three males due
to the demand and these boys will only add to the rich variety offered
there. It's quite a honor for the slaves when they realize who their new
owner is."

"And an honor for you, I would think. Supplier to the Emperor
himself," I replied. "You should add that to your sign outside and raise
your prices a good 10 percent."

"Not a bad idea, brother. And, just think, you have now fucked what
the Emperor himself fucks. Not bad for a mere relatively unknown citizen,
is it, brother?"

"I like that. 'Fucked what the Emperor fucks.' It's got a ring to it
that's almost inspiring," I chuckled. "No wonder I'm completely drained."

After breakfast, I helped him get the three slaves so recently used
completely shaved, cleansed, and oiled in preparation for their trip to the
Imperial Palace in the cage-wagon dealers like my brother typically used
for transport of slaves too valuable to force -march to their new owner.

As the three slaves peered through the bars as the wagon lurched into
action, they waved their farewells to my brother, their last owner, me,
their last assignment, and some of the slave trainers who had been their
main companions over the last few months. They then turned to study the
straining whip-scarred rumps and harnessed muscular shoulders of the six
naked draft slaves hitched to the wagon's front shafts pulling them to
their new home and again praising their good fortune in that they didn't
suffer the same fate as those pulling them now. The slow progress allowed
them to see the capital city's many splendors, take in the constant crack
of the driver's whip over the backs of the straining draft slaves as they
yelped and groaned in response, and take in all the complimentary comments
about their own totally exposed bodies.

"Where are they headed?" an onlooker shouted at the driver.

"The Imperial Palace," the driver shouted back with obvious pride.
"To the new brothel there."

"What an honor for the handsome slave boys," the onlooker shouted back
with obvious envy. "By the gods, I'd be happy with one of those sweating
draft slaves, let alone one of the beauties in the cage."

"Well, I've sampled the draft slaves, mister, and can assure you
they're not all that bad. But the slaves in back there - that's a whole
different world."

"Those huge pricks alone would make them expensive," another onlooker
commented loudly, "but with those bodies and beautiful faces, they must
have cost a fortune. I assume they're properly trained?"

"Would the Emperor have anything else?" the driver shot back with some
disgust at such a stupid question.

After that, the streets were filled with catcalls and comments about
the Emperor's new whores, but none with malice and most with admiration of
the Emperor's good taste in slave boys. What my brother best liked was the
constant question of where the Emperor had found the slaves and the driver
called his name out loud and clear over and over.

As we watched the little parade briefly, I told my brother he could
expect increased business from now on.

That prediction proved to be right. His business increased as did the
markup his customers would tolerate. Within a year, his income had

Strangely, so did mine. By association with my brother, my reputation
as a trainer of compliant slaves grew parallel with his as a dealer in
slave flesh. The sale of the Emperor's new concubines launched us into a
new pricing level.


Although my father had taught me well, I still ran into some
challenges in my line of work from time to time. Although some slaves I
was training were a pain in the ass at the time, when I look back, I
realized that's how I honed my skills in getting even the most recalcitrant
slave to accept the demands of his slavery, whatever they might be. Some
of my colleagues in the business labeled themselves "slave breakers." I
preferred the more precise term "slave trainer." After all, a slave could
"break" into madness, self-mutilation, destruction of his master's property
over and beyond himself, starving himself to death, or even attempting to
murder his tormentors. But a "trained" slave did what he was told to do,
instantly, without question, to the best of his ability, and with a willing
attitude. There was a huge difference, then, between a "broken" slave and a
"trained" slave, at least in my eyes. Those just wanting a slave "broken"
I referred to my far cheaper colleagues who employed only the crudest of
techniques even a idiot could easily master.

By now, you are no doubt aware my father was, in one person, an
educator, a coach, an overseer, a disciplinarian, a priest, a prophet and
even a soothsayer as well as one unafraid of heavy use of the whips,
brands, lashes, confinement chains, and the body control devices useful, if
not essential, in the proper training of a slave. I tried to use all of
the techniques, overt and subtle, he had taught me over my lifetime with
him and perfect them to my particular style which was probably a bit
harsher than his own. In my eyes, slaves available in today's market were
just a bit more unruly to start with than in his day due to their
desperation; a little sneakier in their demeanor as the number of slaves in
the free population had grown steadily which seemed to embolden them; a
little more uppity if given half a chance due to the fact some masters were
seriously spoiling their slaves which set a bad example for the others; and
a little lazier in that corporate owners were trying to economize by
reducing the number of overseers so too many slaves weren't being properly
supervised around the clock.

To offset these trends, initial training had to be more focused on
total and complete compliance at all times; more intolerant of any
deviations from what was expected of a properly trained slave; and
certainly more pain had to be introduced into the training so that the
lessons learned were learned for a lifetime. Consequently, under my
tutelage, slaves beaten for incorrect performance were beaten to where they
were sure they were going to die, often under the harshest whip of all, the
bull whip; cutting rations for disciplinary purposes was stretched to the
limit, where the slave realized he was completely dependent on the good
will of his owner to even live; slaves shamed were subjected to humiliation
for weeks on end and in the most public of circumstances; and gestures of
submission to my will had to be exaggerated - obeisance instead of bowing;
thanking me profusely for beating them; begging me to piss, to shit, to
have a drink of water; quivering in fear whenever I approached them with a
whip in hand or even a steely look in my eye; and pleading for sexual
relief which was rarely granted despite constantly stimulating their

The end result was a slave who feared and respected whoever bought
him; who never forgot his owner could starve him to death or torture him to
death for no other reason than he was that owner's property; who
anticipated a desired action before his owner even had to voice it; and who
acted without question immediately an order was given, even if the slave
hated doing it or knew that act would harm him. The goal was to produce a
slave who, told to put his hand in a flame, would do so instantly and
without comment, even if the hand was destroyed in the process. After all,
the hand belonged to his master, not the slave, and if his master wanted to
see it burn, so be it. That I routinely produced slaves of this caliber was
a testament to my skills and, of course, added to the fees I could charge.

A risk of any trainer was losing a few slaves in the process of
training them. My record in this area was quite good, rather remarkable
considering the quality of my products. Some were lost, no doubt about it,
but usually less than one of every hundred put under my charge. Some
amateurs in the slave training business were killing off ten or twelve
percent of those being "trained" and quite a few survivors either went mad
or turned "rogue" and had to be publicly crucified as a lesson to others.
Nor did any of my charges run away. I kept them shackled all through the
training generally until I could trust them and, if they even attempted it
and weren't being trained as a pleasure slave, I branded both their cheeks
with a huge "F," the standard mark for a fugitivus (runaway). Such a
distinction didn't affect their value if they were being trained for
anything outside of household duties and taught a powerful lesson to that
slave as well as others who might be thinking about it. Punishment for
pleasure slaves and other domestics who attempted to run away were more
hidden but just as effective. Facial brands lowered their appeal (and
their value) so other methods were employed that were invisible to everyone
but the slave himself: burns under their neck collars, up their ass holes,
behind their knees, or on the soles of their feet - anywhere it didn't show
but would be painful the rest of their lives.

But good training isn't about torture, is it? Torture is simply when
the training has essentially failed. So I really didn't have to utilize
those painful techniques too often and reserved them for extreme
cases. Good training is basically getting the slave to not only accept what
you want him to do but actually want to do it well. It's the difference
between rape and taking a good fucking. A male pleasure slave in training
can be raped easily enough and will accept it eventually as part of his
life, but a good pleasure slave wants to please the person who is fucking
him. This latter type of slave is the type I produced and where my
reputation was based. Slaves out of my training corrals were always eager
to be fucked, put everything they had into pleasing their users, profusely
thanked their users for fucking them, and then begged to be used again. In
addition, they kept their bodies as attractive as possible without being
told, exercised to keep their muscles in tone and appealing, and constantly
sought out new uses to which their bodies could produce pleasure for their
owners. The incompetent trainers produced pleasure slaves who allowed
their bodies to be used but obviously resented it, tried to get the fucking
over with as soon as possible, and were sullen and begrudging if a whip
wasn't right over their head the whole time.

I had to train slaves to meet every known sexual whims, fancy, and
fetish known throughout the world in my line of business of course. Priapus
was our god of fertility and his image involved a phantasmagorical penis.
One of the most peculiar slave requests in my eyes were purchasers looking
for slaves who resembled the freakish Priapus in this regard - freaks in
penis size - male slaves, who for some reason or another, had excessive
growth of their organs far beyond just being large or well-hung. Males
afflicted with this condition were so large they were incapable of
obtaining a full erection no matter how stimulated they were and had
difficulty maintaining the swelling they could obtain. I suppose they
didn't have enough blood to make it possible to fill such an enormous
shaft. It didn't much matter anyway - there were far too large to get into
anyone's hole without seriously damaging them. Therefore, they couldn't be
used for breeding; they couldn't be sold as a stud to service either a
master or a mistress; and no one could even suck them properly for a
master's amusement. All they could do was display their enormous
appendages which usually hung well below their knees and were so big around
one couldn't get their hand around it. The abnormality even prevented them
from walking properly so they were no good as litter bearers or
construction workers. There was a market for these human Priapuses, though
- as display slaves and that's what they were trained for. Persons buying
them, invariably naming them "Priapus," used them as amusing decorations at
their dinner parties, as conversation pieces at their doormen, and as
displays leashed behind them when they were out shopping, visiting friends
and relatives, or just taking a stroll. I trained them to maintain at
least partial erections most of the time (a time-consuming training
procedure), to display them well with pelvis thrust out and their legs
always spread wide for a good display, and to get used to be handled
routinely. The big market for such freakish slaves were matrons, who loved
fondling the huge shaft, milking it when they wanted the latest fad in a
cosmetic cleansing cream, and displaying the slave at every opportunity as
a good conversation piece, whether it be in their afternoon salons or when
they were out shopping or going to the baths. Such slaves, rare as they
were, brought huge prices if the rest of their body was well built and
their faces were attractive and appealing. In my business, you had to know
how to train for every taste.

It should be obvious that good trainers were worth whatever they cost
and all but the most miserly among Roman masters realized that.
Consequently, my business flourished, especially after it became known that
I was the man who oversaw the training of the Emperor's recent purchases
for his own brothel. My reputation grew rapidly after that news became
disseminated and my purse grew even more.

My new wealth allowed me to upgrade my transportation from walking
everywhere to having a litter of my own, an indulgence my younger brother
and I decided to invest in at about the same time. Until now, all three of
us had simply rented a litter when we felt appearances demanded it. But it
was certainly handier to have a litter of your own, ready at any time and
always waiting for as long as it took at your various stops.

My younger brother chose a light litter capable of being carried by
four slaves and which was the most popular type in Rome at that time. He
purchased four black Nubians as bearers, all matched for height, body
build, and blackness of their skin. They were well into their 30s when he
bought them, had been bearers for years now, and were on the market simply
because their former owner had died. Despite their age, they didn't wheeze
yet (a common problem with aging bearers) even when trotting, their legs
and joints seemed sound enough, they still made a nice appearance with
their shiny black skin and hairless bodies, and their manhood was quite
showy if he decided to work them nude.

Although the litter he had purchased was just a simple oak contraption
with a red wool cushion its only color, the bearer's livery gave it a more
luxurious look. The blacks were harnessed in red leather (the same color
as the cushion), the tight leather straps lifting their pectorals into good
display, cupping their ass cheeks, and, fastened to a silver band ringing
the slave's genitals, lifted the bearer's balls and prick into prominent
display. Added to that was the tall neck collar and the silver tit rings
and the matching ear rings, both of which had small bells attached which
jingled nicely as they trotted down the road. When you saw (and heard) the
bearers, you forgot how plain the litter itself actually was. My brother
took delight in it and spent more time than necessary being carried around
the city of Rome, enjoying the admiring stares of the street people and the
embarrassed looks of his totally exposed bearers who generally were at
least semi-erect in the tight harness, a result of his rigid sexual
abstinence policy for the Nubians just for that purpose.

My own litter was no more expensive than his, but did feature gauze
side curtains if I wanted a little privacy, and I preferred bearers in
their natural state outside of being totally body shaved. Although my
litter, like my brothers, only required four bearers, I had one of my own
trainees almost finished with his training as a pleasure slave leashed to
the back as a spare in case an injury might occur - at least that was my
excuse, but actually I just wanted to display him as an example of what I
considered the epitome of a properly trained male pleasure slave, my stock
in trade. My four regular bearers were huge: all about six feet (very tall
by Roman standards); extremely muscular; all blond; all with gigantic well
shaped genitals; and all, as you have guessed by now, German slaves. They
were products of my older brother's breeding farm and then trained by me.
Carrying me around Rome was relatively easy for them due to their great
strength and, being bred slaves, they had no qualms about being naked at
all times outside of their standard slave collars. I had their collars
leashed to the litter itself so if they tipped it or fell, they would be
pulled down with it and the leashing forced them to kneel properly when I
got in and out of the litter or when they were waiting for me. Overall,
their raw nakedness, the heavy iron collars leashed to the litter, and
their sheer overwhelming physiques made a nice display with no need for
added adornments in my opinion.

The 'spare' slave leashed to the back of the litter was another story.
He wore a tiny tunic belted at the waist which was cut to expose his
massive chest, his brawny arms, the lower part of his muscular butt, and
glimpses of his massive manhood when he did anything but stand absolutely
still. The tunic was made out of a brown silk which was so thin you could
see right through it and was the same color as his sun-bronzed skin. A
pleasure slave by training, he had been originally selected for his career
based on his startling good looks: deep black eyes highlighted by thick
black eyelashes, heavy black eyebrows, a flawless smooth olive complexion,
short wavy, almost crinkly, black ringlets for head hair, a totally smooth
body freshly shaved each morning, a thin, straight long nose, high
cheekbones, thin rounded lips, pearly perfect teeth, beautifully sculpted
muscles everywhere, big ringed nipples dark brown in color, and a long very
thick, perfectly shaped circumcised penis atop grapefruit-sized balls that
looked ready to be drained. His butt was so muscular it stood out
prominently and practically invited handling. The boys' posture and quick
smile told all viewing him he knew he was special and he also knew that
specialness was to be shared with others at every opportunity. The tunic,
both he and I knew, made his body far more seductive and appealing than if
he was stark naked like the litter bearers directly in front of him.

Everywhere we went around Rome I received loads of compliments on my
matched team of German bearers, but the real interest was in the 'spare'
slave right behind my litter. When pedestrians asked if they could feel my
slaves, I always gave ready consent with, of course, the usual request that
they not stroke the slaves to discharge. It was good for my business, I
had no doubt. The slaves suffered a little wear and tear from such
handling, but soon it became a routine part of their lives. The German
bearers developed some callouses where their tight harnesses rubbed, but it
didn't detract from their appearance in any way. Those boys were always
hard it seemed and dripped copiously when they were fondled. Frequently, I
got requests to rent the boys for a night's entertainment and, more often
than not if the price was right, I did just that. They returned well
drained and were flaccid for a short while the next morning, but by
afternoon we were back to a full hard display that complimented their
bodies so well. And sometimes, they had been fucked so hard they had
trouble walking, let alone trotting the next day, but, with time, they
adjusted and you could barely notice in their gait how hard or long they
had been fucked the night before. Overall, renting them out not only gave
me a little extra income and made me some solid friends among these new
customers, but tended to solve the problem of how to get their balls
drained so they didn't inadvertently shoot off all the time, despite doing
their best to control it, during the fondling they got on the streets.
After all, they weren't the only slaves bought for show and being handled
was always part of a slave being displayed.

The 'spare' trainee slave towed in the rear was handled even more than
my Germans, but he had been well trained so this was his stock in trade
and, almost always, he exhibited perfect control no matter how hard or long
he was stroked by some admirer. That boy advertised himself, though, and
rarely a night went by that he wasn't rented out to some lucky citizen who,
for a stiff fee, got to enjoy all his goodies as much and as long as he
wanted. Just the profits on the 'spare' boy's rentals quickly paid for the
full amount the Germans had cost me total. In fact, his rental was so
profitable he paid for himself over a year's period. Obviously I was
overlooking a good way to market my trainees before I sold them off and,
within a year, my litter featured a number of 'spares' leashed behind every
time I ventured out, all dressed as provocatively as my original 'spare'
and each of them available every night for a exorbitant fee.

"Your litter is sort of like a traveling whore house," one of my
friends joked as he saw six 'spares' leashed to my litter one morning. "But
it sure is pretty to look at."

"It rivals the Emperor's personal brothel in transit," another friend
laughed as he took the opportunity to examine some of the goods I had
chosen as 'spares' that morning. "How much for this one?" he asked holding
the swollen prick of one of my spares he seemed enamored with. When I told
him the rental fee, he blanched, called me a greedy rascal, but pulled out
his purse and paid for the boy's use on the spot.

"When can I have him?" he asked as he cupped his hands around the
slave's balls.

"Right after he's fed, flushed out thoroughly, and properly cleaned,
lubricated and oiled. He'll be ready for you in my front portico at sunset
and you won't need to return him until sunrise. By then, you should have
your money's worth," I chuckled as I ordered the litter to move on.

A few months after that, one of the men who had rented one of my
trainees wanted to buy the slave outright. It was then I realized I could
sell my latest products so displayed outright as well as just rent them on
a nightly basis. When the prospective purchaser balked a bit at the asking
price, I offered to deduct last night's rent from the final sales price.
He thought this was a splendid discount and bought the slave without
further bickering. I realized I was on to something and thereafter made
clear that you cold 'rent to own' a slave you had found particularly
pleasing in your bed. The idea, simple as it was, became quite popular and
became another avenue to sell of my slaves once they had become completely
trained. My younger brother, who as a dealer usually managed the sale of my
trained products, didn't like it too much, but I promised him the pick of
my latest batch of trainees as a outright gift to placate his grumbling
about lost profits. He realized, of course, that I still had plenty of
other slaves to sell and he would still get all that business, so he took a
exceptionally handsome slave who had just finished his training and didn't
mention it again.

I think I enjoyed showing off that team of litter bearers and the
spare boy(s) behind them more than any recreation I had engaged in up to
that point - more than going to the chariot races, more than going to the
gladiatorial contests at the coliseum, more than the comic theater
productions they had all over Rome these days, more than watching the Army
strut its stuff celebrating various victories, even more than watching the
Emperor move from one place to another in all his splendor. About the only
thing I like better was my work, training slaves, and training my own sons
in the intricacies of my business success.

Overall, it was a good life. As I looked back I had my father to
thank for most of my success. He had taught me and my brothers well. I
only hoped I would train my own sons as well.


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