Byzantium 16: From The Borders
By: Byzwriter1

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[GAY]

A continuation of the Byzantium stories. A slave dealer brings back six slaves from a border city.

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It took a week to travel from the border, where I purchased new-captured slaves from the traders there, to the sea-coast where I lived. It was late in the season. The autumn skies were dreary. The days were changeable, one filled with the sullen imitation of summer heat, the next blown with cold winds and showers. And sometimes there were the heavier rains that you could see coming in from the distance, crossing the plains in slow grey curtains which turned the track to mire in minutes.

I only had a small train of slaves this time. It was often the way on this last trip of the year. The major slavers had left the border towns to return to their homes. There were only the smaller dealers and the opportunists. Instead of the usual twenty or thirty slaves, this time I only had six. I would only just turn a profit on this journey. But I could stay no longer. I needed to return before the weather closed in.

Daniel, my servant, turned to me and signaled ahead, gesturing with his hand. I nodded permission. He was mounted on the mountain pony that was his pride and joy, and he kicked it into movement, climbing ahead to the peak of the summit-track. From there he’d be able to see the harbour below, a curve of water flanked by a pair of barren promontories. We’d reach home in an hour or two, descending the rocky path down to the shore and the village that had grown up around the only safe anchorage on this stretch of coast.

The journey had been without incident. The slaves had been reluctant to start, having to be chivvied and harried, but that was nothing new. It is impossible to keep anything from them. I have learned that over the years. Whether it was a loud-mouthed servant in the inn where I hired a room and which had a slave-quarters for dealers like myself, or whether my name had a reputation attached to it that was known even to the newest slaves, I did not know. But they had known, by the time we left, that my trade was buying young slaves to make them into eunuchs to be sold, eventually, in the capital.

It was always the same. I’d be checking my slaves in their quarters at the inn and I’d sense the difference. There’d be a new tension in that cell, with the fearful look of one boy, the sullen anger of another, the rebellion of a third, to be a confirmation. Then I’d know that somehow they had been told of their eventual fate.

Always a group of slaves will find a leader among them, one slightly older, bigger, or more confident, and this boy will be the one who will approach me on matters of concern, whether it is a slave who has a painful thorn in his foot and needs attention, or something more important.

In this particular train, their natural leader was a boy around seventeen. He was from one of the blond tribes in the north, grey-blond rather than the golden colour of the peoples from deeper in the steppes. He was tall, his body was pleasingly proportioned, his face handsome, and he had a natural physical ease.

It had been him who had come up to me then, holding to the bars of the large cell in which they had been kept. His face was stressed with concern.

‘Master,’ he said, in his accented voice, ‘they say that you are a man who….’

He could not bring himself to say the words.

I waited for him.

‘Who…. who buys young slaves like us to…..to…. to cut their stones and make them…’

He stumbled over his words.

All slaves knew about eunuchs and their making. Even those who had been taken from distant lands, far in the interior, knew of this custom. The younger male slaves were more aware of it than most, for it was a possible future for them whether they tried to ignore it or not.

‘What I choose to do with you is my business, boy,’ I said, staring him in the eye. ‘A man’s slave is to do with what he will.’

I challenged him to argue with me.

He looked at me, swallowing, knowing that I had not denied his question, but whatever would occur his and the other slaves’ futures were mine to choose.

‘Now, ‘I said, ‘you will get yourselves readied to leave because we’ll be moving out soon.’

They were slow, in their preparation, and they had to be hauled into line up to be roped together. I could see from their closed faces and their glances at me and each other, that their future was much on their minds.

The youngest was around twelve, a well-made lad, sturdy and already masculine in his stance, but the other five were generally around fifteen or sixteen. They were a mix of origins, as was always the case this late in the season. Universally too, they had that half-fed look of slaves who had been traveling too long, in bad conditions, whipped on by an impatient slaver, who needed to reach the final market of the year.

My own journeys were less desperate and I always carried food enough on the two pack horses that followed us. I could travel at a normal pace and my slaves did not lose condition.

Daniel was at the summit now. He and his pony were silhouetted against the overcast sky. He turned to wave at me. He, too, was eager for the comforts of home. It was his seventh such journey with me, eight if we counted his first.

He waited there for us. He was a good slave, one of the best I had owned. He was obedient and quick. He was eager to learn. Then his appearance was pleasing to the eye. He was dark-haired and dark-eyed, smooth-faced, slightly small for his age, but he had a stockiness that gave him presence. He somehow still possessed a malehood that attractive to observe in action, as he roped the backage on the pack-horses or kicked his pony to a gallop.

He was my sole companion on these journeys, and he was a good one, knowing when to be silent and when to talk. He was good at the chores, tending the horses, packing and repacking things with neatness. He also bedded with me and he had come to accept my needs, even enjoying them now. Occasionally he would even initiate them himself, reaching over to touch me as we lay beside each other, his quick hands moving between my legs, holding me there and rousing me up.

‘There is a ship in,’ he called, pointing.

There would be other ships for the next weeks, as the traders moved home for the winter, stopping in passing for water or supplies. I’d be able to sell this last train to one or other of their captains, and so they’d travel on to the city to the great slave markets there.

The slaves trailed behind my horse and the two pack-horses roped to it, but when they eventually reached the summit, they too stopped before the view. There was a great sky of cloud. There was the dull metal of the sea. There were the barren promontories. There was the small harbour below, with its curve of sheltered waters, a gathering of whitewashed houses and a vessel, its sails furled, at anchor there.

I recognized the ship. Its captain only dealt in metals that came from the mines to the east, his hold fully stacked with tin ingots and copper. He did not buy slaves.

Now, within sight of its end, it was possible to say that journey had been managed well. At first we had traveled along the track at the edge of the plains, moving from country-inn to country-inn, then staying one night with a solitary farmer whose acquaintance I had made over the years, bedding in his rude barn, and then twice, these last nights, sleeping rough in the mountains.

I usually rode at the head of the train, with Daniel either beside me or bringing up the rear, checking on things. The pace of my horse was slow, in accordance with the slaves behind. Sometimes they needed the threat of a lash to speed them up, but in general we had made a good pace through the dreary days.

The slaves were usually silent as they walked though sometimes there would be a murmured conversation, of complaint or a comment.

At this time of year, the land through which we traveled was barren and colourless. The grasses were dying back and the trees were almost bare. Even though were we often far from any habitation, and there was nowhere for a slave to run to, I kept them all closely roped together.

The prospect of being gelded is sufficient reason for many slaves to make a bid for freedom, no matter how irrational the decision. And I could see in their faces, as usual, that each of them was considering the end that every onward step brought closer.

In the trains, some amongst the older boys would become stubborn, reluctant to do anything, sometimes unwilling even to eat. Others would have the fire of impotent anger and thwarted rebellion simmering in them, to be revealed in a temper flaring or an act of pure disobedience. There were those who become furtive and cunning as they sought opportunities to escape. I knew also there were those who thought and planned murder and mutiny.

With this group, though, the prevailing mood was more of a mute sense of fatalistic despair. It was only their leader who I observed acutely, for his reactions would affect all the others. I’d catch him studying me grimly. Sometimes I’d see an ache of hopelessness in his eyes. I knew he, for one, would be plotting escape, but I’m an old hand at these journeys now. I’d check their ropes often. I would not let them loose ever. In the wayside inns, they are able to be locked in a cell, but in the farm-barns or campsites I tied their lead rope to a stake at both ends, stretching it taut to close down their possibilities of movement, as well as roping their hands securely behind their backs for the night. And then, between Daniel and I, we kept a close watch.

‘Master,’ called the slave’s leader, ‘can we rest?’

They needed to be watered, and to relieve themselves. I got off my horse and Daniel took the waterskin to each of the boy’s in turn, letting them drink from its spout. Some of them took the opportunity to piss, standing there, pulling down their trousers to mid-thigh, holding their prickles and letting their urine splash onto the rocks.

I watched the lead slave, unhurried, lower his trousers and stand, his legs astraddle, holding his full-grown prick, and pissing, aiming it outwards, in a high arc, into the broken stones. As he finished, shaking drops from his prick, he glanced up to see me watching him and his face darkened with resentment.

We were near the end of the journey, and everyone knew it. While Daniel and I might be looking forward to the comforts of home, the six slaves were facing a future where they’d be stripped and tied down, and just like a colt or a yearling bull, they’d lose the very things that are most valuable to a boy, in circumstances of a pain they could only imagine.

I studied them sitting on boulders at the summit of the hill, resting before the final leg of our journey. They all sat together, linked by their rope, drab in their slaves’ shirts and trousers. It was strange, looking at such a small group, after a season where I was bringing back more than twenty slaves at a time, for instead of being just one of a larger group, I knew these boys almost intimately.

The boy nearest to me was one who had a not unpleasing scar on his cheek. It was an old scar, the remnant perhaps of a childish accident. He was lean and wiry. He had, I remembered, a neat pair of buttocks and a prickle, not really over-large, but seeming so on his still-growing frame.

Next to him was the youngest boy I’d acquired. He had no hair above his prickle yet, but his balls were full between his legs. He was particularly well-featured, with fine brows, and sloe-eyes. Next again was a dark-haired pair, of similar heights and bodies, solid and husky, possessing those looks that buyers valued in boys from the Hungarian plains.

Talking to the blond lead slave was the other blond of the group, a shorter boy, with close-cropped hair, blue eyes and a full mouth he held almost awkwardly. His body had the tightness of skin that always was a feature of a still-growing youth. He was taut, his muscles hard, and fresh-shaped.

Daniel stood by his pony, letting it chew at a patch of dry grass. He was waiting my signal to resume the march.

There was a murmur of subdued conversation now from the slaves. I couldn’t hear any word. I couldn’t imagine what they’d be saying. For some, though, it would be their first glimpse of the sea, but the knowledge that their destination was in sight would have prevented any interest in this and shot a cold shaft into their last hopes of escape.

I’d probably cut them in the morning, I thought, planning things. Usually I let them rest for a day or so before I clipped them, but it was late in the year. The quicker they healed, the quicker I’d be able to take advantage of the merchant-vessels stopping in on their return to their home ports, before winter’s long quiet set in.

Yes, I thought, I’d nut them in the morning.

Then I stood up and nodded at Daniel and so we prepared to resume our march, but easier now for us, downhill and within clear sight of its end.

We reached home in the middle afternoon, turning from the rutted main road that led to the village onto a rougher track that went straight up to the house, the slave-quarters and the farm. Dogs strained at their leashes and barked in challenge and welcome. My household slaves came out to greet us.

In the midst of this familiarity, the six slaves we had brought with us were silent, standing expressionless, only occasionally looking about themselves with quick nervous glances as they waited for the unknown thing that would happen next.

‘Get them fed and housed,’ I said to my overseer, and I left the slaves with him, finally entering my own home after weeks away, wanting first of all to bathe, then to eat and drink, and then to fall into my own bed at last.

The meal we had that night was constructed of familiar dishes, fish mingled in a stew, pounded octopi fried in olive oil, resinous Greek wine, new made bread, and honey cakes to end. There were the stories of our travels told and local gossip was reported to us. Then there were the occurrences of the farm, an ancient olive tree splitting one night, rats disturbing the pigeons, a large jar of oil gone rancid, a bounty of mushrooms after rain, taken up and dried…

Then all at once I was tired. I called my overseer to me.

‘I want to clip the slaves in the morning, I think,’ I told him, ‘so you’ll see to everything? Have them washed down first thing.’

He nodded.

Then I called Daniel and we went to my room.

He helped me undress, pulled back my bed, and then hesitated as if he were not sure of what he should do next.

If I did not wish him in my bed, he slept in their common room with the other servants.

‘Stay,’ I said, for he was familiar now and I enjoyed his warmth at night. He slipped out of his clothes while I watched.

He was a very fine boy, I thought to myself, as he stood there bare-chested with his black-hair and narrow eyes, looking down as he unknotted the draw-string on his trousers. Then he bent over to take them off, his back to me, and I could see his pale buttocks revealed and the flare of that slight darkness between them, as he bent further, and tugged his trousers from his feet, lifting one foot at a time.

Then he turned to me with his smooth chest with its two nipple-points glowing in the lamp-light, and, below, his neat hair-dark groin and his young eunuch prickle hanging.

Unselfconsciously he crossed the floor and came to me, joined me on the mattress, his arms falling about me. I stroked his back, nuzzling him, feeling his smaller size against me, and then my mouth sought out his, kissing him on his lips.

His hand was already stroking my stomach, reaching up for my nipples and lightly squeezing them, and then working his way down and going for my slowly-swelling prickle with his warm hand.

He was fascinated with my prick now, sometimes wanting to do nothing else but stroke or pull at it. Occasionally I let him bring me to orgasm that way, seeing his eyes widen with satisfaction as I spurted my seed out for him.

I felt down between his thighs. There was that emptiness between them, the smoothness of his faint scar, but above it was his half-hard prickle. Sometimes it did not stir at all, other times it swelled a little, sometimes almost all the way. I touched his tenderness there, teasing it, tickling it, rubbing it until it reached towards some harder height, though never swollen as if to split, like the prickle of an ungelded boy his age.

I had purchased him last year. He was a fine buy, not only because of his looks, but because I gained him very cheaply from a landowner wanting to sell a slave quickly without any real idea as to his value, knowing only his measure as a farm labourer, unaware that their could be other standards and other uses for a handsome fifteen year old.

But he was simply one of the many I acquired that journey. As we returned, in the long days of traveling, I’d occasionally notice his form amid the others, but I had all the other tasks and duties that a train of thirty boys will create to occupy me

It was not until I gelded him that he became vivid to me. He was dragged out from the cells, just as those before him had been. He bucked and struggled too, like all the others, but he was soon bent over the block before me in moments, his legs spread to the stakes, his buttocks parted to show the line of dark hairs there and expose that other entrance to his flesh.

Standing above him, his back was a tense arc curving down from his shoulders and then to his mounded buttocks. I groped between his thighs for his balls, finding them, grasping them firmly, and tying them off with the clamp.

He tried to see, turning over his shoulder. I glimpsed his straining profile and saw the toss of his hair, as all of his muscles bunched and hardened in anticipation, as he waited for what was inevitable. I can remember thinking then how attractive he was, how I really had landed myself a bargain when I’d purchased him, but my hands were continuing automatically in their task.

I pulled hard at his balls. In that grip his stiff prickle was drawn down to show its length, his foreskin slipped back from its pointed head, its straight length wavering there. Then I placed the straight razor I used on his skin below the clamp and I cut him with the blade, as I done so many hundreds of times before. I felt him jerk and his body almost banged the table while his prickle sprayed his seed over the ground beneath, his droplets joining the dusty damp-spots of the boys who’d been done before him.

Then his balls were severed and with that slice, his prickle was freed to slap back against his stomach. The remaining flap of his ball-sac quivered and shook, with the cruel clamp still in place above it.

I tended to him well, in his recovery, even washing down his aching groin myself, paying particular attention to his needs, watching his fine face in its pain and gradual rest. By the time he was healed, I wanted him for my own.

I remember too that first night I took him. I’d ordered him to my room and told him to strip. He obeyed, standing naked finally, his face expressionless. He shivered as I touched him, remaining unresponsive, even when I drew his hand to my groin. Then I had turned him on his side, with him almost trembling, as I eased my prickle into him between his perfect buttocks, slowly feeling myself move into him bit by bit, pausing for a moment and then resuming, until soon I had gone into him as far as I could.

I rested there, allowing him to become familiar with that feeling, and then I was taking his rear, possessing him completely, moving myself within him, hearing his now responsive cries, and I reached towards my spending there with satisfaction.

For the next weeks I bedded him often but he only submitted to my will. His body was pliable in my hands, spread and opened, rolled and entered, but this passivity was his only response apart from the guttural sounds, the grunts and small noises, that he made as I fucked him.

But soon, with his jobs and my respectful attentions, he settled and he began to enjoy life again, straddling the mountain-pony I gave him, going about his daily work with interest, and this contentment was reflected in the way he pleasured me, becoming more active, his hands curious now about my body, and actually wanting me to penetrate him, so he could lose himself in the only way he could.

He was no different now, on this first night back home, except his pleasure at being in his own bed, amid familiar things, translated to his extra willingness to be taken, to serve my desire. He bucked his hips. He widened his legs to allow me in even further. He moved his buttocks hard against me. So when I came I was slammed deep inside of him, as far as I could reach, and hotly surrounded by his squeeze.

And then satisfied sleep, for both of us, was mere instants away.

It was late next morning when the overseer came in to say that the slaves were stripped and waiting, that the table was ready. He waited until I had readied myself and then he, I and Daniel walked down to the slave quarters, and the rear yard where the slaves were cut.

All the house-slaves were aware of what was about to happen, I could see it in their glances, some of interest. A slave sweeping the stones stood up and stopped his task. A kitchen-boy paused at his job to look up and watch. He perhaps should not demonstrate too much curiousity. He was casual about his work, always looking as if he bore a grudge, yet he was of pleasing appearance. If he did not shape up in the next months, I had decided, he’d be on the first gelding block next season.

But today, really, was only a small matter, for there had been other times when we had to cut some thirty boys in a day, working from early morning until late afternoon, doing one after another, bending them over the table, which was quicker to do than spread-eagling them on its top, though less precise. I’d cut one pair of balls then the next, the heavy stones of a seventeen year old who’d already tasted his first woman, the light nuts of a slim thirteen year old, full balls held close to the body in a fear-tightened sac, dangling nuts that hung their full length in the air, those that were warm and hairy, others that were smooth and rounded… The blade of my razor came between them and their possessors, cutting them free, robbing slaves of their manhood to serve a greater end, and bodies arced and jerked in response, pricks shivered and spurted, buttocks clenched and heaved in a seemingly endless procession.

Today we’d easily finish the boys before noon. It would be easy.

The stone walls of the gelding yard were chest height, local rocks fitted together and capped. A fig tree shaded one end. There was a stamped earth floor that was dusty in summer. The table was bleached and weathered. My knives and razors had been laid out on a bench against the wall. The clamp had been oiled.

The charcoal smoked a little in its brazier. Daniel, unasked, checked the heated iron. There was the clumsy cracked bowl that I used to hold the severed nuts. There were the wadded gags, sodden with water, rolled to be forced into the boy’s mouths.

Three of my field-slaves waited there. They were the usual ones. They’d done it before. They knew how to manage a struggling boy and how best to get him on the block.

‘The youngest first,’ I said, ‘the oldest last, this time.’

Sometimes I’d geld the lead slave first because it removed a focal point and the remaining boys would be without his guide and were easy to do in their confusion. Other times I left that lead slave until later because he’d calm the holding pen by his presence as, one by one, they were taken out.

‘And we’ll spread them on the top, I think. We’ve got the time.’

It was better when they were spread-eagled. I could see what I was doing instead of when they were bent over the table, where I’d be doing it underneath them, unable to see everything. On the table their thighs are wide and they’re open and exposed to the blade in the clear cruel light.

I walked to the end of the yard and looked through the barred grate in the door of the holding cell. Some of the slaves stood. Others crouched on the stone floor, leaning against the wall. The cell smelled sharply of urine. In the dimness their nudity was obscured, white skin blurred, dark pubic hair just a blacker place in the general shade.

My presence made them move. Boys stood up. Others moved nervously. I could sense their tension.

I stepped back from the door.

‘Youngest,’ I reminded the overseer as he opened the cell door.

The twelve year old was pulled roughly out into the light. He almost had no time to cry out before he was run across the yard, and lifted, almost, onto the table where the quick thrash of his tanned legs was contained. He was just as quickly gagged, his protests choked.

Daniel stood by me watching. He’d seen all the geldings I had performed since his own, at first as my servant, waiting at the back of the yard in case I should require something, but then he eventually became a part of things, with his own role to play.

He’d already rolled up his sleeves and he was now bending to place the bowl on the ground, at the end of the table, between the boy’s bare feet. He knew the tasks now, familiarly.

The youngster was half-crying, his limbs stretched out unnaturally. His arms reached up to the top corners and were tied there at his wrists, but his legs were bent at the knee at the other end and it was his calves that were tied down to the table-legs. The position spread his thighs in this wide V shape, that led the eye inevitably upwards, and it placed his groin at an easy reach from the end. I stretched my hand between his thighs to find and to hold his young but surprisingly full balls.

Given a month or so and you’d have found hair growing on his groin, sparse streaks at first, but soon lengthening to curls. He probably only had weeks to go before he’d spurt seed for the first time.

Daniel was holding the clamp for me. I pulled on the boy’s nuts gently, trying to loosen that tight skin that his fear had created, and relax them. His young tool was lengthening, filling his foreskin. It wasn’t by any means the little thing of some boys his age, and it stiffened quickly, a well-shaped precursor of what might have been his if I hadn’t taken his balls…

I clamped him high, locking down the thin bronze arms over his ball-sac while the boy jerked, wailing in his throat against that pressured bite of pain. I nodded at Daniel and he reached over and held the boy’s prickle down to his flat stomach. He always did this now, and while he held those pricks, he always gazed down to see what my own hands were doing, just as they had done to him.

Spaced around the table the overseer and the three field-slaves watched, but they were only casually interested. The boy was too young. With some of the older boys it was different and they seemed to actually relish their unmanning. This twelve year old held little fascination for them. They’d seen enough squalling cubs in their time.

It was always easy to do boys this age. You were nipping them in the bud. A lot of owners preferred boys clipped before they’d even begun to spurt. This one’d make a good woman’s eunuch or a bathboy when he was done. Young boys from the Albanian mountains were specially favoured, black-haired, creamy-skinned, almost invariably pretty at that stage, and I’d gelded a few myself, in my time.

Once I saw three of them done in the mean shed of a part-time slaver in a mountain village. The casual cruelty meant that I always recalled it. The slaver’s three young daughters sat on a low wall to watch it, while his two sons held the boy’s legs up near his ears, exposing his underparts completely, while their father just grasped their balls and sawed them off with a clumsy knife. He didn’t gag the boys and the air was filled to ear-splitting levels with their piercing yells and screams, while his daughters looked at each other and giggled, and then the next one was dragged in to be done…

Before me, the twelve year old’s eyes were wide-open in a shocked gaze as he raised his head to look down his body to see that clamp that still hurt him. I was pulling hard on his stones now, stretching the skin that held them to his body. I picked up my razor.

He saw me move, saw the razor, the colour draining from his face, but he still watched, unbelieving. I placed the razor under the clamp, paused a moment to be sure, then cut his nuts, sawing the blade along the bronze clamp edge, cutting the pinched skin through in a neat line.

His body arched, his head slammed back and there was a sudden silence before his long high scream was muted by his gag.

I dropped his balls in the bowl and wiped my hands on a rag before the overseer handed me the heated iron. I ran it along the bronze edges of the clamp and across the severed flesh still locked between them, to sear it closed.

Then it was done.

He was still crying out, but his blurred sobs caught in his gagged throat were broken gasps now. I took off the clamp and his wounded flesh retreated but the cut was good and the burnt seal held.

Then he was freed and carried out, slumped across the shoulder of one of the field-slaves, barely moving.

The next slave out was the one with the cheek scar. His body really was the body of a runner, lithe and honed. There was no fat on it. They actually dragged him out backwards, as he tried to turn and turn about to kick them.
.
Spread there on the block, his prickle still seemed to be his centre, with everything arranged around it. He was more than part erect, and getting stiffer, his prickle rearing upwards in a series of quickening jerks, seeming somehow too large for him, and focusing all attention on it.

He’d actually had a brother perhaps a year or so older, and just as handsome. I’d bid for him when it had been his turn to be auctioned, as he stood naked there, his head lifted high, his hips pushing his groin out towards the bidders, proud of himself and who he was, but I missed out on him, his price quickly rising above my limit.

But he did not escape the destiny I had intended for him.

A little later I saw him lined up outside the auctioneer’s own gelding pen, his new master obviously wanting him as a eunuch, not a boy too well-hung for his own good. He was unaware of his imminent fate, and bored by his wait, he was idly scratching his thigh and he hitched his balls as I watched, until his attention was distracted by another group of slaves being led out to sale.

Then when I turned to look for him, after paying the slaver for the boy I had bought, I found he was no longer there and the line outside the high-walled gelding pen was one slave shorter.

The younger boy in front of me was still a good purchase. The scar on his cheek was not a disfigurement, rather it enhanced him. With that scar, his good looks and his lithe body, he’d almost make a good prostitute in one of the boy-brothels in the capital, I thought. They paid good money for the right boys, especially those with a mark of difference, like that scar.

I’d only been once to the capital, on board a ship with sixteen of that season’s best slaves. I’d sold them for good money and I spent a week enjoying the sights, sounds, the colours and confusions of the city, seeing everything the centre of the empire could offer, including its brothels. I went to one with one of the city’s slave-dealers. He wanted me to be his agent and ship slaves back to him, an offer I eventually refused. He took me to a meal and then he’d offered a visit to a brothel and I’d accepted.

I had been shown the eunuchs they had, seven of them, all not long cut, ranging between thirteen and nineteen, some of the most beautiful boys I’d ever seen, and all chosen by the owner and cut especially. The one I selected had been the son of a Germanic chief taken captive, and he was around seventeen, bearing their tribal tattoos as a blue band around both biceps. This was his selling-point, those barbaric patterns, just as one of the others had a nipple that was pierced with a roundel from some fashion in his own country.

The slave I’d chosen was a good practiced fuck, perhaps from dislike of his trade when practicality indicated that the better he was, the quicker it was over. His clenching buttocks brought me off almost too swiftly…

Daniel held the clamp in his hands waiting.

The slave’s thighs were long-muscled and his balls totally occupied that apex between them. Like his prickle they seemed too large for him, hanging there round and ripe.
I took them and pulled at them a few times. His prick rose with my pull. Erect it was curved slightly, bending towards him, a fine shape to pleasure a woman best, they said.

He’d been absolutely silent since he was spread. All I could hear was his harsh breathing. I knew the type. He was determined not to indicate to me his fear. As I massaged his balls, his prickle lurched a little and bobbed in the air. Daniel handed me the clamp and I placed it and shut it across the youth’s nuts, locking it tightly closed. While his body reacted automatically to that bite of the clamp, he still did not cry out, and it was only his breathing that altered in rhythm.

Then Daniel reached for the slave’s prickle, grasping it in his fist, the head and a little of the shaft extending up out from his grip, for he was swollen tight now, somehow glossy.

The slave was staring at me fixedly with narrow and glittering eyes. I picked up the razor. It was only then, when he saw the blade, that he broke. I watched it happen. Awareness of what would now happen suddenly broke his resolution and he went into a frenzy of attempted escape. The bonds held as they always did. And despite his roars, despite the humping and shifting of his hips, I grabbed his balls again, giving them a hard, sharp tug, lined up the razor to the clamp edge and slit the skin to cut his balls from him.

I’d got half through when a shudder seemed to force the semen out of him. It pulsed out from the tip of his prickle, spilling out onto his chest, one slow spurted delivery upon another, and he was still doing it with failing force when his balls had been completely severed and dropped in the bowl between his kicking bare feet.

Then there was the first of the Hungarian boys. This one was well-muscled, with a pair of hard buttocks that would seem to be the force behind his prick-thrust if he were bedding a girl. The field-slaves had a fight to get him on the block for he had half-freed himself from their hold, swinging out with his fist and managing to land blows upon my slaves.. For a moment it looked like he might even struggle completely free. Then my overseer hit him so hard on his temple that he was stunned, buckling at the knee, his face slack.

It was easy then to drag him onto the block. For a moment he lay there unmoving and not yet tied but with his thighs apart and his hands upraised. It was almost as if I could have cut him there and then, without any bonds to hold him in place.

When I was younger I did cut a pair of slaves once, like this. They had been dosed with opium in wine by their solicitous master. One of them was around nineteen and the other thirteen. They lay there on the floor of their cell as if asleep. I undid their trousers and pulled them down to reveal their relaxed flesh and soft prickles. Then I pulled their legs apart and they just stayed where I put them.

It was strange to do them as they breathed regularly as if they were deeply-sleeping, sprawled out as if they had only thrown off the blankets on a hot summer night.

I did the younger while his master watched me, taking his small balls easily without any reaction from the boy other than a tiny jerk of his lower body. He didn’t try to close his legs, but lay there afterwards with them still thrown wide. The older boy, however, moved reactively when I reached for his well-developed stones, but it was a slow movement and it stopped in a second. His prickle rolled a little and moved towards a drowsy erection. Then he murmured something sleepy as I pulled on them, but again his legs were still flung wide apart and nothing but his inability to close them held them there.

When I cut him, he came, just a twitch of his prickle and a pump of sperm onto his stomach. He moved his head to the side, with a frown suddenly on his face, but he was already done, his spread-out legs still spread, and he roused no further.

It was a strange experience and the Hungarian boy, for a minute, was just like them, but he shook himself and stirred. By then he was firmly bound, and I was already feeling up his balls that hung in their sac.

Ungelded he would not reach near the price he would when cut. Despite his good-looks, no householder would ever pay great money for a just-captured youth of such obvious strength. Nutted though, the secret of his strength would have been taken from him. He’d have been neutered as a possible problem.

I guessed he was around sixteen. The slaver from whom I purchased him said that he’d been captured originally with a girl and a very young baby he had fathered. You could almost feel the weight of his fertility in his balls. No householder would want him for this reason either.

For some reason Daniel was studying the slave’s pale stomach, the glossy curls of his pubic bush, and the thick droop of his prickle closely. The slave was obviously virile. He was obviously at his prime.

‘Got the clamp?’ I asked and Daniel shook himself from his reverie, embarrassed, and handed it to me with alacrity. I shut them over the Hungarian slave’s balls.

He was still groggy from the overseer’s blow.

I nodded at his limp prickle.

‘See if you can get it up,’ I ordered Daniel. He was shy, doing this in front of others, but he reached to hold it, pulling at it a little, and slowly it came alive in his fist. The slave grunted and tried to stretch. His prickle grew harder, with the curious weight of the clamp on his balls and Daniel’s hand smoothing about him.

‘I’ll do him now,’ I told Daniel who tightened his grip around the slave’s thickened member.

The Hungarian heard me, and raised his head, his eyes despairing. As I pulled on his balls, adjusting my hand to get a better grip, he stretched his limbs, stiffening them, biting down hard on his gag and clenching his fists, as he waited for the razor.

I let him wait a long moment, holding his full balls, feeling them round in my palm, squeezed there by my gripping fingers. Then as the razor first touched his skin, he shuddered as he spurted seed. Daniel, holding the slave’s prickle, watched the spurt, heavy dollops of semen spitting from it, Daniel’s eyes going back and forward from that sight to my razor resting on the slave’s balls.

I waited for him to finish his ejaculation, and only when his final spurt was done, did I start my cut. The Hungarian’s husky body wrenched at his bonds and he shook with the pain. His raised cry was deep-voiced, filled with male anguish as his nuts were cut free, a useless handful in my left hand now.

The next slave they pulled from the pen was the other blond slave. Naked, he was especially pleasing. His body, in the manner of many blonds, was almost sculptural, ivory-coloured where the sun had not tanned. He was relatively hairless, just a small patch of grey-blond hair in his groin.

He tried to drag his feet across the yard, but he was at the table in seconds and easily flipped onto the top. He kicked out when he was there and while his arms were quickly pinned his kicking legs were harder to grab. I watched his thighs parting and closing with his stabbing legs, sometimes showing his rounded nuts there, sometimes locked against my sight. He twisted and I could see between his legs, the buttock’s cleft just visible from underneath, his balls jiggling.

When he was tied, I checked his clean-lined body. Blonds were valued well. This one would get a good price. Once they were nutted and had calmed, these slaves from the steppes made good servants. This one’s rounded rear would probably ensure his purchase by a buyer who wasn’t only interested in his ability to perform household chores.

I’d owned a couple in my time, having them for a year or so before selling them on while they were still at their peak. One I’d had around four years ago had been almost wild when I purchased him. He had a number of whip-welts on his back from the slaver who had captured him. His face was locked into a perpetual scowl. I got him cheaply and I was pleased because I could see, underneath the shaggy hair and his fury, a youth who could fetch a good price.

Gelding him was like nutting a wild animal. He was a storm of snarls and biting. He thrashed his limbs. He screamed and threatened. He didn’t stop when he was bent over the table, but continued to thrash and pull. Between his legs his balls flapped with his moves. I grabbed them, squeezing them hard to stop him by this pain, but he only roared the more. When I cut him, his prickle, pointed like that of a cat, spat a swift series of dolloping spurts, but he wrenched and battled to the last, and his moves, with the awkward clamp shaking there, almost tore his balls loose in the end, at that final cut to sever the last skin.

I broke him in a few weeks later in one of the cells. I had his hands tied behind his back as a precaution. Once alone with him, I unwrapped his loin-cloth to expose his gelded state, the neat blond bush, the slim length of his foreskined prickle, the gap behind them, then I turned him, and bent up over the rude table there.

I had expected him to put up a fight, but he took my greased finger up his hot little hole with only small resistance. He grunted but did not rebel. I moistened my own hard prick with the same oil and pushed it against him there. Even as I slowly entered him, stretching that previously unstretched annulet of skin, he did not fight back and I realized, somehow in his mind, that I had completely dominated and defeated him when I had nutted him.

I kept him on for several months. He was loyal like a dog, dumbly following me, eager to obey, and at nights I used his flesh as a warm receptacle for my seed, plunging between those white curved buttocks with my stiffness, thrusting hard into his heated inside, while he yelped and bit his lip against my force. Then I sold him to a ship’s captain, not for immediate sale in the markets but to serve the captain in a similar way, providing a service with his rear, to offer those neat buttocks to be split and entered in the long nights on that coastal vessel, the sound of the waves against the hull some accompaniment to the slave’s own throaty growls as another man’s prickle twisted inside of him.

This boy too, would probably end up by performing the same service.

His brown-coloured prickle was already stirring against his skin and I watched it rise there, moving to a full erection, stretch by stretch. It was only average size but it was a pleasing prickle to look at. His balls too, were a rounded pair in a rounded sac. He spurted when I clamped him, just at the moment I locked the flat bronze jaws closed, his hips thrusting briefly skyward, a single spurt of seed looping out across his stomach.

I had Daniel hold it, its spermy head still swollen, to keep it out of the way. His balls were a nice handful. When I placed the razor and began to cut, he somehow bunched his groin and shuddered, his rising cry accompanied by another spurting of his prick, this time with more violence, surprising Daniel, his last seed shooting out and hitting the slave on his pain-distorted face.

Sometimes this happened and there was one slave, an olive-skinned Greek boy around fifteen, with a straight prickle that was fully-erect even when he was brought from the pen, who had spurted the first moment I held his balls on the table, then again when the clamp was placed, and one final time, a watery small ejaculation, when I cut him. There was also another slave who somehow did nothing but spurt the entire process from clamp to cut, one slow shudder shooting seed out of his prick followed by another, then another seemingly unending, until his prickle just pulsed there, with nothing left in him to spend.

Daniel grinned at me.

‘Twice,’ he said.

The overseer and the field-hands laughed.

‘And the last,’ the overseer said, dryly.

Then it was the other Hungarian. Somehow he had turned on his back and the slaves just dragged him across the yard by his upstretched arms, his heels trying to uselessly grind in to the hard-packed dirt.

Around sixteen is, for me, the perfect time to nut a boy. Their voices have broken. Their bodies have formed towards manhood. They often too have learned lesson of sex that will translate later when they have no desire, into an understanding of their owner’s needs.

There was a slaver I knew, who had a good reputation for the quality of his slaves, especially his eunuchs, who said that two days before he cut them, he put one of his girls naked into the holding pen of naked boys and let them pleasure themselves with her. They learned then, if they had not learned before, the pleasures of sex.

Then he put them all on the block and gelded them, knowing that their knowledge of what it felt like to have a prickle deep in a moist girl, and how it felt to spit seed out into her, would later be useful when their own new masters might wish to penetrate them and come to a climax deep inside of them.

This slave was a good example of a sixteen year old, entering into manhood. There was a line of black hair in his exposed underarms. There was a streaking of hair down the middle of his chest. The curls in his groin were glossy. While his calves were haired, his thighs were still bare. His prickle was swollen-headed, shiny in the light. His balls were ripe.

Eunuch slaves, if they’ve kept the indicators of masculinity, have a particular value. Everyone, it seems, wants a masculine boy, especially a sturdy boy whose balls have been taken to calm him. Daniel was one such. Seeing him astride his pony, or at work in the yards, one would not suspect he’d been clipped.

I clamped the slave, tightening the bronze jaws over the tender skin of his ball-sac, high up where it joined his body. The hard pressure on his nuts made him grunt. His prickle shook with his response. His flat stomach shivered.

His prickle had a proud shape. His foreskin had drawn back from his glans. He was wide headed, and long-shafted. I’d taken the balls from so many boys like this, near the peak of their potency, and it was a familiar experience. Nutting a fourteen year old, in his newness, was not like nutting a sixteen or seventeen year old.

Younger boys were simple to cut, somehow unaware of what they had, so losing it did not present any tangle of thought, any overwhelming reaction. To a sixteen year old it was a whole different story. They knew the value of what they held between their legs. They had some experience of its use. They had seen a girl’s eyes widen as they exposed their erection to her.

This slave was aware of these things. His proud face was crossed with angers, resentments and a presentiment of the shame at his gelded state which would preoccupy him for a few weeks before he calmed.

His prick twitched upwards and seemed to jerk into fullness above the clamp which held his nuts bunched. I pulled the razor out. He saw it, squeezed his eyes hard shut and turned his head towards his underarm, holding it there. His groin arched a little and stopped, held up by the waiting tension in his body. Daniel reached over his hip and took his prickle in hand.

Everything now waited for me to move. I slid the razor down and placed it, flat against the clamp’s shut jaws. The slave’s body somehow seemed to arch up even more, as if he was presenting himself to me, with his thighs angled apart and the upward hitch of his groin as well. I had his balls pulled to their stretch. Nothing more could move, except my hand. Daniel waited with indrawn breath. The overseer and the field-hands were intent observers.

Then with my first slit of his skin, the slave jerked at his waist, his prickle oozing a thick flow of white semen, and he shook that way with every slit, and only a low growl rose through his gag, but not stopping except when he dragged a breath through his nose.

Then, as I approached the end of my cut, his whole body shook violently and his growl rose in pitch, until I finally severed his stones completely and his cry was a sharp overwhelming bite of sound, stopped by his will suddenly, for a second’s unbreathing silence. After that there were only his slower moans, as I dropped his balls into the bowl between his feet, where his toes clenched and unclenched with the rhythm of that pain in his groin.

At last the lead-slave was brought from the holding pen. He walked towards the table with the field-slaves as if he refused to lower himself by a resistance that would inevitably fail. He was not going to shame himself any further. It was as if my slaves were his escort, not his captors.

He held his head up with his jaw tight. His hair fell back from his face. His tall body was muscled but not weighty. It was only his hard-rearing prickle that broke the illusion. It stood out in front of him a little. I wondered if he had been watching the cuttings as they had happened through the grill in the door, seeing each one, knowing that he was destined to the same.

When they reached the table, I saw him hesitate before that weathered surface, smoothed where the buttocks rested, with a dark-coloured stain below, wet now, but always there, formed by years of blood drips from cut nuts.

My slaves just turned him onto the block, smoothly, and he no longer had to consider what to do. Then he surprised me by spreading his legs wide, himself, putting his own arms up to the corners of the table-top, as if by doing so he was asserting his own control of circumstances. And he waited there for his bonds to be tied.

In all my years as a slaver I had never had a slave do this.

I could see his neat balls between the creamy skin of his thighs. They were lightly haired, each of his stones a clearly visible round. The slaves tied him and he opened his mouth for the gag without turning away. Daniel glanced at me.

I just did what I always did, as if this were no difference. I reached up and took his balls in my hand. Their skin was soft and I could feel them move in the interior. I pulled on them a little, easing them looser, while his prick gradually rose and stretched out its length straight up his stomach, reaching towards his shallow navel.

I reached for his prickle too, while my other hand continued its slow pull on his nuts. It was a hard pillar of flesh, and I skinned his foreskin back to see it all. It was a good-looking tool. I rubbed my thumb on that sensitive part just below the head and I saw him feel it.

I looked up at his face. It was firmly set and he was biting hard at his gag, but he was also watching me intently with his eyes. I stared back. His eyes seemed flat in their acceptance of things, stubborn and proud, but underneath I seemed to see flickers of fear.

In the markets, he’d bring a good price, as he was, simply by the pride of his stance. Add to that his well-made features, his clean-limbed body, his curved pale rear, and the intelligence that glimmered in his expression, and he’d fetch some very high bids. But as a eunuch, he’d bring considerably more.

I lay down his prick and held my hand out to Daniel for the clamp. The slave remained impassive and I took the clamp, fitted his ball-sac between its arms, and closed it, locking it tightly there, as with a nutcracker that is being put away to its next use. His face betrayed no hint of the bite of the clamp or the sudden awkwardness of it, there between his thighs.

His skin though seemed to take on a sudden sheen and suppleness as with a faint sweat.

The clamp had made his balls stand out from his body. Instead of hanging there, they were now bunched, and held out in the air.

I nodded at Daniel, who reached and grasped the slave’s prick. I took up the razor and held it. The slave’s eyes narrowed and I could see all his muscles squeeze tight, though his face betrayed nothing. I took his bunched balls in my hand, tickling my fingers about them before I grasped them and pulled them out hard. His torso heaved with that move.

Then he closed his eyes.

I placed the razor down between his thigh and his balls, and I made sure he knew it was there, touching him with the steel, letting it rest against his skin. He bit harder on the gag it seemed.

It had gone quiet again, as all of us focused on the slave’s groin and the razor poised there in my hand.

The slave’s body shivered with the wait. Then I decided to deliver him from it all, and began my cut, easy at first and, as with a sudden release, his prickle shook in Daniel’s hand and delivered a shooting of sperm, two or three bursts, the seed fired across his chest, while I continued my cut.

His whole body arced up and back and then with the final severing of his nuts, collapsed back on the table.

But he had not made a sound. He was still biting fiercely on the gag. His face was rigid with strain.

I took the hot iron and seared his cut closed. This smaller pain after the greater pain of his gelding caused no reaction at all. Then I let him lie there for a moment. He turned his head a little, as if away from the sun. His brow was damp.

When I took off the clamp, his prickle was half-soft, its head sticky. The spots of seed on his chest had trickled a little.

Freed from the bronze jaws, his remaining flap of skin eased, but did not break. Then the slaves untied his limbs and lifted him. He wanted to throw off their arms, his eyes half-opening, hints of his old posture of defiance returning, but in the end he let them support him as he walked, stiffly, where they led him, his neat rear pale in his tanned flesh.

I watched him go, ruminating, and I knew that before I sold him, I take that rear. I liked the youth’s spirit. In my mind’s eye I was imagining him, nutted now, slowly revealing this fact to me, opening his thighs, and I was seeing him bent over a table in a cell, or on his side in my bed, and these thoughts pleased me.

I breathed out heavily.

‘Well that is that,’ I said to the overseer. ‘I’ll go and clean up and then I’ll come down to check them.’

‘No need, sir,’ he said, ‘I’ll be there. If there is any call, I’ll fetch you.’

I shrugged, but I did want to rest myself. I could still feel tiredness in my limbs, especially after the tensions of the cutting had slipped from me. There was still some core of tightness that remained, though, deep within, that needed dissolution.

I looked towards Daniel.

I could give that boy a really good fuck now, I thought. He was excited by the blood and sperm of the gelding. He always was. I could take him to my room, have him stripped and take that compact little rear again, forcing myself into him, pounding at his body, until everything and myself would be lost and squeezed out, and then I’d doze and wake later, fit to take on the day once more.





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