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The Retirement by Take No Prizners
At
twenty-nine years of age a gladiator has learned more than physical skills
and dexterity in the arena. He has learned to read the faces of the men
around him, his fellow participants in the temporary blaze of glory that is
accorded each gladiator before his eventual demise. Ragnar
could scarcely recall any other world. Since the time he had been kidnapped
as a teenager by Roman soldiers while working his uncle’s Alpine field and
brought many leagues south to the Colosseum to
serve as a fuckslave and attendant, he had
associated only with men engaged in the business of killing and dying. Ragnar had learned how some men understand when a
gladiator’s time has come, and how others seem oblivious to it. He had performed his job conscientiously,
honing the swords of countless deathfighters in the
dark chambers beneath the arena, taking the cocks of the horny men into his
body as they claimed their privilege to fuck any of the slaves they wanted
before going into the arena to die. For many, the pleasure of entering Ragnar’s fine young body was the last sexual ecstasy they
would know, since their final spurt of seed would be an involuntary expulsion
resulting from a mortal thrust of the opponent’s weapon into their muscular
physiques. Ragnar recalled how, as a lad, he would
look into the eyes of the man who had just fucked him and recognize the face
of death as the mighty gladiator took up his weapon and strode out of the
chamber. He had developed a keen sense for recognizing the men who had lost
just enough confidence or dexterity or strength to jeopardize their continued
survival in the Games. By
eighteen he had graduated from servant’s work to gladiatorial training, where
his teachers consistently gave him swords much heavier and longer than seemed
appropriate for his youthful stature. As a result, his arms, shoulders, and
chest grew stout and thick with powerful muscle while his legs remained
nimble even in their strength. Just as he had been kept naked during his
servitude as a gladiators’ slave, he now trained naked as well, donning a meager loincloth only in those rare instances when a
noblewoman visited the school to inspect the forthcoming prospects. As Ragnar stood at attention for inspection, in line with
the other men, he felt a swelling pride in the knowledge that the loincloths
he was given were never sufficient to cover his massive endowment. He was
seldom fucked now, except on occasion by a fellow trainee whose cock he
permitted to enter him, and instead he more frequently exercised his growing
virility by fucking other men. Each of the other deathfighters
in training felt Ragnar’s massive meat in his ass
before their training was complete and they were sent off to fight and die. He
excelled at the art of man-to-man combat, rapidly graduating from the
impalement of straw men on the training court to live exercises with
condemned slaves or prisoners of war. His trainers grinned excitedly at the
tendency for Ragnar’s sexmeat
to stiffen and stand almost flush with his creased, muscular belly when he
was closing in for the kill. He often ejaculated even without touching his
member when his sword entered the body of his opponent. At six feet in height
and broad of shoulder, with a cock nearly nine inches in length, Ragnar was clearly cut from gladiator’s cloth. His
physical presence and his reputation as an accomplished secutor
were legendary even before his first appearance in the Colosseum. Impatient
to see the champion of the gladiatorial school in professional action, Ragnar’s trainers released him to the arena after only
three months. He vomited on the arena floor prior to his first sword clash
with a young Celtic tyro, but his nervousness did not prevent him from using
his superior strength and skill to kill the fair-skinned fighter and spurt
his cum all over the young man’s writhing body. The victory came after a
quarter hour of vicious, sword-clanging combat when the Celt failed for a
brief second to raise his sword in defense of Ragnar’s persistent thrusts. The blade caught the man in
the belly, inflicting a serious but not mortal wound, after which the
unfortunate Celt never fully resumed peak performance. A second blow, this
time a slash to his right arm, disabled him sufficiently for Ragnar to go for the chest. Unable to lift his heavy
sword, the Celt found nimble footwork his only defensive maneuver,
but there too Ragnar was superior. He backed his
opponent from one end of the arena to the other, never relenting in his
alternating thrusts and jabs, until finally he was able to run the man
through. The sword entered his ribs just to the right of his breastbone,
piercing the man’s heart, which was pumping furiously from the intensity of
its exertion. Ragnar’s dick grew raging hard as he
witnessed the look of shock, helpless rage, and recognition of death in his
opponent’s eyes. The man’s seething hot blood spewed all over Ragnar’s body, covering him from head to foot, baptizing
him in his first victory kill. Ragnar’s cock
spurted involuntarily, anointing the dying enemy with his seed, which would
coat his pierced body as he was dragged away to the spoliarium.
The roar of the arena crowd entranced him as he stood with his foot on the
Celt’s carcass, his cock still erect. Ragnar knew
at that moment that though he had been brought against his will into the cult
of killing, he had found his place in the company of men. The thick chest of
his worthy opponent had felt very good beneath Ragnar’s
foot, and he wanted to feel it again and again. The
defeat of the young Celt was indeed the first of many victories. By his
twenty-ninth year Ragnar had killed more men than
he could remember, and he had attained the rank of primus palus, the highest rank of
gladiators. The Games were different now, louder, more crude, no longer
making any pretense of refinement or protocol. He
never knew what to expect when he entered the arena, yet over the years his
reputation as a champion had kept the Consul from pitting him against
impossible odds. He had long been considered more valuable alive as a
crowd-pleasing victor than he was as fodder for a contrived slaughter, which
was the fate of many of Ragnar’s shorter-lived
colleagues. The Consul had grown fond of pitting two or even three tyros
against one particularly well-muscled fighter in order to offer the
entertaining spectacle of a prime male specimen hopelessly butchered merely
by virtue of his being outnumbered. Other gladiators were informed prior to a
fight that they would enter the arena with one arm bound to the thigh, or
with a spike forced through one foot, forcing them to fight with a severe
handicap. It was usually, though not always, a death sentence. With
the ascension to the throne of the sadistic young Emperor Elagabalus, a
particularly vicious innovation became commonplace in the Colosseum.
Elagabalus kept pet lions, which he was fond of nourishing with the severed
genitals of defeated soldiers, condemned slaves, or dead gladiators. The
knife sheathed to the upper arm of the gladiators, previously used mainly for
defeating an opponent in combat too close for effective swordsmanship, or for
slashing the throat of a downed fighter as a coup-de-grace, now doubled as a
castrating blade. Ragnar had grown accustomed not
only to killing his opponents, but to slicing or sawing off their cocks and
balls as well. He typically held the heavy, bloody mass of hot, sweaty male
flesh up above his head for the Consul and the crowd to observe and cheer
while he positioned his foot on the stretched bare chest of the gladiator
whose life and whose manhood he had taken. Once, when the Emperor himself had
been in attendance, Ragnar had been invited to toss
the severed genitals of a defeated opponent into the lion’s pit that had been
constructed adjacent to the fighting area. It was a singular honor which had not been accorded any of the other
fighters. His own dick stood proudly erect as he observed one of the deadly
cats snap at its repast of fresh cockmeat and
sperm-filled balls. As
he prepared for yet another fight, hearing the growing din of the crowds
assembling in the arena above, Ragnar shook himself
free from the reveries of his past victories and tried to concentrate on the
task ahead of him. He had heard that a fresh crop of Dacean prisoners had been consigned to the arena,
soldiers who were well known for their fierceness in battle. Shamed by their
recent defeat at the hands of the Legions near the Ragnar tested the edge of his sword, which had been
honed by a naked and handsome young fuckslave. The
young man had done a very good job, the sword having acquired a fine
sharpness. Ragnar rewarded the slave with a dollop
of fat, which he scooped from a crockery jar and applied to the younger man’s
ass as the slave bent over for his obligatory pre-game rape. If Ragnar was displeased with a slave’s work, he refused to
lubricate the man he was fucking, forcing him to endure the full brutality of
Ragnar’s massive, veined dick as it separated the
slave’s ass and ripped into his guts. He had on occasion incurred the disfavor of the managers by fucking a slave to death
prior to a fight. After lubing his attendant’s ass
he inserted himself slowly into the man’s fuckchute,
then rapidly pounded his meat into the slave’s guts, feeling his hairy balls
slam against the young attendant’s firm asscheeks.
The young man grunted from the pain, but his ass, having no choice, drank up Ragnar’s hot cum. He
spent himself inside the unwilling asshole, then pulled out and picked up his
sword, swinging it over his head to limber his arms. He needed a pre-game
fuck to steady his nerves and to prevent himself from ejaculating too soon on
the arena floor. Even after raping an attendant in the preparation chambers, Ragnar was always rock hard when he strode in magnificent
nakedness onto the Colosseum floor, acknowledging
the cheers of his bloodthirsty admirers in the stands. His rape complete, the
attendant turned and knelt before the tall, broad-shouldered gladiator whose
semen he now held in his ass. He took the gladiator’s huge fuckrod into his mouth and sucked and tongued it clean
while Ragnar seemed preoccupied with the fastening
of his knife sheath onto the upper part of his left arm. He had not thought
to request the sharpening of his knife, which had grown dull of late after
the castration of numerous men with especially hard cocks. He dismissed his
concern, however, confident that the blade was still honed enough to take the
genitals of a Dacean soldier. Ragnar shoved the fuckslave
off his dick and threw him to the floor as he felt himself approach a second
ejaculation. He wanted to save the next cumload for
the chest and face of his opponent, whom he intended to anoint with hot seed
after he had run the man through. He even considered the possibility of
fucking the Dacean in the ass. It would have
been unheard of in previous Games, but in the days of Elagabalus he suspected
there would be no consequences for such a deviation. Ever since the Roman
soldiers had swooped over the He
finished strapping his knife to his arm, took up his newly sharpened sword
once again, and sucked in a chest full of air as he prepared himself for yet
another entrance into the death ring. It was at that point that Ragnar caught the gaze of the fuckslave
who had just serviced him. The young man of eighteen, a tall, good-looking
slave who was soon to begin his own gladiatorial training, sat on the stone
floor where Ragnar had thrown him and looked
intently up at the seasoned gladiator who was girding himself for battle.
With a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, Ragnar
recognized the same look in the eyes of the slave which he had himself given
to the men who had fucked him years earlier in this very room. It was the
knowing gaze of a younger athlete in training, who instinctively knew when an
older gladiator was finished. As a young attendant he had himself recognized
the tell-tale signs that a man was about to fight his last battle as he
strode out of the chambers to fight in the ring. Did this strapping young fuckslave know something that Ragnar
did not? He averted his eyes, chilled by the penetrating gaze of the man he
had just raped. Ragnar’s dick in his ass did not
seem to have quelled the young man’s insolence. The familiarity of his
knowing gaze enraged him, and if he were to be honest with himself, it
frightened him. The managers signaled for Ragnar to exit the chambers and ascend to the arena. His
time had come. He took two strides toward the exit, then made a decision. He
turned on his heels and strode back to the naked attendant, who was now
struggling to his feet. “Stand and die, you young pig,” Ragnar
growled. The eighteen-year-old rose to his feet, demonstrating that he was
nearly as tall as the gladiator. He was very handsome, and his young body
showed clear signs of developing strength and musculature. He looked at Ragnar with trepidation, knowing that his life was in the
hands of the champion deathfighter. “This is how I
reward insolence,” Ragnar announced, pointing his
sword at the slave’s midriff. He thrust it suddenly forward, running the lean
young slave all the way through. The slave grunted and cried out in sudden
surprise and excruciating pain. His flaccid cock sprang to semi-hardness and
ejaculated a dribble of cum. He grasped Ragnar’s
merciless blade with his bare hands, cutting himself in a vain effort to
prevent the sword from piercing his body. The tip of the blade and a third of
the sword’s length protruded from his back. Then his eyes became glassy and
his knees weakened. He stared into Ragnar’s face,
this time with a recognition of his own death. Ragnar
extracted the sword as the young victim collapsed on the floor. He kicked the
dying slave so that his body lay sprawled on the floor of the chamber, then
he brought his foot down hard onto the young man’s chest, smashing several
ribs as he crushed the air out of his lungs. The slave’s dick spurted a final
wad of semen out onto his belly. There
was a general outburst of amazement from the other gladiators and from the
managers as Ragnar regarded his bloodied sword
blade with great satisfaction. Several attendants and fuckslaves
cowered in fear as they realized one of their number had been cut down by a
gladiator with so little provocation. Cruelty to the fuckslaves
and other attendants was not uncommon among gladiators, but it was generally
understood that only the Consul had the right to execute them for
infractions. Ragnar had exceeded his bounds. The
Consul had hopes that the now-dead slave would make a promising gladiatorial
trainee, perhaps eventually reaching the ranks of the primus palus. Ragnar’s
ill-considered outburst against the slave was in effect the destruction of
private property. “That
is what I will do to the Dacean,” Ragnar growled at the men who were staring at him in awe.
But it sounded as if he were trying to convince himself as much as the
others. “You
must do it twice more then,” responded the manager. “The Consul has decided
you will have two opponents today.” Was this what his attendant had known
when he had looked at Ragnar as if for the last
time? “And for your foolhardiness in executing your attendant, Ragnar, you will wear this helmet during your fight.” The
manager placed a Roman Legionnaire’s helmet on the gladiator’s head. “The
imperial archers have instructions to kill you should you ever remove this
helmet,” warned the manager. The added head protection made little sense as a
punishment, but Ragnar exited the chamber and
ascended to the arena floor wearing his helmet as instructed. He was greeted
by a massive outburst from the assembled throngs who had come to see him
slaughter or be slaughtered. A crier stood just below the Emperor’s loge and
raised his hands for quiet. The level of the din lowered just enough for most
of the audience to hear the announcer introduce Ragnar
falsely as a “Legionnaire of the It
was then that Ragnar caught sight of his opponents,
two naked, well-built Dacean soldiers with hairy
pectorals and powerful arms and legs. They were both somewhat shorter than Ragnar, who stood over six feet tall, but both of them
had sculpted physiques and were well-hung, their cocks semi-hard and arching
out over massive, low-hanging testicles. The manager’s sadistic trick of
forcing Ragnar to wear Roman military headgear was
working well. Upon seeing the
Legionnaire’s helmet on the head of their opponent, and after hearing Ragnar introduced as a plunderer of their homes, the Daceans screamed their rage and hatred, determined more
than ever to fight and kill. One of them was outfitted as a retiarius with trident and net, the other as a secutor like Ragnar. Both not
only had knives strapped to their upper arms, but a second smaller, curved
knife strapped to their right ankles. The ankle knives were to be drawn only
after the opponent’s defeat, when the dead gladiator’s cock and balls were
cut from his body. As Ragnar heard the men snarl
their bile at him he realized with a gathering sense of foreboding that he
was the guest of honor at his own retirement party.
Seldom did a gladiator survive to see his thirtieth year. Why had he thought
he would be different? Ragnar marched to a position twenty paces from the
edge of the arena, directly in front of the Emperor’s loge. Elagabalus
himself was in attendance and leaned forward in sadistic anticipation of the
champion’s greatest challenge yet. Ragnar clenched
his sword in his right hand and raised it in the traditional salute, calling
out in a stern, clear voice “Morituri te salu--” but was interrupted
by the ambush of his Dacean foes, who clearly had
no understanding and no respect for Roman tradition. The retiarius
cast his net while his colleague jabbed at Ragnar’s
muscular side with his sword. The crowd erupted in a renewed frenzy of
shouting and bloodlust, amazed and perversely delighted at the Dacean gladiators’ flaunting of arena etiquette. With
great difficulty Ragnar managed to avoid the snare
and the sword tip. He longed to remove the infernal helmet from his head, as
it was an unaccustomed piece of equipment which tended only to distract and
encumber him, yet he was mindful of the archers along the edges of the ring
who were poised to execute him the moment he disobeyed the orders to keep it
on. The
Daceans were not only some five years younger than Ragnar and powerfully built, they were also cagey men who
appeared to understand the value of teamwork. They circled Ragnar, taunting him with occasional jabs of the trident
or sword, all the while gauging the speed of his reaction, the length of his
sword’s reach, the agility of his footwork. Ragnar
likewise sized up his opponents, realizing the odds were decidedly against
him unless he could kill one of the men without sacrificing his weapon or his
right arm. He successfully eluded five more net-tosses and an equal number of
jabs with the trident before the Daceans broke from
their circling maneuver and attacked. The netman succeeded in getting his web over Ragnar’s head, after which the secutor
moved in from behind to run his sword through Ragnar’s
back. It was only with the swiftest of reactions and a fortunate slash with
the sword that Ragnar was able to cut enough of the
netting to avoid entanglement of his weapon. He whirled on his feet and met
the secutor’s thrust with his own sword, deflecting
the attack. He slithered out of the net, avoiding a deadly trident thrust,
and parried his adversaries in a crouched position, ready to pounce. The
crowd yelled as his big balls swung back and forth between his legs, bouncing
against his muscular thighs. Many in the audience would have paid dearly for
those nuts, believing them to have the power of an aphrodisiac. There was a
sense in the air that this was the day the great Ragnar
would finally lose them. The
Dacean secutor lunged
again, this time in an all-out frontal attack, while the retiarius
hung back, waiting to execute a follow-up net throw. The Dacean
screamed a fierce war cry, articulating in his language the imperative that
the Roman must die. Ragnar’s reflexes were quick
enough for him to hold his sword upright and grasp the hilt with both hands.
He parried the Dacean’s sword, allowing the two
blades to scrape each other along their entire lengths, deflecting the
enemy’s blade tip away from his chest. But the man’s momentum propelled him
forward, and he lunged directly onto Ragnar’s
firmly-grasped weapon. The tip entered the man’s bare chest dead center. Ragnar heard his war
cry turn to a death call as the Dacean literally
impaled himself on his opponent’s sword. Once the sword was all the way into
the man’s body, the hilt pressed against his hard chest, Ragnar
pushed forward, forcing the impaled man backward so that he fell to the arena
sand splayed on his back, his arms and legs spread. Dark blood, emanating
directly from the warrior’s heart, spurted upward in a geyser from the man’s
chest, coating Ragnar’s weapon and spraying his
massively muscled chest. The sword tip hit the ground, forcing the blade
partially upward again, back through the swordsman’s body, yet the blade had
lodged in the narrow space between his ribs, and Ragnar
found it necessary to plant a foot on the man’s belly as he heaved backward
on the sword, trying desperately to dislodge it from the dying man’s ribcage.
As he did so Ragnar felt another warm spray against
his leg. The Dacean was ejaculating his death cum,
spurting his seed onto the muscular leg of the man who was killing him. The
crowd roared its approval, many of the spectators chanting Ragnar’s name. Perhaps his dream of fucking tight young
soldier ass might yet be realized. Ragnar’s brief surge of optimism after killing one of
his adversaries rapidly dissipated as he realized he had wasted crucial time
when struggling to remove the sword from the Dacean’s
body. Immobilized by his necessity to remain with his weapon, Ragnar soon found that the retiarius
would waste no time in avenging his countryman. The Dacean
tossed the cut and damaged net over Ragnar’s head.
A hole in the net from Ragnar’s earlier sword
slashes allowed the gladiator’s head to protrude through the webbing, but it
hung down from his shoulders, restricting his arms. Ragnar
abandoned his sword and grasped the knife that was sheathed to his upper left
arm. He slashed at the netting from underneath, trying to hack a larger hole
in it. The blade, however, dulled by many castrations of hard-dicked fighters, was of insufficient sharpness to free
him from the net before it was too late. The trident found his left leg,
sending sharp pain through his frame as the sharpened tips cut deeply into
his muscle. A second brutal jab of the trident through the netting struck Ragnar in the small of his back, jabbing his kidneys. He
groaned and cursed from the pain, enraged by the suffering the rugged soldier
was inflicting on him. Then
a bad situation became even worse. The retiarius
tugged on the net, causing Ragnar to lose his
footing and fall to the sand. The Roman helmet came loose from his head,
leaving him once again completely naked except for his knife sheath. He lay
helplessly on his back, clasping his knife, struggling to free himself from
the entanglement. His hard cock protruded through an opening in the net,
vulnerable to the Dacean’s trident. Ragnar’s determined adversary moved in quickly, smelling
victory. The crowd seemed to smell it too and roared with a deafening swell
of bloodlust. The Dacean, filled with hatred for a
man he perceived to be the epitome of Roman hegemony, determined to kill Ragnar slowly and painfully. He used his trident with
excruciating skill, jabbing Ragnar’s right leg both
in the thigh and in the calf. Ragnar screamed in
pain and writhed in the net, slashing at his opponent with his knife. He
would not do so for long, however. The gladiator’s powerful right arm was the
next target of the trident-bearer. Remaining outside Ragnar’s
reach, he used the length of the trident’s shaft to his advantage and managed
to insert all three points longitudinally into Ragnar’s
thick upper arm, tearing the muscle and rendering the arm immobile. The
defeated gladiator reluctantly released his grasp on his one remaining weapon
as Ragnar’s disabled arm was pinned into the sand
of the arena floor. The
left arm was his next target, and the Dacean made
quick work of it, rendering all four of Ragnar’s
limbs useless. He lay sprawled under the net, spread-eagled on the bloody
arena floor, awaiting his fate. The
Dacean paced around his prey with deliberate
slowness, sporting an enormous hard-on that smacked against his belly with
each step. Occasionally he gigged Ragnar’s arms and
legs again with his trident, making sure the powerful gladiator was unable to
defend himself from his coming death and also ensuring as much pain as
possible before he died. Ragnar’s limbs twitched in
involuntary response to the savage attacks, and the pain from the trident
jabs racked his entire body. The Dacean stepped
across the body of his dead comrade, whom Ragnar
had dispatched so skillfully, circling Ragnar six times in a pre-victory taunt. He extracted Ragnar’s sword from the chest of the dead secutor, claiming it as a trophy. The crowd roared its approval
as the Dacean soldier held Ragnar’s
sword up in his left hand and the trident in his right hand. He thrust the
trident into the ground next to Ragnar’s face, then
grasped the sword in his right hand. Ragnar looked
up at his adversary with the most intense hatred he had ever felt for another
man. To die in the arena was perhaps inevitable, but he had never
contemplated the shame of dying by his own sword. Such
was not to be Ragnar’s fate, however. The Dacean had other plans. He used Ragnar’s
sword to cut away the tangle of netting, freeing the magnificent, hard-cocked
body of the defeated gladiator and laying it bare for the cheering crowds to
see. He paced in another circle, this time abandoning the sword by sticking
it into the ground next to the trident. Finally he straddled Ragnar’s mangled legs, looking down at the thick-chested fighter as he stood with engorged dick, casting a
death shadow over the gladiator’s doomed face. Then the Dacean
knelt, inserted his hands under Ragnar’s wounded
thighs, and lifted them up with his arms. The crowd’s cries grew audibly
deeper as they realized what the horny soldier was about to do. Lifting the
defeated gladiator’s legs up onto his powerful shoulders, the victorious
fighter positioned his adversary for a deathfuck. Ragnar yelled his anguish and rage, his face purple, his
mouth foaming. He could not defend his ass, however, and the Dacean thrust his hard dick into him, plunging roughly in
all the way to the hilt, then fucking him with a rapid and brutal force. “I
rape you as you raped my people, Roman dog,” said the soldier, his face
contorting with an approaching ejaculation. He spurted a large quantity of
semen into the ass of the muscular gladiator, ramming him several more times
even after he had spent himself, just to heighten Ragnar’s
utter humiliation. His legs and arms pierced through and badly mangled, Ragnar could only tilt his head upward and watch the
soldier’s powerful, sweaty, fur-covered pec muscles
flex as the man raped him. Observing
from his imperial loge, Elagabalus, his own cock hard and oozing precum, laughed uproariously at the ruse the managers had
perpetrated on the Daceans and Ragnar.
“The man truly believes Ragnar to be a
Legionnaire!” Elagabalus exclaimed. “Observe the depth of his hatred for our
army!” The
rape complete, Ragnar had only now to die and be
castrated. He tilted his head and cast a farewell gaze upon his massive cock,
which had fucked hundreds of men and shot thousands of loads of semen. He
understood with sobering clarity that his dick and balls would soon become
cat food, just like the severed sex of so many other men who had died there
before him, many of them at Ragnar’s own hand. He
spat at the Dacean as he pulled the trident from
the sand and positioned it against Ragnar’s
abdomen. Ragnar’s enormous dick lay flat against
his belly, so the killer moved it aside with the trident, positioning it
between two of the tines rather than impaling it under the center tip. The cock was a prize which should be left
intact until it was cut off. The
soldier would take his time with the kill. He stood over the defeated
gladiator, his dick still raging hard, and grinned down at him. Then, after a
moment of waiting, during which Ragnar’s belly
heaved in and out with an increased rate of breathing, the Dacean suddenly thrust the three points into Ragnar’s abdomen, eliciting a loud cry of anguish and
pain, which was scarcely audible over the noise of the crowd. He extracted
the trident, but some of Ragnar’s entrails were
impaled on the hooked tip, and as the weapon was removed from his body, his
guts were pulled from his belly in a long, bloody string. The Dacean removed the knife from his arm sheath, a weapon he
had so far not had reason to use, and slashed through the tangle of bloody
guts clinging to the trident’s points. Ragnar
screamed his pain and writhed on the ground, hoping now only for a quick
death at the hands of his nemesis. A
second trident thrust was positioned over the lower part of Ragnar’s throat. The center
tine would pierce the hollow of his throat while the outer two would
penetrate the sinewy muscle at the top of his shoulders. The Dacean held the trident in place for another few moments,
savoring Ragnar’s
predicament. “You were a good fuck, Roman,” the warrior taunted him. Then, as
Ragnar was about to respond with an obscene retort,
the Dacean drove the trident into his throat,
cutting off his speech for the second time that day. The muscles on the top
of his shoulders tore away in bloody gashes. Ragnar
lifted his hips from the ground, arching his pierced belly up as his neck was
impaled and pinned to the floor of the arena. His eyes were so wide it
appeared that they would pop out of his head. The Dacean
placed his left foot on Ragnar’s raised belly and
forced it back down, stomping the man downward and squeezing more guts out of
his belly wounds. Ragnar wheezed and began his
death gurgle as blood and air were sucked in and out of his pierced throat. The
Dacean jerked the trident from Ragnar’s
throat and re-positioned it for a third sadistic impalement, this time across
his massive pecs. The center
tine rested against the gladiator’s breastbone, while the outer two tips
found their marks against Ragnar’s nipples. The Dacean grinned as he listened to Ragnar’s
death rattle and observed his wide-eyed awareness of what the soldier was
about to do to him. “I saved your heart muscle for last, Roman,” the killer
told him. Then Ragnar saw the man grasp the
trident’s shaft with both hands. His biceps flexed as he brought all his
strength down on the weapon, forcing its points into Ragnar’s
defenseless chest. The center
tip cracked the breastbone, splitting it open and allowing the iron shaft to
penetrate the stud’s thick chest. The other two tines likewise pierced him,
passing through the ribs and poking holes in his lungs. Ragnar
rolled his head back, pointing his chin skyward as he screamed silently, his
shoulders tensed, his knees bent slightly, his pelvis once again bucking
upward in reflex from the penetration. The victorious fighter gigged him
mercilessly, forcing the trident all the way through Ragnar’s
chest, busting his strong heart and wrecking his lungs. Blood filled the
gladiator’s mouth and also bubbled up from the center
chest wound, then spurted ferociously in dark plumes as the heart expelled
the dying man’s life force. Ragnar’s cock flailed
involuntarily, spasmodically bobbing up and down and ejaculating huge
quantities of hot seed. Ragnar’s cum sprayed all
over the Dacean’s legs and ran in gobs down the
shaft of the deadly trident that was fucking his body. The
Dacean left the trident inserted in Ragnar’s chest after the plume of blood ceased and the
cum stopped spurting from his dick. He extracted his castration knife from
its sheath and quickly sliced off Ragnar’s meat,
both the cock and the ballsac, holding up the big
lump of flesh for the Emperor to see, placing his foot on the upper part of
the dead gladiator’s once powerful chest, just beneath the throat, to assume
a victor’s stance. The crowd roared its approval, and the Emperor nodded his
head in acknowledgment of the victory. With his left hand the mighty Dacean warrior grasped his dick and pumped out another
load of seed, this time in celebration of his victory and as a final
humiliation for Ragnar’s mutilated carcass. He
spurted ropes of white cum onto Ragnar’s face and
chest, then smeared the semen into the dead flesh by rubbing it in with his
foot. At
a barely perceptible signal from the Emperor’s loge, the archers drew their bowstrings
and fired a volley of arrows at the surviving deathfighter.
Having fulfilled his function as the means by which Ragnar
was to be retired from gladiatorial service, the remaining Dacean prisoner of war was no longer needed. The rugged
warrior dropped the severed trophy he had claimed from Ragnar’s
crotch and looked in amazement at an arrow that suddenly protruded from his
own chest. It was quickly followed by several more. The Dacean
was tough. He remained standing, cursing all Romans to hell, until the
seventh arrow caught him, this one piercing his neck, after which he finally
collapsed to his knees. Five more arrows in his broad, muscular back finished
him off, and he fell forward, impaling himself on his chest arrows, coming to
rest on top of his still-hard dick, which lay pinned beneath his muscular
belly. Two
charons entered the ring, each of the little men
bearing a deadly bludgeon, which was the tool of their gruesome trade. One of
the charons administered the final head blow to Ragnar while the other one hammered the skulls of the two
Daceans. Kicking the heads of the fallen men so
that the right temple lay upward, the charons
administered a forceful blow to the temples of each skull, ensuring that the deathfighters had indeed found their intended deaths in
the arena. The charons collected Ragnar’s severed cock and balls and used a wicked
serrated blade to saw through the thick cockshafts
and fleshy scrotums of the two dead prisoners of war. They placed these in
the helmet which Ragnar had worn into the arena,
then delivered the three sets of cocks and balls to the Emperor for feeding
to the lions. Ragnar’s massive body was the first to be dragged out
to the spoliarium. Two men were required to
negotiate its weight. As he was dragged away, Ragnar
left a trail of blood and spilled guts across the floor of the arena where he
had killed so many men. In the spoliarium, where
his body would await later committal to the carnea
outside the city walls, Ragnar’s magnificent corpse
was laid beside that of the young fuckslave he had
run through with his sword. That corpse too had been relieved of its
genitals, which were long since in the belly of an imperial lion. The two Daceans were dragged out next, their pierced, naked
bodies laid on top of the slave and Ragnar. The man
who had defeated, fucked, and killed Ragnar, and
whose body was now prickly with arrows, was stacked on top of his former
opponent, their faces and dickless crotches resting
against one another, the broken arrow shafts in the Dacean’s
hard chest poking into Ragnar’s once proud, now
slowly rotting muscles. The
news of the great Ragnar’s “retirement” spread like
wildfire. In the gladiators’
preparation chambers below the arena floor, yet another naked musclestud was inspecting the work of his attendant,
testing the sharpness of his blade, and feeling the spasm of his hard cock as
he prepared for what could either be his last fight or, as he boastfully
chose to believe, the beginning of a career even more glorious than that of
the dead and emasculated Ragnar. |
