Subject: Crimson Apologia Crimson Apologia ©29Oct 14 January 2021 The following text is fiction. Fiction describes activities happening between imagination and a keyboard, not in real life. Nothing below is intended to encourage unsafe or illegal liaisons or violence. Summary: In early Rome, a slave mines his master’s cinnabar until circumstances change. Crimson Apologia “Stone me. Hang me. Crucify me. I refuse to appease you with lies.” His voice was strong. Skandar stood straight in shackled ankles with cuffed hands. He stared into the eyes of the gathered magistrates without malice or fear. The court fell silent, observing at the slave whose master had disappeared. Several of the robed men huddled in hushed conversation except for the man seated in the center, the one who would decide Skandar’s fate. “Appreciate my position. A slave master’s murder without punishment will spark revolt. Must avoid that at all costs.” He eyed the young man, “I suspect you know more than you’ve said.” “I was a slave called Asinias. I was a slave in a mine as much as you are slaves to your political maneuverings. My master granted me freedom and requested my leave. Vitus may be at the slave market now. When you visit the bath tonight, ask the boys who service you if they’ve seen him.” Their exchange lasted several hours. Before the moon rose, Skandar left on a long, eastward journey with a small but heavy bag. Stow and Sear Young Skandar and his brothers played along the dusty road near their home chasing fireflies just as the sun set over the Chabahar Mountains. The family lived near the port of Tiz which has been visited by millions of sailors for centuries. Sweet water and dry land drew the ships, the port was a center of commerce. Commerce draws many kinds of people, among them are unscrupulous dealers. Brokers of flesh, the slave trade is as old as time. Skandar was quietly, quickly stolen after being watched for several days. Other children were stolen, a few at a time, here and there not drawing the attention of officials. Children were taken by boat to Egypt, then to Rome. Boys like Skandar were prized for their rich brown skin, dark eyes and strong backs. Last to leave the ship, Skandar would be auctioned with the less valuable stock, the first group to the block. He was skinny after voyage, slow, yet lifted his head at the bottom of the gangplank. Crying children peed in fear, older children screamed and tugged at their chains. Shoved here, thrust there, pulled by his hair through different waiting pens, Skandar was stripped naked and marked with charcoal as eleven years old. Lead through a crowd, the boy heard people speaking another language, they pointed at him and chuckled. Drug up the steps to a wooden platform, Skandar saw hundreds of faces staring back. A robed man stood beside him, “Looks like we have a little Pashi here.” He turned the naked boy’s back to the crowd, gave his rear a slap. “Bet he’s a tight as the lock on the treasury door.” He joked konyaaltı kendi evi olan escort and the crowd roared. Skandar shot the man a scowl. “Oh, high-spirited, too. Tell us, what kind of work can you do?” Skandar stood silent, he didn’t understand. The man gestured thrashing grain, then using a shovel, the boy only watched. In a side street, a donkey brayed. The auctioneer pointed to the area where the sound arose. Skandar nodded. Yes, his family had an ass for carrying their goods to market. “Ah, little asiniass, a dolt who keeps livestock. Who’ll give me seventy-five for this fine specimen of boyhood? Years of service in him, why he’s worth at least three-hundred….” A fat-fingered hand flew upward, “I’ll give you twenty and no more.” A gruff voice called out. Banter ricocheted between the auctioneer and the bidders as Skandar watched. Soon, the heavy-handed man owned the boy for only twenty-seven coins. Leg irons and wrist shackles were removed, replaced with a collared leash and the boy was led to the table where his owner Vitus signed his name. “Come Asinias.” Vitus’ robe lifted in the front, the boy was so young, and so beautiful. Vitus was stopped by a tradesman as they left, “Want me to settle him down for you? Doesn’t have much to cut. Two coins and I’ll use a hot poker, sear his eggs off.” A large man called, plying his trade from his bloody shop. “I’ll follow my custom. Going to wait till he has enough to prepare for my dinner, then watch me eat.” Winked at the man, “He’s a pretty one, isn’t he?” Bartering for Time Vitus lived outside the city. Two days in a cart it took them to arrive at a comfortable old home in the hills. Behind the house, near a stream was a cave. Vitus, and his family before him mined cinnabar from the cave, ground it into pigment and sold it to the artisans of Rome. The vermillion mineral was mixed with plaster to make vibrant pinks and reds for frescos. Sensual flesh tones for cherub’s lips, nipples and knees were all cinnabar from Vitus’ mine. Young, very young for a slave and clever boy, Asinias had been raised in a family who had a trade. Skills mean nothing to traffickers, only warm bodies so Asinias’ expertise in negotiations was a secret, a secret kept hidden as he learned Latin. Asinias worked the mine alone. Lamp and basket, pick and shovel he dug the carmine ore from the cave and contemplated his situation. After mining, he kept the house, cooked and cleaned. Fortunately, Vitus lived a simple life. Master’s enjoyment was fondling his young slave, kissing him as though he were a woman. Tax time came, and Vitus hid the boy, not wanting to pay taxes on him in addition to the extra income earned by the ore the boy mined. The tax collector’s visit caused the master’s mind to fix on his slave and all it entailed, “You need to be cut, that’s what I do with each of my slaves.” The boy was terrified of being made a eunuch, he invented excuses, konyaaltı otele gelen escort “It’ll slow me down, I can’t dig as much.” To delay the loss, the boy slipped his hand under Vitus’ tunic and rubbed his master’s shaft, then his heavy sac. He kissed and sucked the tumescent cock until he tasted the strong, Roman seed. It almost burned his tongue, it almost choked him. Stilling himself, Asinias swallowed and kept quiet. He smiled and caressed his master’s emptied testicles. Vitus was very pleased, and forgot about his cruel tradition as he delighted in the boy’s pleasures. Next year, Vitus paid his taxes and again began to grumble to the boy after the tax collector left. “Time to get rid of your excess, you’ll be calmer, happier.” Vitus took his knife out, began to hone the edge. “Master, I’ll be so sad that I can’t look like you. Please wait and let me be as handsome as you. Just one year.” Asinias pleaded, appealing to Vitus’ vanity. The boy was taller, his shoulders were widening, muscles well-shaped and his smell was more like that of a man. Vitus eyed the slave, lingering gaze settled over the plumping testicles, “I do love the taste….” Quickly, Asinias climbed on Vitus’ lap, kissed him and whispered it was time for his master to penetrate him, “I’m so tight, I’m so ready and you’re so hard.” They proceeded to engage, and it hurt the boy momentarily, yet dismissed the thoughts of castration from Vitus’ mind. Several tax seasons later, Vitus’ taxes were higher after Asinias was revalued. His worth was greater for the incredible physique the young slave developed. Instead of complaining about paying the additional tax, Vitus drew his knife out, and brought a rope, “I must sample your Pashti balls. Fry them for me. Make a sauce, like you serve with fish. This is my custom and your duty–I regret it will happen only once.” Asinias was repulsed but not frightened. “Wait, I have an offer. Every day I’ll bring you my own weight in cinnabar. The day my quota falls short is the day I’ll cut and cook my own bullocks for your dinner. I’ll serve them alongside the honeyed fruit you like.” Vitus accepted the offer as it would increase his income. Cinnabar is soft, easily mined, the young man stashed the crimson ore in covert places to keep himself intact for another year. Hair began to thicken, darken on Asinias’ powerful body, he was no longer a boy, but a young man with a constant erection and what seemed a continually ready discharge, yet a seed of resentment grew inside him. Asinias grew stronger through that year and as naturally happens, Vitus aged further, became lazy, fat and slow for all the care from his slave. After the tax collector took his percentage from Vitus, the master was ready to start his annual request. His slave had another ploy to avoid the barbaric custom and demeaning annual charade. “Vitus, your taxes are greater, increase your income. Purchase a female slave. I will impregnate konyaaltı rus escort her and you can sell her child next year without the assessor knowing. Not one drop of sweat from your brow to fill your purse.” A tempting offer, but denied as the master-slave relationship had changed. Vitus was enamored with his slave and begged nightly to be gored hard by Asinias’ thick shaft. Desired, no, Vitus deeply craved the teen’s heavy shaft pushing and pulling excited pleasure inside his rectum. The master lusted for his slave’s tender, scarlet lips to suck, kiss his neck his face, his ass and his rod. Asinias’ own heart stayed at a wide distance, the same distance to Tiz and the warmth of the hearth in his homeland. Balancing Accounts Again, tax time was nearing, and the boy called “Ass-the-dolt” was taller, stronger and bolder. He’d earned Vitus’ trust, a seat at his table, a place in his bed where he listened to the old man repeat tales about his wealth, his ancestors, all his unrecorded transactions with the artist’s guild. “My boy, be grateful I bought you. You have no unfulfilled needs and all my heart.” Asinias never spoke of freedom, and it is not a slave’s place to criticize, yet more mature thoughts shaped the young man’s strategies. Thoughts from his childhood, remembered parables, and fables were fully comprehended. The slave waited until the taxes were paid, the collector and his guards had left the province. When his master took the knife out to hone the blade, he was met with a silent slave who stroked his hair, rubbed his feet. “Sir, will there come a day I will be free? Twenty-seven denarii and my keep has been repaid a hundred times over.” “You have everything with me.” Vitus answered, disinterested. “Will you leave me land or the mine? Will you leave me anything for the hard labor of my childhood?” “A slave has no mind for such things, you’ll belong to the church after I’m gone. They treat pagans well, they say.” Asinias brought wine, tasty biscuits. He fed Vitus with a modest smile until his master fell into a deep sleep. As his master slept, he was bound, and the tightening of the boy slave’s collar woke Vitus to find himself captured. Asinias smiled, “A slave can adopt customs from his master. Come with me.” Stumbling in the moonlight, the hobbled master and his slave made their way to the mouth of cinnabar mine. Asinias lit a small lamp, and took his master to the farthest part where the quartz and cinnabar streaked the walls in festive, glittering stripes. Asinias felt along the sharpened blade of his master’s knife. “Though I never had a choice, I will give you two, Master.” In the middle of the area, the pick was firmly lodged between several rocks, spike upward. “You may fall on my pick, embed it in your cold heart or you may watch me remove your stones. I’ll stuff them in your mouth for you to enjoy while your blood leaves your body.” “You’ll be drawn and quartered.” Vitus tried a threat. “All I have to do is pull a few beams away and you’ll be buried in your cinnabar. No one will know.” “Untie me. I’ve given you everything you ever needed.” “You never asked what I wanted. You never asked because you knew the answer. Freedom is every man’s desire and alongside that desire every slave harbors a dormant master being trained by his owner.” If you enjoyed this story, make a donation to Nifty fty/donate.html

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