xxx Table of Contents
A letter from Joyce Trinakle ... she's in charge of a special experimental project ... a moderate size city in the midwest that has opted for the female domination mode ... where males are subject to women's whims ... she tells us how criminals and other males are tamed ... the way women like ... 
x
i
Surprise, Surprise ... English jack tells us about what happened to a friend of his in an unnamed Arab country ... he was accompanying a businesswoman client of his to a slave auction -- a sale of male slaves to enthusiastic women buyers ... and how hot he got at watching those hunky studs humbled and sold as property ... or less ... till he found oun it would be his turn next ... 
a group of terrorist women kidnap more than a thousand hard bodied marines in revenge for the arrest and trial of Marina Bobbit ... they take their righteous revenge on the marines ... just the way you want ... Marine Executions on St Valentine's Day ... a word komix by military jock ... something funny ... we find out at the end that the Marina Bobbit thing is just an excuse ... ha! 

  
i
x
  It was the Victor's Choice. He was the Governor's favorite -- the nineteen year old son of a champion gladiator -- a Syrian -- and a slant-eyed slave-girl from the far east. He had been trained from childhood to be a fighter -- to follow his father into the arena. Someday he would die spectacularly, like his father. But for now he is a champion, living high -- for a slave.
xxxxFor several months now he had won all the matches in the arena, bringing great honor to his Mistress. Now in this summer evening, in an after dinner match arranged by her Honor to entertain a few friends, the champion showed his stuff .... and deprive his opponent of his "stuff" ... 
xxx
x
x
a letter from
Joyce Trinakle
xxxxxxxx
Mistress Joan
The Disciples of Semiramis

I wanted to write to tell you I and My Friends think you are doing a wonderful job you are doing at the Disciples of Semiramis. We all look forward to the day when Women rule the entire world and males are Our slaves, pets, work animals, and whatever else we want them to be.

I am a member of a community that has brought a lot of the coming New World to reality. It is a Utopia in the nineteenth century sense -- a place where new social and ethical and moral ideas can be lived out and tested in the real world. Our Utopia is a FemSociety -- where women are supreme. We call it the Farm.

The Farm is a commune that is run by and for Women. It is a prototype of the future world we are all trying to create. Actually the Farm is a rather large town in a midwestern state with Our own political jurisdictions. We take in a rather large county that is both rural and urban. The Farm has more than two hundred fifty thousand members. And, while it is a Utopia most communes try to be, it is so large we have all the problems of the outside world.

I run a correction facility here at the Farm. We take the incorrigible young males and try to put them on the straight and narrow. Males are difficult even when they're behaving, so we take drastic measures on bad cases. I want to tell you about a typical group.

The young men we were sent were bad cases and had all been given up as incorrigible. None of them were younger than nineteen and all had been heavily experienced sexually, although some did not show it in their builds.

The latest batch we received was sent straight to the medics for their circumcision. That puts a crimp in 'their style', to use male braggadocio language. After the circumcision they would not be able to jerk off so conveniently, and, after all, most Girls like males better with their foreskin off. I've never been prejudiced -- trimmed or not, I find males amusing if somewhat childish. But trimming is what We are here for and I will say We always did a very neatjob of cutting on the new males. they always ended up with a neat pale scar well up on their dicks.
 

Some of the males were more of a problem. they had been involved in serious crimes and had been very troublesome to their Caretakers. Too much of that and We had to deball them during a second visit to the medics. We would just slit open their ball bags, pull the purple balls out, and clip them off.

We drop them in boiling water for three or four minutes, and then lift then out by their strings and drop them in a marinade. When the balls were well-soaked, we take them out, trim them, and eat them on the spot, the two of Us. Sometimes with big balls, we have to slice them up first.

Sometimes a few of the inmates are less developed than the others -- their bags are still crinkly and snug up against their cocks. With these, We have a bit of trouble getting the bags down so We could slide the shears onto the necks of them. Finally the shears slide in an We close them.

The bags and their contents fall with a gentle plop into a collecting bucket. Then all that is necessary is a little cautery to stop the bleeding and a little sewing up.

The males usually howl all during the operation -- from the psychological pain, mostly, but We don't pay attention to that. their screaming makes the operation all the more rewarding for Us, though.

We already know that the balls from one of these undeveloped young men are tenderer and tastier than the hard-used ones, so we don't need to boil them. We just pop them into the marinade sauce raw, fresh cut.

The young man's bags are left hanging, empty except for the ends of the chords which now go nowhere. But if they became too much of a nuisance or infected, We go back in and cut them off too.

Once in a long while, We remove a cock. It is a messy operation, but cocks sure taste good when we fry them up like blood sausages.

When We take whole cocks, We fry them in spiced butter. The stuffed penises usually swell up and split like the sausage they are, and they slide down Our throats very easily, a slice at a time.

Internees with neither cock nor balls are well-behaved and are good examples for the others -- both in their new conduct, and as a threat of what might happen to those who misbehaved.

The amputees have to piss sitting down like a Girl from a hole we poke near their ass-holes. males fixed like that don't like it at all, but what can they do. It just makes the punishment all the more effective.

I am preparing a much more detailed report to share with others in Our movement. We will share this with You when it becomes available. In the mean time, keep up the good work. And here's to the coming of the New Age sooner than later!
 

Joyce Trinakle
Society Femme
Clarks IO 67676


x
English jack
Surprise, Surprise
I couldn't believe what i was doing -- what i was watching. It was a slave auction. -- a goddamn, real-life slave auction. A man was being shoved up onto a block in front of scores of excited screaming Women! -- And a white man at that! How could this be!

From my vantage point, a shaded balcony half-way up the side wall overlooking the crowded courtyard, i suddenly felt a pang of sweating shock and gripped my can of Coke so hard i nearly squashed it. i looked across at my host, Fatima, ready to protest, then thought better of it when i saw the Woman's avid interest, passion almost, at the primitive spectacle.

This is what came of accepting an invitation for a weekend "in the real Arabia". Fatima was something the outside world didn't think existed -- an Arab businessWoman.

In fact, much of business in Arab countries are headed by Women -- with men in powerful sounding but hollow positions ... presidents of companies, chairmen of the board, vice presidents ... all showpieces to maintain an image ... one that hides the true life in most Arab counties -- most of which are actually run by Women behind the scenes. Or at least, this is what Fatima tells me.

Fatima is bank executive, roughly equivalent to a vice president. i had met Her by accident and over six months or so, began to deal with Her directly instead of the lackey-male who fronted for Her. This much of what She told me is true -- i can attest to this myself.

i was fascinated by this supposed female-driven society that put on the appearance of being male-driven. Much of the world is female-driven despite the male trappings of power -- Women behind the scenes telling their husbands what to do and think. But this society was much more highly developed.

Over another six months or so, Fatima started inducting me into this female-driven world. Just a week ago or so, i learned that most of Arabia are actually followers of Semiramis, the legendary Babylonian Queen, and not Mohammed, what Fatima called 'that crazy-man of the desert'.

According to Fatima, Disciples of Semiramis seized upon the fanatic's conversion-zeal to spread the true rule of Women throughout much of the world. A tricky strategy, but one that worked, if i am to believe Fatima -- even many of the men whose strings are pulled most don't realize it to this day.

i was really confused. i didn't know how much of this to believe. It all seemed too fantastic to believe. It was just the opposite of so much of what i had always known about Arabs, Arabia, Islam, and all the mysterious east. Maybe this was why i accepted it when Fatima invited me to see the real Arabia. Whatever the reason, i am here now, not believing what is going on right in front of me.

This is definitely not what i had expected at all -- yet another, very frightening glimpse of the secret rules and behavior of the Saudis. i was about to yell at Fatima that this 'real' Arabia wasn't 'on' if this was the entertainment. Yet She was watching too closely, and i bit my tongue.

Fatima and i had arrived at the balcony just as a dazed group of tall thin young black men passively shucked off their flimsy cloth shifts down to rope tethered ankles and allowed themselves to be prodded and probed -- back and front, all over. All young men being displayed to only Women -- of all ages, sizes, and shapes -- prodding and probing.

At first i thought it was a sick kind of cabaret -- an Arab take on Chippendale's. But the luckless kids disappeared down into the jostling, chattering throng. That's when i started wondering.

Now this shocker -- a young white guy -- sturdy, struggling but dejected ... his black curls tousled, his face sweat-streaked and drawn with strain. he was barefoot, dressed in a grubby white shirt and crumpled trousers.

he tried to avoid the two Women behind him but couldn't. Clearly, they were prodding him with something painful. he winced and obeyed their urging to clamber up the last step of the plinth.

my stifled protest went unnoticed. -- It was a wonder Fatima herself wasn't down there, joining in on the bidding, She was so wrapped up in the proceedings. Thinking better of trying to protest, i offhanded,

"What? No dancing girl slaves to bid on?"

Fatima snorted a laugh and chortled,

"you really believe those stories? Hareems and all? Who's the slave ... Women Who loll around in luxury all day with castrated males to cater to Their every whim ... or the males who have to go out and work to support Them? Or maybe the males who have been castrated to guard Them? you think they're the masters? Ha!"

She snorted again then grabbed my wrist,

"I think you have a saying in America -- no one owns a cat ... the cat owns them! It's a beautiful system ... so transparently reverse of what it claims. I just can't believe the world has believed it so long!"

i just shook my head, not knowing what to believe. i looked to the frightened young man on the auction block and stared blankly.

Fatima looked down at him and said,

"This man's an American -- he must be. he has been brought in by some freelance dealers ...."

"Dealer? How?"

"Easily! There are many dealers -- some official and some freelance, working by themselves, cutting out

middleWomen, you know. More money for the Dealer, lower price for the Buyer!

i nearly choked on the lump in my throat. Fatima was so eager, it was obscene. She listened intently to the salesWoman's jabber and tried to keep me 'up' on what was being said. She effused,

"This one has been shipped half across Africa!"

i grabbed Her arm and squeezed,

"You knew this was going to happen!"

"Of course, My dear mac."

She looked me straight in the eye then grinned,

"You must admit, you don't get to see a real slave auction every day of the week."

"And how!!! They're supposed to be illegal. And Americans particularly don't like this sort of thing at all! They fought a civil war over that, you recall!"

"Isn't that great -- doesn't it make it that much more exciting!"

My face must have been absolutely incredulous. Fatima laughed,

"Besides -- what is an 'American'! A passport -- that's all! It has no meaning when a man is on the block. All he is now is what he looks like and whether one Woman will outbid Everyone else for the sake of owning his body -- once he has had a good look at it.

Fatima looked back at the man then said,

"It's a shame this one seems rather nervous and obstinate."

"Hell's bells, Fatima! What do you expect -- the guy's been kidnaped -- hi-jacked or something! Maybe caught up in some goddamn hostage thing. We should stop it!"

Fatima frowned with a quizzical grimace,

"You want to try! Just remember where you are, My friend! Any fuss by a stranger could lead to a riot. -- No, this sale will go on whether you want to watch or not!"

i breathed hard. i did not want to watch. But i really did -- want to watch. i was ashamed of myself. -- The scene was incredible and i was enough of a voyeur to find the idea exciting. -- Besides, it was a half day's flight back to Riyadh and there was no one i could report to. What could i do?

That rationalization calmed my qualms. It made it easier to follow my fascination. i studied the mass of jostling bodies -- waving arms and buzzing voices. The block stood at one end of the narrow courtyard, about four feet high.

By now, the luckless American had shuffled to the front of the plinth. The two large, swarthy Women in striped jellabas hustled him into position, forcing him to stand upright and face the crowd. -- Clearly, if it wasn't for them and the hobbles on his ankles, he would have bolted, making a run for it. But, as i could clearly see from above, there was no chance in Hell he could get away without a rescue party -- and a big one!

The thought crossed my mind, Call in the Marines. Then, Fat chance! With this mob, they'd likely as not end up on the block too!

The prisoner slumped. His shoulders drooped. His arms hung loose down his front. That's when i noticed the tether at his wrists too -- his wrists were tied. The black haired American twisted his head from side to side, vainly looking for some kind of evidence that the whole thing was a bad dream -- or an elaborate hoax.

"What's going to happen?"

"Watch -- you'll see .... Ah! There's Sabrina, the auctioneer." Fatima chortled, "It's not everyday She gets such a good piece of merchandise!"

i drew my shoulders back and "holier-than- thou'ed",

"Fatima! You don't approve of what's going on down there -- Do you!"

Fatima grinned with a glint,

"Why not! It is the custom -- this man has met his destiny! -- As must all men, eventually ... whether in this life or the next."

Then Fatima warned me, didactically,

"Do not meddle with Semiramis, My friend!"

i bit my lip -- this was no time to be rude about Semiramis! i looked down again. Sabrina had flourished to the front of the block and was pushing the American back a pace to give Herself more room.

Sabrina raised Her hand. A half-hush fell across the crowd, dramatized by the booming of a large gong -- from the far corner, swinging, quivering from the hammer blow of a giant, loin clothed male black body builder type.

Sabrina gabbed something at Her rapt audience. It was obvious Fatima was right -- they were all having a rare treat at this American's expense. Turning toward the American, Sabrina shouted and waved Her arms. The Women below jabbed the reluctant slave again.

he winced and began to run round, shuffling, hunched, white-faced, obstinate and frightened. he completed a turn when the auctioneer waved Her arms again. This time the two swarthy characters came half-way up the steps behind the block and jabbed some more.

i thought i heard the man yelp -- loud enough to be heard above all the clamor. The American clenched his jaw. Then i mused, he is a handsome man. Wistfully, i remembered some Hollywood swashbuckler movie. If only ... if only. Poor sod. What the hell could i do -- What the hell would it feel like! i shuddered, but i was also tingling with excitement at the drama being played out below.

The jabbing had its effect -- the young man began slowly pulling his shirt out of his pants and up over his head. he didn't want to, it was obvious, but whatever was going on behind him was very persuasive.

The victim slowly pulled and tugged at the material until front and tail were clear of the waistband, then lifted the hem as well as he could with his tethered wrists. Inch by inch, he revealed the upper part of a neat, sectored belly -- flat, square pectorals, large brown nipples, and a strong, bull-dog neck.

As the shirt came up over the American's head, a knife blade flashed. i gripped my Coke can even harder but realized the two Women behind were only cutting away the tee-shirt

The handlers tugged away the remnants and jabbed the American when he started to lower his arms, "persuading" him to keep his arms raised, spreading his laterals to show off his "V" shape.

he was turned round to show off that "V" back. his strong arms unwillingly flexed, knitting a set of powerful shoulders and deeply ridged spine. Now it was more evident -- this American was in good shape -- very good shape -- even if he was pale and shaking.

Fronting the crowd again, the man looked even more tense and defeated. he winced again as a knife blade japed him in the arse. There was nothing to do but obey. Like a sheepish schoolboy, the young American unclipped his trousers' waistband, unzipped his fly and let his pants drop around his ankles.

His stained red white and blue nylon designer briefs were his last link with dignity. In a way, he looked like a model for Calvin Kline -- pouty defiant in his swimmer's body.

The handlers hacked away at the trousers' crotch and back so they fell in two pieces around the American's tethered ankles. They forced Their victim to turn round once more -- the better to see his calves and thighs, i supposed.

i was suddenly aware of a tightness in my trousers, making me aware that i was excited despite any mental reservations or moralistic protestations i might want to believe i had.

i wondered, Are they going to leave the guy like this? i was hoping now they would cut his briefs away too. True, the American's thin, compliant nylon briefs hid little, but the humiliation of being stripped completely naked before a crowd of leering, screaming, pawing Women -- that would make the scene below all the more exciting -- for me, not the American.

Fatima suddenly broke my attention,

"I can see you are more excited by this than you protest, My friend!"

She pointed to my erection. i blushed and grinned. Fatima changed the subject,

"This man is a good looking specimen, wouldn't you agree?"

i grinned and nodded. Fatima continued Her observation,

"But he is too frightened for his own good."

"What do you mean, 'his own good'?"

"Well, if he stood straight, squared his shoulders, showed the crowd some self-respect, he would look more impressive. Don't you agree?"

i looked at the American,

"i guess so. But it's hardly surprising -- he's thoroughly frightened. But i can see what you mean -- he would look a whole lot more impressive if he took a deep breath and tensed those belly and leg muscles."

i looked to Fatima,

"But what good would it do him? he's trapped and knows it -- it's all no use."

Fatima glanced at my erection tent-polling my groin and smiled,

"All the same, just an element of personal pride would make all the difference. And if he looks better, people bid more. And a higher price means higher status among slaves -- and better prospects for good treatment by his Mistress -- higher price, more invested. It's as simple as that -- even you English know you take more care of a Rolls than a Mini."

i'm sure my face had the look of sudden realization,

"i guess you're right."

Fatima looked at the American and muttered,

"They should have spent more time preparing him...."

"i guess you're right again, Fatima."

"Of course I'm right -- and practical! Imagine -- they have shipped this man from Semiramis knows where but they have failed to even rehearse him on how to behave. he has no option, I'm sure he realizes. By now he should know that it is best for him to accept his fate. So he would be willing to rehearse so he could have a better life -- if they had only taken the time to explain it to him."

"i think you're expecting rather a lot -- especially of a kidnaped American."

"Nonsense! he's intelligent -- even if he is an American! More men that you might think realize what effect a good physical impression makes -- yet this one seems to be ashamed of his body -- a very good one, I'm sure he must realize. Surely he would want the best for himself. he should be using his body to his advantage."

i argued for its own sake,

"But what can you expect from the indignity -- the ultimate indignity of being kidnaped and ..."

Fatima laughed,

"You keep saying 'kidnaped' -- you presume too much, my friend! he might be repaying some judicial debt for all we know -- he may be a murderer, or a rapist, or a traitor. All the more reason for him -- and you -- to accept his fate!"

i didn't continue. First because what Fatima said about men knowing their physical worth is true -- it seems young men flirt with each other and with older men more now days than they do with Women. It seems to be first nature to most men to want to impress others with their bodies.

Second, it is possible that this American was sentenced to slavery instead of death or prison. And, third -- before i could think of another reason, i saw a knife glint again.

This time, Sabrina was holding it. She was poking at the prisoner's right arm, forcing him to hold his tethered wrists high above his head. Even if he was not accepting his fate as Fatima thought he should, the American had good definition and an athletic shape -- tight, ropy ribs, long lats, and a wide, deep chest.

i could feel my pulse thumping and gulped at my Coke. i could barely force it down without choking. -- Shit! The auctioneer was going to .... my groin writhed. i leaned forward, nervously trying to relieve the tension without touching myself. Fortunately, Fatima was every bit as intense in watching and so didn't notice my "embarrassment".

Sabrina slashed downward, through the flimsy waistband of those overly compliant briefs. They half pealed off and half clung tighter when the waistband snapped. Sabrina grabbed the pealed edge and yanked, making the American's genitals flop as they unpeeled from their mashed together confinement.

Blushing crimson, desperately trying to lower his arms in futile modesty, the American stood stark naked. The crowd of Women roared its approval. -- The rare sight of a nude infidel on the block was more than most of them had ever hoped for -- even if he was circumcised like believers, they knew he was not. That made him even more strange -- not a Jew, not a believer, but still cut like followers of the book.

The glistening black muscle-man hammered the gong again. In the silence that quickly spread, allowing the reverberation to die slowly, Sabrina began to extol the merits of the naked merchandise.

She pointed to different parts of the naked body -- the bicepses, the chest, the corded belly. Sabrina slapped the muscular butt, turning the American then grabbing his thigh, tickling his cock and balls.

All the time, the prisoner blushed and glowered, trying to hunch forward as if he could make himself invisible.

Sabrina leaned forward to speak to someone. Fatima took the pause in action to murmur,

"This is the telling moment -- when customers come up to examine the merchandise. you surely agree, the man should face facts now -- face his fate."

i nodded then whispered,

"i hate to agree. i was really wondering how he could face it -- with all those hands mauling him all over. But, i have to say, he'd probably feel a bit better if he took a deep breath, squared those shoulders and told 'em all to go and get fucked.
Xxxx"As it is, he looks like a novice body builder who's dried out with embarrassment. Poor sod -- it's a pity when he's really got good shape and muscle not to put on a show of it."

The first prospective customer stepped up on the block. She methodically fingered and probed each limb, jabbed the American's belly -- that made him flex and he suddenly looked stronger, more appealing. The American clamped his jaw but the customer pried it open to inspect the teeth. Then She bounced the American's balls and cock.

i gasped. The impersonal examination was turning the guy on! i could even feel my thick cock get even tighter and push harder against my pants.

Fatima sighed,

"That's better. The body is strong and the sexual response is a useful guide to his potential for training. True, the man is docile, but some Women like that. Maybe his Sellers will do well after all!"

i was embarrassed by my increasingly obvious interest in the scene, but managed to agree,

"i see what you mean."

i was trembling at the spectacle. i was actually thrilled by the sight of this luckless young man, shivering -- naked and helpless before an alien crowd of Women -- about to be sold into a life of slavery. i observed,

"he seems to be relaxing a bit. That's odd. Why not a few flexes now that he is 'stirred up'. Well, at least he's spread his chest -- maybe to ventilate, but it sure improves the picture, doesn't it. Maybe a bit of oil -- some suntan lotion -- that would have improved his looks."

Fatima leaned forward, scrunching Her eyebrows,

"Suntan lotion? Oil? Ah! Of course -- to make the muscles glisten. That's a good idea, My friend!"

Successive buyers worked round the now statuesque American. he had evidently appreciated the calming effect of a deep breath and had visibly relaxed. he swelled his chest and, as prospective Buyer number four began to finger his anatomy, he began to work his arms, flex his abdominals and brace his thighs. he also turned without prompting and worked his shoulder blades.

he is much more impressive, i thought. Jees -- he's almost too much! How could i be enjoying this too!

Ten Women followed each other on to the block to examine the guy. Now they crowded round the base, shouting up figures at the delighted auctioneer. Finally She signaled the giant black. The gong sounded ... Sold!

Fatima complained,

"I couldn't hear the price!"

She shrugged Her eyebrows then grinned and added,

"But it's obviously much better than I had expected, judging by the interest."

She postured and spoke with self-assured pomposity,

"As well it should be! They don't get to buy a strong, young white infidel very often!"

i tensed, thinking again of the shocking scandal this scene revealed. Fatima prodded me eagerly,

"Watch -- they're ... his new owner is leading him off!"

i thought to himself, i wonder to what! What i saw suggested it wasn't a life of leisure and privilege -- A fat Woman in a black robe and head-dress had brusquely looped a noose round the American's neck and was roughly tugging him forward. Her slave -- that's what the poor bugger is now, i thought -- Her slave jumped clumsily, stumbled on the ground and was jerked upright.

Blushing again, the young American hunk shuffled forward behind his Arab Mistress who now had supporters helping Her fight Her way through the throng of hundreds of feverish clawing hands, trying to paw the stumbling, bewildered nude male as he was dragged out of the courtyard.

Fatima poked me in the side and chortled,

"I am glad you could see the difference some style makes! your observations are important. Do you think he was embarrassed to be naked?"

i nodded without taking my eyes off what was going on down below,

"It looks like it. -- At least till he got steamed up with all the handling. Maybe he isn't used to be naked anyway. And, hell, who wouldn't be if he found himself helpless and being auctioned off!"

Fatima snortled,

"Well, he'll get used to being naked soon enough now. But I would like to think that when a man goes under the hammer naked, he gets his reactions together from the start. -- he must know there is nothing he can do to stop it, so it would be better for his future and his own self-respect if he stood up to it."

Again, Fatima asked me to agree to that assertion. Then She added,

"Still, I can see that some familiarity with what is going to happen would help...."

i laughed, a little self-consciously,

"Fatima, you sound like you're thinking of going into this business for yourself! How the hell ...."

my voice just trailed off. Fatima grinned -- maybe i was starting to see why She had brought me here,

"Why now, my friend!"

i started disclosing my thoughts,

"A suntan does make a man look much healthier, but i don't think that presents so much of a problem. After this interesting example, and our discussion, there is no reason why the next sale should not be much better -- more professional...."

i postured, trying to be calm,

"Next sale? You mean there's going to be more?"

Fatima grinned,

"Of course, my friend. -- Whenever there's enough merchandise to justify a sale, there has to be a sale -- after all slaves eat, so it's best to sell them before they cost too much ... and besides, slaves can get sick. Sell them right away, that's what's best."

i just mumbled,

"Yeh?"

Fatima grinned,
x x
"As it is, I think we can arrange the next one for just a few days from now. And this one will be even more exciting!"

i tried to extricate myself,

"More exciting? For whom, Fatima? i watched this terrible event against my better judgement. i certainly could not hang around here just to watch another."

Fatima grinned again, this time with a sinister incumbency,

"I didn't say anything about your watching, My friend. I know the next sale is going to be exciting -- for you and Me both, mac -- because you have helped me sort out my ideas about how the sale can be conducted -- how the ... er, merchandise should be prepared and perform.
Xxxx"And for the even better reason that I know how good the merchandise will be -- since the next white man who gets up on that block, strips himself naked and shows the customers what his body is really worth is going to be ... you!"

 


x

x

military jock
Marine Executions on St Valentine's Day!
x
Military Jock intercepted the following communique. It was released then withdrawn within minutes. It is most revealing:
x

SPECIAL NEWS BULLETIN FROM
MARINE HEADQUARTERS, CAMP
PENDELTON, CA
 

As of 06 Jan 94 over 1,000 young Marine recruits have been reported AWOL from several combat units. Military spokesman for the Commandant of Camp Pendelton has released the following communique:

"All Marines are to be on CODE ONE standby alert until further notice (stop)

Camp Pendelton is restricted to only military personnel until a thorough investigation is completed by military police (stop)

Unauthorized civilian personnel are to be escorted off Camp Pendelton by military police (stop)

There is to be no communication by military personnel going out or coming in to Camp Pendelton except through the office of the Commandant and then only with the strict authorization of the investigation team (stop)"

It has been reported to the news media and Washington that the missing Marines are from the ages to 19 to 21 inclusive, with outstanding physical performance reports and all being of the Caucasian race. The Commandant has acknowledged receiving a phone call by a militant Feminist organization threatening unknown retaliation on male Marines depending the outcome of the Bobbit trial decision.

As the mysterious disappearance of the young Marines continue at Camp Pendelton and at the Pentagon in Washington, there is an unmarked black tractor-trailer pulling into an isolated dock at the San Diego port during the early morning hour darkness under the cover of dense fog.

Several black-leather clad females, each holding an M-16 with silencer, approach the black doors of the huge trailer-truck, removing the locking mechanism.

Meantime, over a hundred other well-harmed leather-clad females assembled on the deck of the awaiting freighter. Shortly, a long line of young males were being escorted onto the gang-plank of the ship -- led at gun-point.

Some of the young males were dressed in combat fatigues; others in dress uniforms; still others in red Marine gym outfits. Some were even dressed in civilian clothes. All the young males were gagged, blindfolded; and they all had their arms tied behind their backs.

Once all the male cargo was securely on board, the leather-clad female guards led the bound Marines down to a large holding cell to await the systematic processing and the long voyage into the unknown.

As the ship lifts anchor and begins to move out to sea, the black-leather clad females begin to move their captive male cargo through the initial processing stages.

First, each Marine is stripped of all clothing and made to stand with legs spread. The males are then lined up into rows of fifty, still gagged, blindfolded, and with hands bound behind their backs. They are naked save their dog-tags hanging from their strong, young necks. All personal items, as jewelry and wallets, along with their clothes, have been ripped, torn, or cut off their young, muscular bodies and destroyed in the burning furnace in the boiler room.

The female captors next massage the bound young Marines' limp cocks to erection so the captors can record the measurements of their sex organs along with their other measurements and ID information.

Once all the handsome young males are processed in this first stage, they are led back to their holding cells to be exercised for an hour then shaved and showered. After being fed, the naked Marines will be allowed to rest for an hour before being led to the next processing stage.

As the thousand plus naked Marines are lined up in the large storage area in the lower hold of the vessel, the hundred leather-clad female guards arrange the young males in alphabetical order according to the last names recorded on their dog tags.

The female leader calls out ten names and orders the named males to the platform where the ten muscular young Marines are hoisted upside-down by their ankles.

The female leader then announces to all the male assemblage,

"You former Marines have all been kidnaped by the most vicious feminist group in the world. We plan to torture your muscular young bodies with the most sadistic measures at our disposal. This is in retaliation for John Wayne Bobbit's act of abuse on his wife -- mental and physical."

The leather clad female leader continues by telling the ten studs hanging helplessly by their ankles that they have been selected for the first act of revenge because they had measured ten inches or longer when their cocks had been masturbated to full erection.

Even now, the ten hanging naked bodies of Marines are being masturbated, their huge ten inch plus cocks being milted, their man-juices, being collected in individual glass tubes.

After they all cum, their still cum-dripping erect cocks are ceremoniously sliced off in turn and dropped into plastic containers.

After the first muscular young Marine is castrated, the others cry and beg to be spared. To no avail. Each of the ten is similarly castrated with deliberate pomp and circumstance as the nearly thousand other young males are forced to watch.

Those young muscular males avert their eyes are pulled out of line as a female guard announces,

"Any who refuse to look will be processed next!"

Each masturbating-female then rips her male's dog-tag off and drops it into the plastic container and laughs as she puts the container under her and pisses it full before sealing it.

"These containers -- and the rest we will collect, will be sent back to the States when we are finished. To your parents, wives, girl-friends, boy-friends, or other close relatives or friends," the leather-clad female leader announces in a sneering titter.

The castrated young Marines, pleading and whimpering, are spurting blood from their groin wounds. Leather-clad females with hot branding irons sear each wound shut and then the weak and barely conscious former males are let down and dragged off the platform and out of the large assembly room.

"These former males will recover. Piss-holes will be punched in their under-sides in a day or two -- after enough piss has accumulated to wash the hole clean with salt.
Xxxx"They will be able to piss, but they will never again know that perverse and evil male pleasure of sticking it in!
Xxxx"We have done this before and know that castrated males often still produce milt, but it is no longer richly white with sperm. And they get no pleasure -- only pain -- from their ejaculations.
Xxxx"This pleases us. And it pleases us to know that it will distress each and every one of you -- both before you are fixed, and afterwards. It will be a living torment that will have no end!"

The leather-clad female leader tittered with delight as the naked, bound males in her audience swooned and nearly fainted from fear, anticipation, and empathy.

The young males don't know, though, that not all will meet the same fate. Some will end even more horribly. It pleases the women to make them fear.

The males will continue to be well fed and exercised vigorously to be in prime condition for their future fates which they dread now more than death itself.

After a few more assemblies in which ten massively endowed Marines are similarly hung by their ankles, tormented, then castrated, the leather-clad female leader announces to the group of assembled males, including former males well enough to attend the assemblies,

"We will now show you your eventual fates."

A number of large video monitors are lowered and turned on. After a minute or so, their blue screens come alive with a video.

From the air an island is shown. It appears to be covered with a jungle. Now there is a large plantation with lots of small figures doing things.

Now there is a land-shot -- a huge plantation resort complex with naked muscular white males and non-males working in the fields. Now a shot of hundreds in a quarry, covered with sweat and dust, their burnished-copper skins peaking through at especially sweaty spots -- under their arms, in their groins.

Now there is shot of similarly hard-muscled, naked white males digging with their bare hands in underground mines. They are chained with tanned and laughing female overseers taunting them with their whips.

Now inside the plantation mansion other muscular, naked muscular males are being tortured in various mechanical devices -- stretched on racks, hung by wrists or ankles or wrist and ankle, strappadoed, whipped by laughing females -- some leather-clad, others naked except for furs or lace wraps, still others dressed like little girls. Other males are being branded. While females are slapping or punching other males' cocks and balls. And non-males are being impaled with tapered telephone poles up their still beefy asses.

In a large kitchen several non-males, still hard muscled after their castration, are being butchered -- alive. The most intact are hung up by ropes round their full, round-pec domed chests and under their wide-lat-spreading arm-pits -- their massively muscled arms pulled behind their backs and tied there. One is just now loosing a foot as the female butcher places a tourniquet around the ankle and deftly slices skin to find arteries which she quickly seals with a hot soldering iron before slicing it. It takes the well experienced butcher only minutes to cut through meat and tendons, carefully separating the top foot bone from the lower leg bone, careful not to cut any unsealed arteries.

The female butcher cuts the last tendon and holds the foot up for the camera to see, then shows the severed foot to the crying non-male -- his hard masculine face softened by his baby tears dripping down his beard-stubbled cheeks.

The female butcher kisses the non-male on the lips then slaps it on its full round-domed pecs, careful to slap across its half-dollar-sized coral nipples -- over and over again till they turn a deep brown and the surrounding skin turns blood red. She then tongues the non-male's bruised nipple, grinning for the camera.

Another female butcher is now slitting the skin on a particularly massively-muscled non-male. She reaches in and pulls the bright red meat out of its tanned white skin, still attached on top and bottom by bright white ligaments peaking through the blood already oozing from the still living meat.

She carefully seals off all the arteries she can find with a portable soldering iron then cuts the ligament at top, then the one at bottom, and displays the large fillet-mignon to the camera.

The leather-clad female presenting the video tells the assembled males and non-males,

"You will notice all the meat being butchered is non-male. That is what awaits all of you who have been castrated. Non-male meat is even more delicious than male meat. Male meat has a slightly bitter taste -- testosterone. Two-week non-males have virtually no traces of that disgusting male hormone. But the meat is still full and low in fat. Atrophying of the muscles takes much longer."

She laughed as those who had already been castrated realized they would be butchered alive and eaten in only a week or two.

Another female butcher is attending to a non-male that has already lost both legs and both arms -- all the way to the ball-&-socket joints. This torso with head attached still has a hard-rippled abdomen, full-domed pecs, and chiseled back muscles. But now, with no under-arms, the former-muscle-male is supported by a rope run round his chest below his pecs. The rope is pulled tight so his still full-domed pecs blouse over the rope, partly hiding it.

The female butcher has slit open the skin over this living carcass' meaty love-handles -- on both sides. She reaches through the skin on one side and pulls the meaty muscle out. She then quickly seals the arteries with her portable soldering iron, then takes a curved carpet knife and slips it behind the muscle's neck, where it disappears back below the skin. She gives a quick twisting jerk, and the muscle-meat comes loose on that end. She quickly does the same thing to the other side and then tosses the meat into a tray on the table next to her and proceeds to cut out the other meaty muscle.

Still another female butcher has sliced open the abdominals of her living carcass and is pulling out intestines and dropping them into a metal wash-tub. Her one-time male is crying, throwing its head back and forth, trying to scream but with no more voice left.

With all the intestines and other loose organs in the tub, the female butcher now takes a wide knife with a rounded, sharp blade atop the handle rather than parallel to it. She pokes and scrapes the carcass' insides, pulling out a kidney and tossing it into a tray next to her. Then she scrapes out the other kidney.

The former muscle-hunk marine is now top heavy and turns upside down, his still living handsome face looking straight down at his guts inside the wash-tub.

The female butcher stands up and pulls a hemp rope down from overhead. It has a hangman's noose on it. She pulls the noose open then with one hand she grabs the living carcass' hair and pulls it back upright and slips the wide open noose round her hand and its head. She pulls the noose tighter and grabs the hair with the other hand and then slips her hand inside the noose out. Now she tightens the noose and nods and the rope is tightened so the carcass is now hanging by its neck.

The leather-clad female presenting the film laughingly tells the frightened young muscle Marines,

"You think this thing is out of its misery now, don't you! You think he will choke to death with a noose round its neck! But no. There's not enough weight to tighten the rope. Even if it was especially slippery, which it is not, and especially thin -- like a wire, there is not enough weight for it to pull the noose closed and cut off blood to the brain or crush the wind pipe.
Xxxx"No! This thing will live until we decide it is to be allowed to die. With no guts or kidneys, it cannot live very long. But we can keep it alive for weeks, should we want to -- by feeding it intravenously and filtering its blood."

Several of the young naked muscular Marines fainted and were immediately pulled out of line by leather-clad female guards.

Eventually the movie shows what looks like a Hawaiian luau. Laughing females dressed in brightly colored shirts and shorts are crowded round the roasting pit. Instead of a whole pig, as expected, there was a whole, live very muscular Marine. But this was not a non-male -- he had not been castrated. And as the muscular male, arms bound behind him, feet tied together, squirmed, the camera zooms in to show a world-&-anchor Marine tattoo in his bulging left biceps.
The screen went blue on all the monitors and the leather-clad female presenter laughed raucously. The other female guards joined her laughter as the naked young male and non-male Marines cried like the frightened little boys they had become.
 
A month later a huge container arrives at Senator Nunn's office in Washington DC. When opened the aids are horrified to find hundreds of smaller plastic containers, each with a dog tag and hundreds with body parts -- mostly severed cocks and balls, but also tongues, hands, lower jaws, or other identifiable or non-identifiable parts.

The containers with no body parts had photographs of the Marine whose dog tag was inside. Many of these young muscular males were shown naked, covered with mud, toiling in the hot, baking sun. Other prime-meat marines were shown being whipped or strappadoed or even being burned alive.

In addition, each container had a small vile of clear fluid which was later analyzed and found to be human semen that had lost its pristine white brightness. Further, each vial had been filled with a salty, foul smelling fluid that, when analyzed, turned out to have been female piss.

The Senator immediately called in the Marine Commandant and handed the horrifying contents over to him. Nothing was said of the incident for months until it happened again. This time the package was sent directly to the Pentagon.

It was just the beginning of what has become the genocide of young white men in and out of the military from the United States, Europe, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, and Israel.

Now that this on-going assault on white males has become public, there is a great dismay spreading round the world -- but only among what had been the rulers of the planet -- young, healthy, strong, intelligent white males.

Their time had come and gone.

PS: The Bobbit trial had only been an excuse.



x
ischys
the anointing

On the outskirts of Rome, in an area near the brick works owned by the Imperial family more than sixty women of wealth and quality had gathered in the dim light of a small ragged temple.

Strange religious sects found their roots in areas like these. The average citizen of these areas looked not to the great pantheon of gods, nor to the prescribed state religion for their everyday needs. Mysticism, cults from Egypt, Asia Minor and other areas found thousands who wanted answers to the everyday problems of life and death, money, food and sex.

The devotees were silent; incense perfumed the air and the torches gave the small temple room an unearthly mystical quality. The priestesses, six solemn women dressed in flowing cotton robes, began the incantation of a solemn chant. The ritual for the purification and anointing of the faithful was beginning.

From one side of the temple a door opened and two young priestesses, their hair tightly braided and wrapped on top of their head, entered carrying sacred objects to the alter. Behind them was a youth, quite handsome, about eighteen or so. He obediently followed the two priestesses as they approached the alter.

The handsome youth was not a native of the area, but a slave taken from Asia Minor -- taken by the Roman armies that were fighting to subdue the areas and bring them under the Pax Romana. His hard muscled body was a stark contrast to the soft curvy bodies of two similarly aged young priestesses who escorted him.

Here in the scruffy suburbs of Rome, a slave was not unusual, but no one in the area could afford to own one. Seeing a young man this noble, this handsome was a curiosity. The eyes of the gathered women were riveted on the youth.

When the two young priestesses had placed the sacred objects on the stone alter, they positioned themselves on either side of the boy. One stepped behind and quickly, efficiently tied the kid's hands behind his back. The boy was frightened. The second priestess put her hand on the slaveboy's shoulder to steady him.

They stripped the boy -- very quickly the two priestesses had ripped his light cotton tunic, letting the rags fall to the floor. Now he was naked.

He dropped his head, not wanting to look at the assembled crowd of women staring at him. The slaveboy wanted desperately to cover his tiny prick, to turn his back, to leave. He tried to block his mind. He breathed deeply.

To make matters worse, his eighteen year old cock began to stir. The more he tried to stop it, the more it grew. There was a murmur of leering satisfaction from the assembled worshipers. The youth's active cock was a good omen -- life would surge and be bountiful in the coming season -- it is from a man's cock that the seeds of life are issued.

The two young priestesses, novices in the temple, unfastened their robes and stood naked beside the boy. Their nipples were erect and pointing up atop their full round breasts. Then on a signal from the chief priestess, they began stroking their vulvas -- lightly at first, then more energetically as their passions became inflamed, twisting and contorting in the slithery way only young women can.

The two turned to face the chosen male, writhing like snakes in heat, thrusting their hips forward as if to snatch the young man's cock and suck it in. It wasn't long until pussy juices were dripping down each girl's thighs -- their taunting him, which he tried to ignore, tried not to respond, but to no fruition, his cock hard and throbbing, eager to fill their lusts.

One of the objects the young priestesses had originally placed on the alter was a large wooden peg -- a giant dildo. The two naked young priestesses now assisted the slaveboy up on the alter and had him squat.

They positioned him. His young ass pressed against the head of the sacred phallus. The young slave closed his eyes in preparation for the assault he was about to face. It was no use to try and escape -- he was a slave and must follow the wishes of his mistresses.

The knob of the dildo, polished ebony wood, was cold and threatening to his tender anus. And well it should be -- his ass was not virgin -- for many months at the temple he had been used by one or more of the priestesses with double-headed dildos -- one end up their cunts, the other for ramming into the slaveboy's ass, to satisfy their needs.(2)

Yet, though he had grown accustomed to accommodating the oversized dildos in his rear, this one was by far larger and more painful than any that had been used on him.

An eerie Siren-like chant of the older priestesses which had continued throughout the ritual was now drowned out by the young male's screams.

The two young priestesses grabbed his ankles and pulled his legs apart. The slave was impaled on the dildo. The sacred phallus raped his tender ass -- it jabbed itself into the soft tissues of his guts. Further and further, the stiff wood probed its way into the youth's tight butt. His involuntary writhing only served to let the dildo sink deeper into his bowels.

At last his boyish ass cheeks touched the alter and his back was ramrod straight -- the wood dildo was buried in his gut and his spine was pinned straight.

Each of the naked young priestesses then took one of his legs, spreading them as wide as possible. The boy moaned, his head lolled from side to side -- he was between consciousness and a faint, his young chest heaved with erratic breaths.

A tiny rivulet of blood from his torn ass lips seeped over the edge of the alter and ran down the smooth stone face -- the dildo, about the size of a man's forearm, had ripped his sphincter.

The chief priestess came forward as the ritual of anointment continued. From the folds of her robe she drew a small curved knife. The blade flashed in the light of the candles and torches around the temple room.

There was hushed silence -- even the chanting ceased as the chief priestess approached the youth. The young man shook violently, his eyes wide open like a fire frightened horse's.

A second priestess behind the boy pulled the youth's stiff cock up and against the victim's taut young belly.

In the very high, piercing voice of an eagle the chief priestess began to shriek -- to call out the spirits of the earth and fire and water. She touched the slave's smooth chest, letting her fingers slide over the taut, quivery skin, down over the bundled abdominals -- the firm flat belly -- into the grooves between bulging muscles.

As she continued her shrieking chant in a mixture of Latin and mystical phrases, the chief priestess gently massaged the slaveboy's testicles. She shrieked louder as her manipulation of the boy's sac grew more intense.

Then she grabbed the slaveboy's balls, stretching them unmercifully from their root while all the worshipers watched silently. With deliberate, religiously prescribed moves, she held the boy's balls high against his lightly haired mons while slapping the blade flat against his perineum with her other hand.

Then with a vicious jerk more befitting a man than a woman, the priestess pulled the balls down between the boy's legs and jerked the curved blade through, almost like there was nothing there but air -- air filled with the startled scream from the frightened slaveboy sacrifice.

The boy was castrated. The chief priestess held up the severed sac, blood dripping down her hand and staining her sleeve.

The young male's scream trailed off to a low moan and his head lolled forward. The second priestess behind him grabbed his hair and yanked his head up. There was one more whimper, then his eyes closed and he fainted.

The attending priestess continued to hold the unconscious slave's head erect. One of the two priestesses who had entered with the young slave now took a fired clay bowl from the alter and began to collect the blood gushing from the wound.

When the vessel was full, the slave's blood was once again allowed to spill over the face of the alter -- there was already a ribbon of bright red blood and a small pool forming on the clay dirt molded into a large bowl under the altar to protect the marble floor.

One by one the supplicants came to the chief priestess. The priestess dabbed blood from the sacrificed slave's virgin balls onto each woman's forehead. Then each worshiper bared her breasts and the sacred offering was touched to each one's taut, erect nipple so each woman's nipples were rouged bright red with the young man's blood.

The priestess dipped the testicles in the bowl of blood after each application to give each woman's forehead and breasts an adequate splotch.

After all the women had been sanctified, their daughters were brought in and they were similarly blessed. And then the husbands were brought in -- naked, their hard cocks wagging back and forth like a dog's tail -- they had been allowed to watch the sacrifice from behind the sheer curtains. One by one, each of these men were sanctified too as the same offering was dabbed on the flared cock heads -- the ritual always had that effect on males.

And after all those had been sanctified, the women's sons were brought in and sanctified like their fathers had been.

Last to receive the anointment were the priestesses. Each of them kissed the severed balls, bowing their heads in prayer as they did so. Most licked their lips, the salty taste of the slave's blood was their blessing.

The chief priestess then finished off the blood, smearing it over her face and breasts, rubbing it onto her belly and over her thighs, between them, over her mons, obscuring the hair in a mat of glisteny red.

The slaveboy had bled to death during the ritual and his body was stretched out across the altar. Special Egyptian sand used in the arena to sop up gladiators' blood was brought in and sprinkled over the altar and into the clay bowl under the altar.

The blood soaked sand was then swept into bowls and blessed by the chief priestess. This blood sand would remain in the temple until it was time to repeat the ritual -- until the next change of season required another offering.

The slaveboy offering's corpse would remain in the temple until dawn; then, wrapped in a cloth, the remains would be transported to the death pits beyond the city limits. The slaveboy would be unceremoniously dumped with the hundreds of other nameless souls brought there daily -- gladiators from the city's seven public arenas and hundreds of private fighting pits.

The small crowd of worshipers disbanded. Young priestesses accompanied the older ones as their returned to their cells in the temple. There was time now to reflect and give personal offerings -- gifts to one another as they remembered the anointing.

 

Victor's Choice
based in a story by Ischus

It was the victor's choice. He was the Governor's favorite -- the nineteen year old son of a champion gladiator -- a Syrian -- and a slant-eyed slave-girl from the far east. He had been trained from childhood to be a fighter -- to follow his father into the arena. Someday he would die spectacularly, like his father. But for now he is a champion, living high -- for a slave.

For several months now he had won all the matches in the arena, bringing great honor to his Mistress. Now in this summer evening, in an after dinner match arranged by her Honor to entertain a few friends, the champion showed his stuff.

The nineteen year old champion's body was oiled so it sparkled in the candle light ... but also so it couldn't be grabbed by his opponent. As a concession to his status, he was allowed to have long hair -- something very unusual for a gladiator ... but not for a champion.

His opponent was a young round-faced boy from the outer provinces -- wherever, it didn't matter. He was barely eighteen and had been a pleasure slave from puberty. But now he was past his bloom and had started to shave -- and it simply would not do for a pleasure slave to have beard stubble, no matter how good his tongue was trained -- stubble can prickle delicate pussy lips!

The young slave was given every disadvantage that could be handed out. The Governor even stripped him from the leather armor he wore as he entered the fighting pit -- personally, herself.

He was made to display his well trained cock and ass-hole to each of the women fight connoisseurs. Most took advantage of the offered displays, squeezing his nuts and jabbing a finger or two up his ass. Many women love to strap on tripple-donger dildos -- ones with one fist-sized head on one end, and two much smaller ones on the other -- the two fit into a woman's cunt and ass-hole and stimulate them most deliciously as they ram the fist-sized other end into a hapless male's ass -- often ripping his hole bloody -- sometimes even killing him ... especially if he hasn't been properly broken in.

But this boy had been broken in. He was so loose he probably wouldn't even pass out from the pain -- that would be no fun. Still, it each of the guests though it was uproariously funny watching this young male being so humiliated.

Actually this was only the overture to the ritualized execution ordered by the Governor. It was to be disguised as a gladiatorial combat, but all present knew better. This handsome young pretty-boy male was not trained in sword play, much less shield defenses. He would be no match for a three-month gladiator trainee, much less a champion -- one trained from childhood to wield a sword and kill with ruthless enjoyment. This combat would be an execution -- but slow enough to be true entertainment for the Governor's friends.
The champion did well, drawing out the fight, toying with him like a cat plays with a mouse -- giving hope to the desperate young man before he completely disarmed him. Then binding him to a wooden pillar, he taunted the handsome pretty-boy ex-pleasure slave. He slapped the boy's face back and forth, breaking the boy's lips so a trickle of blood dripped from the corners of his swelled lips.

The champion punched the boy's belly over and over till the smooth belly undulated like the waves on the sea and the boy had to choke back his own retch as it came up on him.

The boy whimpered and begged as the women watching slowly fingered their deep feminine clefts, pinching their nipples, milking them and licking the white ooze off their fingers as they became more and more excited at the display of torture.

The champion balled his fists and punched the boy's fat, floppy balls over and over as they fattened even more and their bag turned from a wrinkled, loose pouch to a tight-stretched, shiny bag -- stretched like a tight sealed bladder filled with milk set in the sun till it ferments.

The boy was choking and gurgling, begging to die. The champion just laughed at him then grabbed his tongue and slit it out with his castration knife, turning around, showing the fat phaloid to the women masturbating themselves into a lather. He then tilted his head back and dropped the boy's tongue down his gullet, swallowing hard, squeezing the tears out of his eyes as the tongue wanted to catch.

The room filled with orgasmic moans as several women started splattering their hands with their own sticky white ejaculate -- their g-cum -- a woman's equivalent to a male's cum. Woman after woman grabbed each others' hands to like off the precious nectar, heightening their own multiple orgasms.

Despite losing his tongue, the former pleasure slave screamed -- more like a gobbling peacock than a boy -- gurgling peacock, choking on its own blood! This just brought another swell in the moans as women were now caressing each other, smelling each others' excited feminine aromas, licking each others' breasts, kissing each others' lips, deep-tonguing each others' cunts.

After a few more punches to the boy's now super fat swollen balls and a knee to them so hard the boy puked again, the victor took out his castration knife again and ringed each tiny, hard-current nipple, so that more of the young male's life blood ran down his tight, boyish chest.

The male again screamed for mercy, gurgling between gasps for air -- what was left of his tongue garbling his words into peacock gobbles again. Of course, his executioner paid no heed -- the show was much more important than this boy's comfort. The women enjoying themselves more important than anything this boy said or felt.

Then, when he knew the former pleasure slave would not last too much longer he toyed with the young man's limp cock. Surprisingly, with all the pain he was enduring, the young man's cock stirred to full erection -- he had been well trained and his training was still remembered -- if not by the boy's mind, by his body.

The champion jacked the boy's cock to orgasm, collecting the white cream in his palm. He let the boy rest a few minutes then as he walked over to his Mistress, the Governor, and offered it to her. She bared her breasts and he rubbed some of the boy's emollient skin cream onto her tight-swollen nipples -- excited and dripping milk from her kill-arousal.

The boy was gasping and gurgling -- slowly -- he was already too near death for the champion's wishes. He had to hurry or the boy could die on him and deprive him of the kill.

The champion reached down to the former pleasure slave's still throbbing-hard cock and slipped his castration knife under the root -- behind the swollen shiny ball bag, and lined the curved blade up, the sharp honed inner curve hungry to bite. The champion looked back to his Mistress who nodded. Then he tightened his biceps, giving the blade a hard, twisting jerk, grabbing the severed organs as they fell free.

The champion tossed them to another pleasure slave waiting in the shadows for whatever his Mistress might want. The boy clutched the severed organs to his chest then obediently carried them over to one of the Governor's guests who had him push them into the cleft between her breasts, throwing her head back and gasping as another guest tongued deeply into her swollen, dripping cunt.

Now the champion was ready. Before his victim could bleed to death, he grabbed a handful of the boy's silky black hair. He forced the boy to look him straight in the eye as he swung the sharp dagger in a wide arc. There was a scream -- a mortal scream -- bloody spittle flying into the air.

The young pleasure slave's body tensed -- every muscle was flexed taut as the champion stabbed him deep into his belly -- not giving him the release of a quick beheading. Instead, with slow jerks, he sawed his knife, inch by inch, up the defeated would-be-gladiator's belly, past his navel, to his rib cage.

By this time, the soft looking but tight, flat young belly had parted, letting some of the pinkish gray intestines bubble out like froth from a goat skin burst-open by fermenting milk. The young man squirmed, forcing his intestines out, several feet falling out in a putrid smelling coil.

The room was filled with loud moaning now as the women pleasured each other to the most intense orgasm any had felt for weeks -- maybe even months.

Again the champion grabbed the young male's hair, pulling his head back. The boy's eyes were wide open, but motionless. His mouth too was open in a silent scream -- silent because he was dead. There was no blood pulsing -- only lazy oozing ... and the trickle of that running down his bound body.

The champion looked, wondering whether his own cock, swollen beyond the hardness of stone now with the thrill of the kill, had erupted. That's when he noticed the globs of white spunk -- the seeds. When he had stabbed the former pleasure slave, the young gladiator had shot his own load.

He had been so involved with the gutting for the Governor he had missed his own orgasm. He wiped the white emollient from his belly and started to lick it. Then he thought better of it and walked over to his Mistress and offered it to her. She dipped it out of his hand and onto his still throbbing cock.

Then she slowly massaged the gift, mixing it with some of her own spittle, stroking her champion's cock to throbbing, wide-eyed eagerness. She leaned forward and slipped her lips over his near-bursting head, tickling her tongue into his piss slit as it weeped more precum before spurting hard against the back of her mouth, nearly making her choke before she could gag it all down.

The Governor had been suitably impressed with her champion's performance. After her own reward, she gave the young man his choice of any of her pleasure slaves for the night -- or one of the female guests, should she want to use him -- every one of the women sat up and tried to make herself as alluring as she could, wanting more than anything to enjoy this young champion's kill-excited body -- especially because it could be his last fuck ever -- with a gladiator any fight may be his last.

The governor ordered expensive Egyptian wine, and all the food her champion could eat taken to his cell for his night of debauchery then the champion kissed his Governor's sandal and made his way to the fighter's quarters to reap his reward, followed closely by the guest he had chosen to reward himself -- a svelt young woman, the daughter of the richest man in the province -- if he played his fuck right, she might not be able to live without him ... and talk her mother into buying him and retire him from the arena before he lost his edge and fell beneath another's killing sword. 

 

HOME