The Paradox

It didn’t take Proximo long to realise something was wrong with his bed boy. He prepared himself the same as always, came to his master’s bed chamber on time, clean, scantily dressed and smelling of those fine oils and scents. His eyes cast about that dim, suggestive gaze as he approached Proximo and bowed low. There was nothing to suggest anything out of the ordinary, that nothing had changed in the boy’s state of mind since the last night he was summoned.

It was when Proximo reached for Alecto’s golden hair to cares the soft curls. He flinched. Only a little. Barely noticeable, really, but he did it. Alecto never flinched. The boy had been a whore all his life, Proximo knew, he had been bred to it, trained for it and always accepted it.

The Roman had other bed-slaves who would quail and resist and stare at him with pained, accusing eyes. But never Alecto, his favourite, his pet. Not even on the first night they were together. He would sometimes cry softly afterwards if his master went to hard and hurt him, but he was never unwilling.

Proximo did not make much of it, but he did not forget it either. As usual, he took the lad to sit on a couch with him. He poured the wine with a freer hand than usual, and watered it less. Alec noticed this, but pretended not to and drank. His master wanted him drunk, so he obeyed without question. Soon, Proximo was drawing him to his bed, but not so soon that Alec’s head was not spinning with the strong wine.

He felt unstable as he stood by the bed, letting the older man undress him and then helping him to undress himself, as if the room was spinning. Proximo laughed as the little slave tumbled into the bed sheets, and he set upon him hungrily.

Proximo was tired, but he found that, as usual, the sweet taste of this boy and the soft pliancy of his lips and body aroused him from any lethargy he’d felt before. He started off with gentle caresses, but soon found his hands exploring the whole of the boy’s body, his chest, his hips, his shapely thighs. It was then the boy gave another jerk, this time coupled with a gasp of pain.

Proximo looked into the boy’s face for a moment before flipping him over so he was lying face down. He looked down at the boy’s back and thighs and saw red welts upon them, the tell-tale signs of a beating.

“I’d forgotten how strong you are, master,” the little slave whispered. Proximo smirked at the sweet flattery. Alec was good at that kind of thing.

“You have been punished, little one…” he said, moving his mouth to a prominent sore just below Alec’s bottom, making the boy squirm and moan. He nuzzled at the soft skin and lapped at the fresh stripes, not quite enough to break the delicately healed cuts. He looked up and saw Alec’s little fingers curled into fists about in the white linen of his bed. “Why?” he asked, lowering his mouth once more and breathing hotly onto the wounds that he knew would be throbbing by now. “Why have they done this to you?”

When Alec answered, his voice was breathy and slurred. Proximo could hear the tremble in his voice. “I…ruined a tunic, m-master…Tertuis was very angry…” he stuttered out at great effort. By now, his master’s tongue and suddenly a graze of teeth were working so hard at the welts left by the clerk’s whip that the boy could barely speak. The Roman went faster and faster, losing all control or care, until the youngster could bare no more and cried out “Oh! Mercy!”

Smiling again, Proximo stopped his assault and turned the boy onto his back. “Mercy, you beg? What terms can you offer?”

Alecto was lying with his mouth open, panting and trembling, not in ecstasy, but in pain. Secretly, he was hating this, the way his head pounded with every heart-beat and now this stinging pain in the back of his legs. But he was trained to feign pleasure, and he knew what Proximo liked. To him, this was no more than an exciting game. “I’ll suck you dry, master,” he whispered.

“A tempting offer,” the Roman murmured, stretching back on the bed, his cock already erect. Keeping eye contact, Alecto lifted himself and crawled to kneel between his master’s legs.

The Gods only knew where the boy had learned to suck, thought Proximo as his young slave went to work. It seemed strange that a boy of so few years could have accumulated such skill. He knew exactly what Proximo wanted before he could even think of it. Soon enough, all desire for the boy’s finesse had disappeared and the Roman had taken a fistful of Alecto’s hair and was thrusting hard upwards into the slender throat.

He tossed his head back on the pillows and moaned his release as he came, his seed filling the boy’s mouth. Alecto suckled down every last drop, but it tasted awful, as it always did in the winter months when his master ate much spiced food. To his dismay, Alecto found he was fighting nausea.

He looked up at his master, who was lying back contentedly in his own sweat. “Amazing…” he muttered, and then said simply; “You may go now, boy.” Alecto fished his tunic out from under his master’s toga, and left the bedroom without another sound.

Tonight, his path to the slave quarter’s was lit by torches and a clear sky, but Alec staggered across the courtyard, dizzy and ill. He kept losing his footing on the tiles and stumbling over nothing. He couldn’t even seem to think properly. Before long he was on his knees, vomiting into the nearest drain.

One of the sweeping girls heard him and came out to help him. Incoherent, but acutely aware of a sense of extreme embarrassment, he started to give a string of slurred apologies. The girl, several years his senior, wiped his mouth on her own sleeve and helped him put an arm around her shoulders, supporting him as she took him back to his own quarters.

She shushed him gently as he continued to mumble apologies, the words now mingled with tears. When they reached the door for the small chamber, she rapped on it loudly. “Aulus!” she called through the wood.

Within moments, Aulus yanked open to door, blinking in sleep and glaring. “What is it you want?”

“It’s the boy,” she said, indicating Alecto with a jerk of the head. She spoke with a strong nasal twinge, a strange accent from far away lands, although she wasn‘t a newcomer to the household. A blackening bruise on the side of her face spoke of her headstrong nature, though, she wasn‘t the ideal slave. All the others had seen it when Tertius lost his temper and backhanded her in the middle of the kitchen. She hadn’t cried. “He’s dead drunk. He’s been sick.”

“Oh,” said Aulus, reaching out to take the boy from her. He was strong enough to bodily lift the boy into his arms, cradling him. Alecto instinctively curled into him and put his arms around his neck. “Thank you, Malakeh,” said Aulus, somewhat gruffly, and the girl nodded and shut the door upon them.

The lamplight made Alecto feel a little better, as did the coolness of Aulus’ rough-wool blankets as he was gently laid upon the other slave’s pallet. Aulus went, and brought back the chamber pot to sit within Alec’s reach should he be sick again, then climbed into the bed behind him, wrapping him tightly in his arms.

Alec lay still for a moment, eyes closed, trying to shut down and shut out the dull sensation of spinning. He had never drunk so much before, and his thinly built frame was not made to take excesses of anything. He felt wretched, but he knew that it was not only because of the drink. It was his harsh re-introduction to whoredom, the contrast of last-night’s tender love-making to this nights callous disregard. He had not merely been used as a slut, he had acted as one, and for the first time in his life he felt dirty for it.

He only whimpered at first, but Aulus soon found that the boy was sobbing. He helped Alec to sit, pulling his tunic off over his head, and undoing his own loincloth. Then he gently wiped the boy’s eyes, drying the tears. Gently, he put and arm around his waist, and held him close.

The chaste affection was sweet torment to Alecto, but he surrendered to it. He laid his head against Aulus chest and let himself cry. He put his arms around around Aulus’ neck and clung to him like a child, sighing and mewing his name. Then, for the second time, the slave fell asleep, naked, in the arms of a man who was not his master.