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“If only father could see you now.”
Flames cast shadows on the wall of the emperor’s private quarter, making them dance though no intimacy is held. A man is on his knees, quivering by the candlelight’s hand despite the shadow’s owner never wavering in his courage, his grandeur and his enduring strength. Yes, yes, that is a man that stands above men. Not a god, he’ll say in the face of others, but he is a handsome fool. Godhood is bestowed by the people (and the people love him.)
What does it feel like, conquering a god?
The thought sends a shiver down Commodus’ spine. He tips his goblet back, letting the wine flow down his throat. He remembers the first time his father had pushed a cup of the sweet nectar his way—it seared his nostrils and burned all the way down and yet now, he feels nothing. He never feels anything, except the thrill of power.
Commodus regards the man at his feet, the divine beast he cleverly captured, and the gold collar around his neck. Its gold chain is wound tightly around his fist, measuring their closeness. He pulls his robe above his knee, and hands his slender foot to the fallen General before him. Beside him, the carafe of wine awaits his attention and he is more than happy to oblige. He tips the vermillion liquid over his leg, letting it flow over his shin, his calf, and curl around his ankle like a calceus. Its cooling touch slips between his toes and stains Maximus’ dirtied tunic.
“Drink, brother. You have an important battle. Drink to your heart’s content.”
He raises his foot to Maximus’ lips, letting wine dribble down his chin, and tugs on his leash. There is a moment where he thinks the older man—the brother he could have had—will dare to glare at him and remind him of the ways his father would be disappointed, but Maximus does not. Maximus has been broken in ways that makes Commodus wonder if there’s any use left in him. (Yes, there is, but is there joy in torturing him? Oh, yes, undoubtedly.) He watches curiously with kohl-lined eyes as Maximus holds him tenderly, like a waterskin in the desert—precious, necessary, needed. He raises Commodus’ foot and lets the wine trickle into his mouth for as long as the emperor pours. Maximus uses his pink, thick tongue to catch the wine and the sight of it makes Commodus want to squirm in his seat.
“Don’t waste a drop. This is the emperor’s wine,” he sneers.
Once upon a time, Commodus would have had to wrestle Maximus into submission. He would have had his guards flanking this muscle of a man and driving him to his knees. Every gift would have been forced down his throat, but now, he trusts Maximus to abide by the roles drilled into him by the emperor himself. It is as simple as asking for what he wants and not in so many words; Maximus has nothing else to live for, except pleasing him. Hm, perhaps Commodus does miss the fight in him.
I should let him see my sister some time. Give him hope.
He can’t help the moan that wrestles free from his delicate throat as Maximus puts his mouth to good work. That warm, wet hole encircles his toes, sucking on them like his life depends on it. (It does.) It’s so fucking warm in the soundless cavern, Commodus can’t help but want to fuck into it. He sinks into his plush chair as Maximus pulls pleasure from him. If his father had known his favourite son was capable of this, would he still put Rome in his hands? In the hands of this whore masquerading as a General? Or perhaps this is just another testament of Maximus’ prowess for anything he takes up, he is bound to master.
Father, if you only knew the depths of his talent. He smirks to himself. He shines best in my bed, not the battlefield. He sends the thought up into the afterlife so that damned old man can hear.
Commodus resents Maximus, and there’s nothing more he hates than unravelling before the man who nearly took everything from him. No, he already did because his father was all that mattered to him and his father loved Maximus more than anything on this earth. He would have married Maximus and Rome in a heartbeat.
No, Commodus will not give Maximus any part of himself, except cruelty and mercy, all which fall under his purview as the reigning emperor. His father’s heart no longer beats and his father’s will died with him.
He pulls away from Maximus, using that same foot to push Maximus hard enough so that he falls on his ass. The former General yelps, a pained moan escaping him as he arches his back. Commodus yanks on the leash reminding Maximus who is in control. Saliva and wine glisten in his trimmed beard. (Let it be known that Commodus cares for his pets.) Apprehension flickers in those blue eyes, like Maximus expects a beating to follow—like he knows he did something wrong. Is there such a crime as giving too much pleasure? Perhaps. It all depends if Commodus wishes to make it so.
Everything depends on Commodus and that makes him feel good.
“Show me your hole.”
The length of the leash remains the same, leaving Maximus in an awkward position. He must slide closer to allow himself enough breadth to lay back and spread his legs. The hem of his tunic hikes up, falling backwards off his raised thighs and exposing all of him. Commodus aches beneath his robes, cock preening at the sight of his masterpiece. He had been such a coward under his father’s rule, making himself small and shaping himself to his father’s image, but that was a mistake. Commodus is brilliant in ways his father could never imagine. Look how Rome’s greatest warrior bares himself to Commodus with a bitch in heat. Oh, it had taken work to find themselves here and every single day, night, hour, he reaps the rewards he has molded.
Nestled into that puffy red hole is a wooden phallus, carved to be much larger than Commodus’ small prick. At its base, his emperor’s crest gleams, polished and perfect. Maximus’ used muscle clings to it, clenching with every deep breath, as if putting on a show for Commodus’ pleasure. The General’s heavy cock has been locked into its own little iron cell, kept curled tight against his shaved balls. Dull spikes on the inside serve as a reminder that none of this is for his pleasure. Should he get hard, they work to bully him back into his place through pain.
Maximus lays there, an obedient dog before its master.
Commodus’ lip turns into a snarl and he yanks the leash fiercely. “Is that your hole?”
It’s not enough. Since his father’s death, Commodus’ anger knows no bounds. There is nothing keeping him from expressing it, no shame or disappointment to put it back into its cage. He presses his foot against the wooden plug, adding pressure that has Maximus writhing and crying out in pain-pleasure. There comes an inevitable point, Commodus has discovered, where enough stimulus eventually turns agony into bliss when it comes to Maximus’ anus. The mind finds ways to cope and the soul clings to an inevitable purpose. Fuck hole or fucking hero, it doesn’t matter, really.
The solid unyielding thing disappears into him, no flared base to catch on the sore muscle. It keeps going until it’s gone, gobbled up by the greedy gladiator. Maximus' hole is nothing more than an open yawn, and the urge to humiliate him more strikes Commodus with a force. He presses more of his foot into Maximus, catching on the edges of his hole as he presses in. Maximus sobs now, biting back the fears he once voiced when he thought Commodus could be reasoned with. It’s going to get stuck inside me, he used to plead. Stop, stop! I can’t take anymore, he said when his warrior’s courage was defeated by the sheer strangeness and brutality of what Commodus would do to him.
(What was it that broke him? Fucking him with the hilt of the sword he used to defend Rome’s honour against the Germanic tribes while Commodus ordered him to cry out his father’s name. Maximus violated the sanctity of the love between Commodus and his father, and so Commodus will violate him and his precious memories of glory.
No, no—Commodus remembers now. It was when he fucked Maximus with a just cooled iron rod. Not nearly cold enough to stop Maximus from crying so hard in pain, he choked on the very air around them. He learned to keep quiet then, yes.)
He wipes his foot on the bearskin rug on the ground, disgust etched into his soft features. He never could grow a beard, and so his boyishness follows him into emperorhood. Commodus motions for more wine.
“Push it out,” he says, sounding impossibly bored with his pet. He brings his goblet to his lips, sipping at the sweet wine. His green eyes remain fixed on the gaping hole, a fish that needs no water to thrive.
Maximus makes a soft unintelligible sound, a whispered ‘please’ that goes ignored. He has no choice. If he refuses, then Commodus will summon one of his guards, one with forearms much thicker than the girth of his plug, to come fish it out of him with his fist. The general bears down, and Commodus waits. Maximus’ breathing fills the room, along with soft desperate moans. A warrior of his stature is not meant to do this. There are whores abundant in the city and the palace. They will put on a show and be grateful for it, unlike Maximus whose shame wraps around this throat tighter than the collar. He cannot bear to meet Commodus’ eyes, and yet he feels the smile blooming on the emperor's features.
“Here it comes,” Commodus chuckles, speaking to no one in particular.
His crest rears its pretty head from deep within the tunnel, inching forward little by little. Maximus pushes with a predictable rhythm, breathing in then going quiet as his strength is put to work deep in his guts. Commodus smirks, watching him struggle to evacuate the intrusion. Finally, he’s found a challenge for the great Maximus Decimus Meridius—the one who makes war look easy, but cannot do something as simple as give birth to Commodus’ precious gift. Yes, yes, that’s it. Maximus can’t even do something that comes naturally to their lesser halves. What a shame, what a shame! (He should choke on that shame.)
Maximus hole yawns open, giving way to the wooden thing and stretches around it. It clings to the object like suckling lips unwilling to let go. More and more is pushed out of him until the damned thing clatters to the ground with a hollow sound. His secondary mouth flutters around nothing.
“Next time, I want you to keep pushing until you bloom like the pretty little flower you are.”
For now, Commodus latches onto the thought of debasing Maximus even more. What would happen if he were to rob this man of his greatest assets? To let his hardened muscles grow soft and have that taut belly go round? Maximus already cannot breed with his cock folded into something closer to a cocklet. Oh, but Commodus does not have the patience to let time rot Maximus away. His mind churns and churns with brilliance again.
“On your hands and knees,” Commodus orders, yanking on the leash once more.
Maximus moves, sluggish and wincing. His cock is flushed red, fighting against its brutal confines. He turns onto his hands and knees, then presses his head against the cool stone floor. His ass is raised into the air, waiting impatiently. They have yet to reach a point where Maximus’ hole has yet to close, but Commodus can feel it. They’re nearly there, he must remain steadfast in Maximus’ training. He can take it. He can take all Commodus has to give.
The emperor gets to his feet, and motions for a pair of guards to join him. Maximus’ body grows taut. It’s never a good sign when others are invited to their game; there is a chance that these men are soldiers he commanded throughout the war—soldiers who had come to respect him. Commodus makes a game out of it, rotating through strangers who never leave the Emperor’s side, men who have been forced to accept their General’s new… state and others who hadn’t the slightest clue, giving them both a chance to revel in the kaleidoscope of emotions that colour their faces. Sometimes, it’s shock, but it so easily turns to disgust. Today, Commodus wants Maximus focused on the battle ahead, so the men that join them are no more than his personal guard.
Their calloused fingers bully their way into Maximus’ soft hole, so easily pulled open after wearing a plug for so long. Maximus whimspers, soft ‘ah’s escaping his lips. He’s learned to love his place, and one day, he will learn to love Commodus.
The emperor doesn’t touch him. He parts his robes, revealing his half-hard cock. He shakes it until it softens—until he can slip its head into Maximus without so much as grazing his rim. He stands there for a moment, staring at Maximus’ muscular ass and tanned skin. How many times has he watched the warrior train under the blazing sun, sweat beading on his skin? Too many. Once, he wanted to be like him, but possessing him is just as good.
With a breath, Commodus relaxes and exhales all his hate, rage, anger and jealousy into Maximus. The older man writhes beneath him as he begins to fill with Commodus’ warmth. He pisses for what feels like an eternity, straight into the belly of his beast. All of the wine is dispelled into him. It’s not enough. He wants that stomach to round and to make Maximus feel the additional weight. He would ask the guards, but in the same way Commodus has yet to bring himself to fuck Maximus (or to ask for what he truly wants which is to be fucked), he cannot bring himself to share.
“More wine!” He orders the staff that are always waiting—watching.
“Y-Your highness,” Maximus growls in that delicious, gravelly base. “The fight.”
“What about it?” Commodus asks, taking the refilled carafe with ringed fingers. “You mean to tell me the great Maximus cannot fight after a little bit of wine?” His tone mocks the other man who has taken pride in being an honorable warrior, dutiful and diligent as ever. One does not rise to his rank on luck and carelessness.
The carafe replaces his cock, tipped into Maximus as the wine intermixes with his urine.
“Hold still. Take it all.” A slap rings out in the empty hall, hand making full merciless contact on ass. “And don’t you spill a drop.”
It gets harder for Maximus who has never had to simply hold this much liquid at once. Commodus’ creativity has always circled around different things he would like to trust into him, but this is new and fun. Commodus watches as Maximus’ toes curl, and how his fists clench in hopes of finding some calm while this is done to him.
When the last of the wine is finally tipped into him, Commodus picks up the plug from the ground, holding it between two fingers as if it would sully him. The guards release Maximus’ hole, and he works it back into the gladiator, listening to the chorus of desperate ‘no, no, no’s.
“On your feet.”
Maximus can barely stand, knees weak and stomach distended with a bump that will be invisible beneath a steel breastplate. The guards do not support him, leaving the man to defy expectations as always. He won’t meet Commodus’ eyes, but that doesn’t mean he won’t rise to the occasion. Commodus snakes his fingers around the back of Maximus’ neck and yanks him close.
“You will show them how even as my toilet, you are better.” He breathes into his ear, faces pressed close. Maximus cannot escape him. “And you will not spill a drop of the gift I have given you.” After all, it’s made of real (liquid) gold. “You don’t want them all to find out, do you?” Maximus’ beard is rough against the soft skin of Commodus’ cheek, and Commodus has the distant urge to caress himself against it. “Lose the plug and I’ll let the whole colosseum fuck you.”
His hand snakes down to Maximus’ ass, squeezing hard and pulling his cheeks apart. It’s a threat and a test all at once. Maximus quivers in his arms, and swallows hard.
“Yes, emperor.” Commodus squeezes harder and Maximus gasps softly. “Yes, brother.”
“Do not worry. Even if it happens, they will still adore you. You are a man of the people, after all.”