Summary: What happens when the future emperor of Rome is mistaken for a pleasure slave?

Warnings: Rated NC-17. m/m, violence, non-con (much, much non-con)

Octavius has never considered anyone else's life, has always taken his small luxuries for granted, expected other people's good will as a simple matter of course. So it is truly a jarring experience to be no one, unrecognized by the prison guards, mistaken for a…pleasure slave. And he, the future ruler of Rome!

He knows his impatience and contempt are not furthering his case, but he can't seem to help himself. He's never been in the company of such low, loathsome men in his life. He does his best to keep his humor, but the more earnestly he tries to convince his captors of his true identity the more raucously they laugh at him.

"A pretty oiled whore like you nephew to the late Caesar?" the head guard, with the scar above his eye, says mockingly. "Or is 'nephew' just what they're calling it these days?"

The men all guffaw in merriment, and Octavius feels the heat rising in his cheeks, a combustible mix of shame and rage. He lunges at the guard, lessons from Tyrannus swirling through his head. There is never any such thing as being outnumbered for the truly skilled fighter.

Sadly, though, Octavius' wounded honor outmatches his abilities. He does manage to knock the head guard off his feet, but then the rest of them are on him in a swarm, grabbing at his hair, his clothes, forcing him to his knees.

The head guard picks himself up from the floor, a dangerous light in his eyes. "Is that the gratitude you show for the gentle treatment you've received?" He brings his hand down hard across Octavius' cheek. "Well, boy, if you prefer it rough, we can certainly oblige you."

Octavius has vaguely known that there are such things as pleasure slaves, but he has led a sheltered life, all schoolwork and military training with Tyarannus. He does not know what men do to other men. So the assault on his mouth comes as a violent surprise, the head guard forcing his hard cock past his clenched lips. The man reeks of unwashed flesh, and Octavius gags at the taste. He tries to pull away, but the other guards hold his head firmly in place, forcing him to take it. The guard pumps into his mouth, more and more roughly, until he goes perfectly still at last and Octavius gets another unpleasant shock.

Afterwards, the guard pushes him away, and the spoiled taste he leaves in Octavius' mouth is something he fears he will never be able to cleanse away. He desperately gasps for breath, but there is not even a moment to recover before the next man grabs him by the hair, pulls him over and forces him down. One thought plays over and over in his head, that there must be some punishment worse than death, something more he can do to these filthy pigs when he finally regains his liberty.

The man using him groans and pushes his cock so far into his throat that Octavius starts to choke.

The head guard quips, "Not a very skillful whore, is he?"

They all laugh.

"When I get my turn," another declares, pulling out his stiff prick, "Perhaps I'll use his ass instead. No doubt he has talent enough for spreading his legs."

The laughter rises obscenely, and the man fucking his mouth comes, making him choke even harder.

The man pulls out and says, "Maybe you'd like it better if I came in your pretty face the next time?"

The men laugh and agree, "That must be how the little whore likes it." And Octavius sinks to the floor, dignity all but forgotten.

"Don't get too comfortable, boy," the one threatening to fuck him says in a taunting voice. "We're not nearly done with you yet."

By the time they've all taken a turn in his mouth, his hair is matted with their filth, his tunic grimy, stained with their pleasure. He feebly hopes that they'll lose interest now that they've had their chance at him, but that hope fades when they jerk him to his feet, take his clothes and circle around to inspect his body, cutting off any avenue of escape.

Having their eyes moving crudely over his skin makes Octavius burn with shame. No one has ever looked at him like this, and he's quite certain no one ever should. The men close in on him, and his shame grows hotter, their hands impertinent, reaching everywhere, rudely fondling his genitals, twisting his nipples, fingers drifting along his cleft, prying into his most private places.

"So this is what the nobility spends its money on, is it?" one of them jeers. "A boy this smooth and pretty…they might as well be fucking a girl."

The man bursts into laughter at his own joke, and Octavius spits in his face, not the wisest thing to do perhaps, but his sullied honor demands it. Retribution comes swiftly, the man's fist in his face, and then he can taste his own blood gushing in his mouth.

"Bring him to the chamber," the head guard orders. "We'll soon teach him not to be so insolent."

Octavius has heard enough of the chamber in Tyarranus' stories, although he'd always imagined these tales to be mostly invention. Faced now with the prospect of those stories coming to life, he goes into a frenzy of resistance, kicking at anyone who tries to lay hands on him, clinging tenaciously to the wall, fighting with all his will and his strength. He has the satisfaction of bloodying more than one of them, but they rain blows down on him and ultimately prevail, dragging him by his hands and legs into the fearful room.

It is gloomy inside, only one small window. The stone floor is cold and damp as they pull him across it, the stench of stale piss and hopelessness in the dank air. Implements hang ominously on the walls, knives, pincers, thumbscrews, several things Octavius can't even begin to identify, the promise of pain everywhere. The men heave Octavius up onto a battered old table standing in the middle of the room, with thick iron chains dangling from the ceiling above it. Octavius goes wild with terror, flailing desperately, striking out at anything, anyone he can reach.

"Hold him down!" the head guard barks. The other men struggle to obey, trying to contain his thrashing limbs, their sweat dripping onto his skin. "Get the cuffs onto his ankles!"

He kicks with all his might, but they manage to fasten the iron cuffs despite his desperation. Octavius' chest heaves with effort, but he continues to struggle, even though it's painfully clear to him by now that there's no escaping his fate.

The head guard bends down and says in his ear, "Don't fret, little boy-whore. You're not important enough for us to waste time plying the instruments of our trade. We only want to fuck you."

He gives the signal, and one of the other men goes to the wall and turns a crank, tightening the chains, raising Octavius' legs high into the air until he is obscenely splayed.

The humiliation of being so horribly exposed makes Octavius thrash with impotent rage. "You're going to die for this!"

The head guard laughs. "Uppity little thing, aren't you?" He goes to stand between Octavius' legs. "Perhaps you'd be better behaved if your master had had you gelded." He causally fondles Octavius' balls. "I wonder that he let you keep these."

"Get your hands off me!" Octavius roars.

The guard ignores him, continues his explorations. "Perhaps he enjoys watching you pleasure yourself on his cock until you come. Is that it? Are you a responsive little whore?" He pulls at Octavius' cock. "That is what makes a true whore, you know. Not how many times you've been fucked, but how much you've enjoyed it."

Despite the roughness of the caresses, Octavius can't help reacting to the touch, gritting his teeth helplessly as he starts to get hard in the guard's hand.

The man smiles smugly. "That's what I thought."

"I'm going to make you pay for this, you son of a syphilitic bitch!"

The guard's face darkens. "Give the little slut something better to do with that filthy mouth of his," he instructs his men.

A hard cock is immediately forced into his mouth, silencing him.

"Hand me that pot of grease," the head guard says to someone else.

Octavius tries to struggle, tries to scream, but there's nowhere to go, no way to get free. The man fucking his throat seems to be trying to suffocate him, and then he feels something hard and slick prodding between his legs. A cold, sick dread settles in his stomach, and the only thing he has to console himself with is the promise of vengeance when he does finally get away from this cursed place.

The head guard smiles at him, enjoying his terror. "Very well, then. Let's see just how talented a whore you are."

He pushes inside with all his might, and Octavius does not even have the relief of being able to scream out at the violation. The most he has ever suffered before was when he was practicing sword fighting one time and his companion accidentally cut him. That seems inconsequential now compared to this, being torn apart from the inside out.

The head guard grunts loudly, and the animal sound of his pleasure makes Octavius wish that he were dead.

"Ye Gods, this whore is tight, like I'm the first to ever have this piece of ass," the man tells his companions, and they all clamor to be the next one to fuck him.

The man pulls out of him and slams back in with even greater force, and the pain is all the more dizzying. The one fucking his face picks up his pace, making it even more difficult to breathe. Octavius' vision starts to flicker at the edges, until all the lights in his head finally go dark.

The next thing he is fully sensible of is a familiar, commanding voice filling the room, booming out orders.

"Step back from him. Now! Take those chains off. Do it before I give you the flat of my sword to the back of your head."

Octavius' eyes flutter open. His mind is heavy, his thoughts still fuzzy, but he can make out Tyrannus watching him with grim concern. He can see the torsion of fear in the guards' faces. Perhaps they know his mentor by reputation or else they've simply judged him correctly, as someone it is never wise to cross.

"We didn't know he belonged to you," Octavius hears the head guard stuttering. "We wouldn't have bothered him if we had."

"Bothered?" Tyannus says, his voice icy with sarcasm. "Is that what they're calling it these days?" His strong arms close around Octavius, easing him up, and he asks very softly in his ear. "Can you walk, boy?"

Octavius nods, and Tyrannus helps him off the table. The contact with the hard ground jars him all through his body. He aches everywhere. Tyrannus helps bear his weight, and in the closeness of their bodies, Octavius feels his nakedness with a renewed hot rush of shame.

Tyrannus demands, "His clothes."

The guards scurry to get them, and Tyrannus scowls fiercely when he sees their condition. He helps Octavius back into them, takes off his own cloak and drapes it over him to hide his come-spoiled garments.

"We do beg your pardon," the head guard abjectly grovels.

Tyrannus says nothing, simple casts one last ferocious glare his direction before helping Octavius from the room.

The corridor back out to the street is even longer and darker than Octavius remembered, but he shakes off Tyrannus' arm. His mentor has already seen enough of his weakness for one day. He will not disgrace himself further.

Tyrannus, however, will not be so easily put off. He gently tucks a curl behind Octavius' ear, an old gesture of affection from his boyhood. "Are you all right?"

Octavius nods, a feeling of resolve in him as hard as iron. From this day on, he vows to himself, he will never be weak again.

They emerge back out into the twilight, and for a moment, Octavius feel almost light-headed with the simple freedom of a fresh breath of air. He spies a group of men waiting near the door and recognizes them as associates of Tyrannus, the kind he never wants Octavius to know very much about. Tyrannus nods, and the men quietly slip inside, their swords drawn.

"Come," Tyrannus says. "Let's get you home."

He puts a hand on Octavius' elbow and guides him down the street. Octavius throws a backward glance at the prison and can almost convince himself he hears the wails of doomed men coming from inside.

"Is there no greater punishment than death?" he whispers fiercely under his breath.

"Perhaps," Tyrannus says in a thoughtful voice. "But there is no greater certainty than the silence of dead men."

They exchange a glance, and Octavius can read his own future in it. He will fulfill his uncle's final wish. Take his place. Become Caesar of all Rome.

He will be a great man who will always remember a day that never happened.

And then there's the alternate ending, that gives Octavius his revenge, from a suggestion made by CatMoran...

Octavius' eyes flutter open. His mind is heavy, his thoughts still fuzzy, but he can make out Tyrannus watching him with grim concern. He can see the torsion of fear in the guards' faces. At first, he thinks it is simply the presence of his mentor, whose mere glance has been known to strike terror in even the most stalwart heart. But the way the men stare at him, their eyes stricken with dread, their mouths falling open in shock and amazement, leads him to believe that they have at last discovered their fatal mistake.

"We didn't know it was you, my lord," Octavius hears the head guard stuttering obsequiously. "We didn't know."

Tyrannus' strong arm closes around Octavius' shoulder, easing him up, and he says very softly in his ear. "Can you walk, boy?"

Octavius nods, and Tyrannus helps him off the table. The contact with the hard ground jars him all through his body. He aches everywhere, but he shakes off Tyrannus' assistance and draws himself up to his full height.

"My clothes, if you please," he says, his voice regal, trembling with authority.

One guard scurries off to fetch them. The others sink to their knees.

"Forgive us, my lord. We beg you," they beseech him, again and again, with the pitiful desperation of men who know they are about to die.

When the guard returns with Octavius' garments, Tyrannus scowls fiercely at their ill-used condition, but Octavius pays no heed. He pulls on his clothes with deliberate dignity and stands there a king, though his raiment is dirty and come-spoiled. He is beginning to understand what Tyrannus means when he says, "You will be emperor of Rome when you believe you are."

"We do beg your pardon, my lord," the head guard abjectly grovels. "How could we have known it was you?"

Octavius stares at him coldly. "You could have listened to me when I told you so."

The corridor back out to the street is even longer and darker than Octavius remembers, but he has found his strength now and walks unaided. As they reach the door, Tyrannus takes his own cloak and wraps it around Octavius to hide the telltale condition of his clothes.

He gently tucks a curl behind Octavius' ear, an old gesture of affection from his boyhood. "Are you all right?"

Octavius nods, feeling the resolve in him as hard as iron. From this day on, he knows, he will never be weak again.

"They must be punished," he tells his mentor matter-of-factly.

Tyrannus smiles. "Oh, they will be. Don't you worry."

Tyrannus opens the door for him, and they emerge back out into the twilight. For a moment, Octavius feel almost light-headed with the simple freedom of a fresh breath of air. He spies a group of men waiting near the door and recognizes them as associates of Tyrannus, the kind he never wants Octavius to know very much about. Tyrannus nods, and the men snap to attention, steeled to act.

Octavius interjects, using the commanding tone that Tyrannus has taught him, "None of them should die quickly or easily, but the head guard I wish brought to me. I have plans for him. You may, though, relieve him of his manhood first."

For a moment, Tyrannus looks stunned, and the men seem confused about whether they should obey. But then Tyrannus bows deeply to Octavius and says, "As you wish, my lord."

Tyrannus' men nod and quietly slip inside, their swords drawn.

"Come," Tyrannus says. "Let's get you home."

Octavius throws a backward glance at the prison as they head down the street. He likes to imagine he can hear the wails of doomed men coming from inside.

"What will you do with him?" Tyrannus asks quietly as they walk along.

Octavius' mouth curves into a brutal smile. "I will teach him that there are worse things than death."

In that moment, he has the blood of his uncle, the blood of Rome in his veins. Tyrannus meets his glance, and it is as if they can both see his future. He will fulfill Caesar's wish. He will triumph.

Tyrannus nods, and they continue on.

Octavius adds softly, a thought that is only for himself, "And I will teach myself that this day never happened."