My name is Quintus Trobius, fifth son of Gaius Marcus Trobius of the patrician class. I have had an extraordinary life, travelling far and wide as a soldier and as a scribe to a great man. I have been present at the highest level in Rome itself. But the greatest joy of my life is to have known true sexual love as between a man and a wife, something that I observe rarely falls to people of my birth.
The romance of the poets brings false hope to girls and foolish boys, for marriage to a respected citizen is a matter of business, politics or appearance. My father never loved my mother: it would not have occurred to him to do so. He fucked her, of course, until she produced a daughter and a son (me), at which point he stopped. She was his second wife, the first having died in childbirth. For the rest of her life she was accorded the respect of her status, and some appreciation of her duty in running the household.
Fucking is not something that a citizen does for love. It is for his pleasure and to produce children. As in many households, he will fuck the slaves, both for his sexual pleasure but also to show his power. His wife will probably encourage him to use the anus of female slaves to save unwanted breeding.
It is the definition of a man, to fuck. Vagina or anus does not matter. To be fucked is the role of a woman. To fuck a slave or captive shows your power over them by reducing them to women, and a Roman man must demonstrate his power often.
It was inconceivable that a true man would to want to play the part of a woman, as was freely done (so I had been told) in some Greek cities. This of course showed the superiority of the Romans.
My father naturally took me to a whorehouse as part of my education. The correct way of behaving as well as the fucking was important. I had to demonstrate my superiority to them, while making sure that I was treated well in future.
I came from a good family, so we had a Greek slave as tutor, Aeschines. My father told me that I must fuck the Greek tutor, both to demonstrate my domination, and to keep my semen flowing.
So it was that I visited Aeschines for this purpose often. But I did not want to humiliate the wisest and kindest man I knew. How foolish for an 18-year old to pretend to be better than him!
He knew the philosophy my father despised, and found a solution. He had no objection to relieving my penis with his hand. His culture did not have the Roman attitude to sex.
He told me that among the Greek aristocracy there were many cases where a good-looking youth of military age would be loved as if a female, and called erômenos by an older man called erastes. His willingness was the essence of the relationship. The Greek word expressing how this should be viewed by a Roman was anathema. For a Roman to be forced to be fucked was humiliation. For him to do it willingly was infamy -- becoming the lowest of the low.
Athenian fathers even prayed that their sons would be handsome enough to do this, because of the social advantages they got from the patronages of the older man! The love would continue long after both were married.
Had I been born Greek, he said, my slender good looks would have been in demand. Though he never said, he could surely recognise that I would have been a wholehearted participant.
Eventually he asked if I would like to relieve his penis. How glad I was! I relieved him nearly as much he did me, and would have done it more, but it would have been death for him and infamy for me if anyone had found out that I had served him in this way. I never fucked him, or anyone except the whores when my father took me to them. After my mother, he was my first experience of anything like love.
As the fifth son, and having failed to establish myself in any way at the age of 22 I volunteered to join the Imperial Roman Army. That is, my father said it was what I wanted. I was in a legion, all Roman citizens and all (nominally) volunteers, though many no more willing than I. The only bonus was that I was not treated quite as harshly by the experienced soldiers as I expected.
The reason became clear when we went on campaign.
When prostitutes or local women to rape were not available, the soldiers satisfied their lust on each other. It was necessary to resist, of course, but those who did not resist too much became known.
The Greeks have a word: hypocrisy. This well describes the difference between formal beliefs and actual practice which is a common feature of our society.
So it was with me, as I was nearer to a woman than some. They mostly fucked between my oiled thighs, though the sergeant used my anus. Though he was a fierce warrior and a strict disciplinarian, he was quite tender when he used me, always with plenty of butter or oil.
It was more of a means of survival than pleasure, because of the numbers and the attitude. Like good Romans, they had to pretend to despise me. Again, as if I had been a prostitute, some wished me to act more willing and even displayed a little kindness. I had to take one, take all, not just the ones I would have liked. While it may not be in any military manual, I believe the presence of men such as I was as essential as supplies of salt and sandals to the morale and thus the success of the army. Or perhaps we are like garum, the Roman sauce which makes even the dullest food palatable, and is a necessary part of our provisions. The sauce in the diet of tiring and often boring military life.
(If this is being read by some young patrician, he may wonder why the legionnaires did not fuck the supply slaves. Young man! These were not our slaves, but army property and valuable as any trained horse. Our centurion said he would rather lose three of us than one slave, so crucial were they to the success of a campaign. Wars are won more by successful supply than by heroism or tactics. We had no power over them, and any wise officer would be careful how he wielded his, over these skilled and experienced men, on whom our lives as well as military success depended. Moreover, in a good campaign soldiers would be given the order to pillage, and it was our loot the slaves carried home in their carts.)
I still had to fight in what was a successful campaign. Our commander was Lucius Cornelius Sulla, a man both respected and feared. He was a wily strategist, yet capricious with his men, sometimes generous, sometimes harsh to an enormous extent. The soldiers considered that it was dangerous to get close to him, and thus were not always pleased to be promoted to the highest ranks. Rumours of his sexuality ranged from being a rampant bull to having only one testicle.
I had not long been a soldier when I sustained the injury which nearly killed me. The pagan was immediately despatched by the man beside me, and my sergeant staunched the blood to save my life.
The surgeon did a marvel. The pain was not too great, as he had a good stock of poppy seed and mandrake, but my life was changed forever. My penis and testes were gone. I now pissed like a woman.
The legion went on to success while I recuperated in a fort.
That was the end of everything. I could not have a career as a soldier or really anything else. I could only hope to live as a cripple with my family, probably being moved around from brother to brother.
When the legion returned to the fort, I was summoned to see Sulla. Would he heap gold upon me or crucify me for cowardice? He was notoriously fickle. Each seemed to be equally likely.
What happened, in fact I should have expected. He mocked me.
"Well, young man -- or should I say young woman?" There was dutiful laughter.
"Your career as a soldier is over, and your years of service are few in number. I am told you did your duty, but nothing more. You will get an honourable discharge, but little else."
This was not good, but not the worst.
"However," he continued after a pause.
"I have need of a scribe, and am told you can write well. Will you do this and stay on campaign with me?"
"It will be an honour, General," I answered, though secretly fearing what this might mean.
Sulla spoke out.
"Take note. Quintus here is no longer a soldier, and no officer has authority over him. He is my civilian aide, and will be treated with the respect due to a patrician, and one who has done his military duty. His battle injuries are not a matter for discussion."
I could see men looking uncomfortable. This was his famous unpredictability.
When we were alone, he spoke to me.
"Well, Quintus, a member of a patrician family as a foot soldier? I guess your father did not have enough money to buy you a commission after settling your brothers. Still you have had a good education, as I see from your letters home, especially those you wrote in Greek to your mother. They were unusual in expressing real love rather than dutiful respect, and I note you are familiar with some of the poets."
This was the first of a number of surprises as I got to know my new master.
The next came quickly.
"As you know, my scribe died of the shitting disease from the swamps."
"Yes, General," I replied.
"That was not true. I poisoned him, because he was spying on me for another general."
"You may have heard that I crucified a soldier for a minor offence."
I tried to look blank.
"That is true, but he was also a spy. I did not want to reveal that there were plots against me, but the message went to those who needed to know. Those who did not know fear my anger, which is also good."
I immediately understood two things. Firstly, that he was clever, and secondly that my life depended on him trusting me.
I gradually understood both his reputation for erratic behaviour and his success as a soldier.
The great strength of the Roman army is the ability of the soldiers to work as one. A group of men, side by side, an impenetrable wall, all about the same height, all right-handed, with the same weapons, working in a well-tested and practised way, sure of the man next to him. Military drill ensured that we would move smoothly together or divide on command. This was the Roman way of thinking. Predictable, trusted, always the same. One could be replaced by another in a moment. Roman soldiers were like the bricks in our fine buildings, all alike and put in their place by our leaders, and we were as strong as our engineering constructions.
Sulla was not right-handed. He was ambidextrous: his left hand as good as his right. In combat a General does not fight in a wall, but mostly on horseback and often out of formation. Right-handed men are practised in fighting right-handed foes. Someone fighting left-handed has an advantage. Someone who switches between the two has the element of surprise, which is often lethal.
His mind was the same. He could think of a way different to that of a well-taught officer, even consider the wrong way, and realise that occasionally it would work.
The Greeks have a word for it: unorthodox.
The Roman word is sinister. Not right. Not how things should be done. Not Roman.
He was not erratic at all. Every move was well calculated, but this was beyond the grasp of most soldiers.
It was no surprise that Sulla wanted me for sexual use. I was not a slave, but very powerful men could and did fuck other citizens of lower status. I could not stop him, and no-one would blame him.
What was surprising was how he went about it.
"I know that men have used your thighs," he said. "But that was not the reason I hired you. It is because I thought you might be of use to me as a scribe. You have proved your value in this way, and if you wish, that is all you can be. I can see that you are cleverer than my previous scribe. You understand my plans as he could not, and you detect the coded messages I sometimes put in, but I trust you to keep it secret."
"We have shared some knowledge of other things, such as poetry and plays, and I appreciate this as respite from matters of war and politics. I would like you as a companion."
"And if ever you would like my cock, just tell me."
He used the Greek word, not penis.
"I want your cock," I said in Greek.
It was my turn to surprise him.
I took off my tunic and loincloth, lay down and oiled my thighs.
"Jove!" he said. "I cannot believe how beautiful you are! The divine body of a youth, yet no impedimenta!"
(He used the word for the extra equipment that soldiers carry, which is used as a curse for anything that gets in your way.)
He fucked my thighs and we both realised that it was special.
As a eunuch it was no surprise that my body became softer. Furthermore, by not following military training, I lost much of my muscle, and my hands became softer. I had never had much of a beard. Now Sulla's barber kept my chin smooth, and my hair was trimmed but long.
It was not long before I opened my thighs instead of closing them, and he fucked my anus, face to face, as we kissed. It was not sinister: it was something right. In fact, it gave me pleasure very similar to the release of semen from my cock, but much more satisfying. I do not know how this could be, with no penis or testes, but I felt perhaps it was something like a woman feels. This was the joy of eros, which women in poetry have.
In a little while he said I was his erômenos, but I asked to be his woman instead, and he agreed that was better. In private, he called me Quinta, as if I was his wife, and I called him master as a wife would, or sometimes Sylla, the Greek version of his name.
Not just a dutiful Roman wife. A passionate one, as in Greek poetry. I loved his cock. Not only fucking me, but with my hand and mouth. I loved his muscular body possessing me, and he took pleasure in caressing my soft one. The soldiers stopped offering female captives to him.
He took me from the front or the back, not as a slave but as a wife eager for his pleasure. He would also lie on his back and I would impale myself on his column, riding him gently for a long time.
I was his trusted confidant as scribe during the day, keeping track of documents, accounts and plans, and knowing which should be kept secret and who could not be trusted. But afterwards, I yielded to him as a woman, and did everything I could to refresh and relax him, from reading poetry to massaging his tired muscles. It was best of all knowing that simply holding me was a comfort to him.
When he was most tired it was my mouth that showed my love, sucking the life back into him, until he gave his virility into me.
Looking back, I realise what an unusual situation it had been. I had been both a wife and a Roman citizen, with the different rights and duties of both. A wife is technically a possession, whereas a Roman citizen cannot be. She is more than a slave, for she is respected and makes her views and wishes known, though her husband has the final word.
As a scribe I was a citizen, and it seemed the same as a wife. If my anus was not in a good state, I would tell him, and he would accept my oiled hand or thighs. Or if I desired to love him in a particular way, I usually did. Though I called him master, I was not like a slave, but the wife of an attentive and considerate husband. I do not think any Roman wife had better treatment in this way. I loved him and his cock even more because of this.
I remained his scribe Quintus and his wife Quinta in his campaigns. It was when he became consul at the age of 50 that he married his fourth wife Caecilia, a well-judged political match to a powerful family. She was a fine woman and treated well, but he still loved me as before.
Back in Rome I discovered that after my father's death, Aeschines had been inherited by Julius, my eldest brother. I was horrified to find my tutor used as a common house slave, as Julius had no use for his intellect. I was glad to buy his freedom and to pay for his passage back to his home. He was a free man when I offered myself and he fucked me at last! He was now quite old, and only managed it once, but I also sucked his cock in gratitude and homage each day until he left. My master Sulla approved.
I was with Sulla when he went on campaign in Greece. While we were away his enemies had him declared a public enemy in Rome. Caecilia joined us for a while in exile. I was with him when he marched back with his army and took control.
I was with him when the Senate elected him Dictator of Rome. At this point I stopped being his scribe. It was too dangerous for me to be there, he said, so I lived at his villa. His wife Caecilia had treated me like a sister in Greece and now did the same. I wore a stola, and had my hair done as a woman. I often shared her bed. I was devastated when she died, and took over the role of materfamilias, running the household, and caring for her daughters. I was truly a woman: Sulla's wife in all but title.
Life as the Dictator was difficult and dangerous. He was ruthless but never arbitrary. And he was still very potent. He needed his masculine release, and I was so thankful to be the woman who took it, feeling soft and feminine against his hard manly body, and his urgent desires. He never used a slave.
He felt he had been especially lucky, so adopted the name Felix. He called me Quinta Felicia, as if I was his wife. However, I was pleased to find him a new one, a fine divorcee named Valeria. Caecilia had been the most dutiful wife and given him two daughters, but had been a strategic match for his career. Valeria shared our love of the theatre, and he had no need for matchmaking, so it was a shared decision between them, and I was glad to defer to her.
He surprised everyone (again!) by retiring when he had completed the reforms he wanted, and came home to me and Valeria.
There then followed a happy time. No longer was I waiting for him to come back from battle, nor worried that he might be assassinated. Our home was full of fun, with poets, singers and actors visiting to perform. We had discussions about philosophy instead of politics and war. Some Romans felt that having such a time was very Greek and thus inappropriate.
I made daily offerings to Priapus to ensure that his cock remained strong for Valeria and me.
We were happy when Valeria became pregnant, but sadly he did not live to see his new daughter grow up, as a fever took him suddenly. In a sense it was good, for it was quick, and he had been vigorous mentally and physically only a few days before.
While I had been his woman for decades, I was technically still a man and a citizen, so he had made a settlement on me, and appointed me guardian of Valeria and her child in his will.
We both know that there will be no other man for us, and will share in the raising of his daughter.
When I had my wound, it turned out to be the luckiest thing that could have happened to me. I thank the gods each day that I was fortunate to be taken by this great man as his woman for so many years. He said once that he took the name Felix not only for luck in becoming dictator, but also for luck in having me as scribe and loving wife. We loved each other, and I am honoured to be Quinta Felicia.