MASKED PLEASURES, HIDDEN PAINS

The mask changed each time, but the wearer did not.

It began simply enough. His dominus summoned him and revealed that an important man wished for Agron's company. Batiatus made it clear that the man would be granted every desire and that if Agron caused complaint, he and his brother would suffer greatly. They could even be parted. Agron's temper had burned at the idea of Roman hands upon him, but the threat gained his obedience.

He had expected a familiar Roman figure with grasping hands that made the stomach roll. But the man who entered the room was smaller and slighter than any Roman Agron had ever laid eyes on. The clothing the stranger wore was rich and smooth to touch and his hands were soft. Such things Agron had expected. The mask he had not.

That first time, the mask was made of deep red ribbons and silks. It fitted his face perfectly and hid almost all, revealing only that his hair was long enough to bind back. A sneering question hovered on Agron's lips – why did a high-born Roman cover his face when fucking a lowly gladiator? But memory of Batiatus' threats stilled his tongue. Then, to Agron's surprise, the man chuckled.

"You wonder why I hide my face. Batiatus knows only that my father requested you, he knows not for who you were intended, and I would keep it that way, for both our sakes."

So, not shame but politics caused the mask. Who was this man that his father would request a gladiator for him? Agron dismissed the question immediately. The Roman world made little sense to him. All that mattered was that by providing required enjoyment, he pleased his dominus and gained Duro's safety. He braced himself to contain ill feeling and provide a performance worthy of the arena. What was a gladiator if not a performer, entertaining and enduring? He would endure worse than a Roman fuck's touch for family.

Again the masked stranger surprised him. There was strength in his wiry body and even more in his voice when he told Agron to come closer. That voice gained Agron's attention; it tugged tightly at his senses and caused warmth under his skin. It seemed to caress him without touch. Agron swallowed. Never before had a voice alone affected him so. Who was this man?

The sensations only increased with touch. From the man's first handling of him, Agron felt heat violently curl in his belly. He had expected his own skin crawling at a Roman's cloying attention. But whilst the man's hands held Agron with much desire, he was patient and firm and knew how to coax response. He confidently stroked and caressed, his voice continuing to pull and push and draw out reaction. Agron had been resentful and reluctant when first entering the room, but his body was now eager, for more of this man, Roman or not. Pleasure drowned out all else.

The man knew how to extract enjoyment. Was that his desire? Agron tried hard to focus, but found his coherence melting away under the hands and voice which played him with such skill.

"You may come now."

Agron's groan was loud. If only all requests of his dominus would produce such results.

The man continued to hold him after, hands smoothing shakes from Agron's body. He brushed a lingering kiss to Agron's temple. Agron felt a pull towards him, unable to resist the lure of gentleness. Such touch was a faded dream to him. The man did not mock him for such actions, but instead increased the soft caresses and hummed pleased noises in his throat.

By the time Agron felt back to himself – still confused by the Roman's behaviour and beginning to tense with shame and anger at being handled so easily by one of the arrogant shits – the man had taken his leave with a last touch and single sentence.

"I will see you again, my gladiator."

The man spoke truly – he often requested Agron's company after that first meeting. Each time was much the same; the easy control and commands, the ability to drive Agron mad with heat, the sensuous voice. He talked Agron through what he wanted the gladiator to do and Agron complied, warmth rushing through him at sounds the man made because of Agron's touch.

Thank fuck the man was revealed not to be Roman at all. After one meeting, a dazed Agron focused long enough to spot dark skin in the light provided by the open door the stranger left by. Something eased in Agron's chest. He was not dealing with a Roman shit. But the man was close enough to Rome that he gained what he wanted from Batiatus. The dominus had told Agron that he was pleased with the German for making his friend so happy and amenable. Fucking Romans.

The man was young, Agron was sure of that. Yet no inexperience caused fumbling hands. Sometimes the man did not use his hands at all, instead trailing expensive silk against Agron's skin. Often it was his mouth causing sparks within. Whatever he did, he pulled Agron into pleasure and made his breath catch. And his voice always burrowed deep and pushed Agron to highs not known before. That this occurred thanks to a powerful friend of Rome made shame and disgust burn in Agron. But even that did not halt the pleasure he experienced at the man's touch. Nothing did. Agron felt gripped by a heady madness, his thoughts consumed by the masked man and the sensations he caused.

Somehow, the man could intuit when Agron was enduring the worst of days – one of the brotherhood fallen, Duro suffering, Batiatus showing them off like prized animals. On those days, the man skilfully took Agron apart with such caring caresses, that broken sounds like sobs poured from the gladiator's throat. Never before had he known such tenderness. He became blood-hot for such moments, to bury himself in them. He became greedy for what could not last.

He told himself that such pleasure was fleeting, that the man would become bored soon, that each meeting would likely be their last. But the man kept returning and Agron could not stop leaning towards such thorough tender riches.

Thoughts of that voice pushed him further in training and out in the arena. It set him on fire. The man noticed and breathed heated words of praise in Agron's ear. Agron looked in vain towards where his dominus sat at the arena, hoping for a glimpse of familiar form to reveal his masked stranger. But all men there were Roman and possessed the wrong shape and movement. Agron buried his disappointment and fought hard, spurred on by the memory of voice and touch.

"Batiatus offers my father use of any gladiator in the ludus," the man said one day, hands stroking Agron's sweating chest. "But I desire only one."

Agron's breathing stuttered and his grip on the man's arm tightened for a moment, hopefully distracting from the foolish rapid beat of his heart. The man was truthful. Agron knew Romans well enough to spot lies and see through honeyed words, even in darkness. The man cared enough to call only on Agron.

Guards shifted outside the room. The shouts of training could be heard. Slaves walked past with careful measured feet. Agron's heart-beat slowed.

The words had been truthful, but they changed nothing - the man still wore a mask and loved Rome, Agron remained a gladiator. A different kind of burning began eating his heart.

The man tugged Agron's hair and for once, did not speak.

-the end