At twenty-nine years of age a gladiator has learned more than physical skills and dexterity in the arena. He has learned to read the faces of the men around him, his fellow participants in the temporary blaze of glory that is accorded each gladiator before his eventual demise. Ragnar could scarcely recall any other world. Since the time he had been kidnapped as a teenager by Roman soldiers while working his uncle’s Alpine field and brought many leagues south to the Colosseum to serve as a fuckslave and attendant, he had associated only with men engaged in the business of killing and dying. Ragnar had learned how some men understand when a gladiator’s time has come, and how others seem oblivious to it. He had performed his job conscientiously, honing the swords of countless deathfighters in the dark chambers beneath the arena, taking the cocks of the horny men into his body as they claimed their privilege to fuck any of the slaves they wanted before going into the arena to die. For many, the pleasure of entering Ragnar’s fine young body was the last sexual ecstasy they would know, since their final spurt of seed would be an involuntary expulsion resulting from a mortal thrust of the opponent’s weapon into their muscular physiques. Ragnar recalled how, as a lad, he would look into the eyes of the man who had just fucked him and recognize the face of death as the mighty gladiator took up his weapon and strode out of the chamber. He had developed a keen sense for recognizing the men who had lost just enough confidence or dexterity or strength to jeopardize their continued survival in the Games.

By eighteen he had graduated from servant’s work to gladiatorial training, where his teachers consistently gave him swords much heavier and longer than seemed appropriate for his youthful stature. As a result, his arms, shoulders, and chest grew stout and thick with powerful muscle while his legs remained nimble even in their strength. Just as he had been kept naked during his servitude as a gladiators’ slave, he now trained naked as well, donning a meager loincloth only in those rare instances when a noblewoman visited the school to inspect the forthcoming prospects. As Ragnar stood at attention for inspection, in line with the other men, he felt a swelling pride in the knowledge that the loincloths he was given were never sufficient to cover his massive endowment. He was seldom fucked now, except on occasion by a fellow trainee whose cock he permitted to enter him, and instead he more frequently exercised his growing virility by fucking other men. Each of the other deathfighters in training felt Ragnar’s massive meat in his ass before their training was complete and they were sent off to fight and die.

He excelled at the art of man-to-man combat, rapidly graduating from the impalement of straw men on the training court to live exercises with condemned slaves or prisoners of war. His trainers grinned excitedly at the tendency for Ragnar’s sexmeat to stiffen and stand almost flush with his creased, muscular belly when he was closing in for the kill. He often ejaculated even without touching his member when his sword entered the body of his opponent. At six feet in height and broad of shoulder, with a cock nearly nine inches in length, Ragnar was clearly cut from gladiator’s cloth. His physical presence and his reputation as an accomplished secutor were legendary even before his first appearance in the Colosseum.

Impatient to see the champion of the gladiatorial school in professional action, Ragnar’s trainers released him to the arena after only three months. He vomited on the arena floor prior to his first sword clash with a young Celtic tiro, but his nervousness did not prevent him from using his superior strength and skill to kill the fair-skinned fighter and spurt his cum all over the young man’s writhing body. The victory came after a quarter hour of vicious, sword-clanging combat when the Celt failed for a brief second to raise his sword in defense of Ragnar’s persistent thrusts. The blade caught the man in the belly, inflicting a serious but not mortal wound, after which the unfortunate Celt never fully resumed peak performance. A second blow, this time a slash to his right arm, disabled him sufficiently for Ragnar to go for the chest. Unable to lift his heavy sword, the Celt found nimble footwork his only defensive maneuver, but there too Ragnar was superior. He backed his opponent from one end of the arena to the other, never relenting in his alternating thrusts and jabs, until finally he was able to run the man through. The sword entered his ribs just to the right of his breastbone, piercing the man’s heart, which was pumping furiously from the intensity of its exertion. Ragnar’s dick grew raging hard as he witnessed the look of shock, helpless rage, and recognition of death in his opponent’s eyes. The man’s seething hot blood spewed all over Ragnar’s body, covering him from head to foot, baptizing him in his first victory kill. Ragnar’s cock spurted involuntarily, anointing the dying enemy with his seed, which would coat his pierced body as he was dragged away to the spoilarium. The roar of the arena crowd as he stood with his foot on the Celt’s carcass, his cock still erect, entranced him. Ragnar knew at that moment that though he had been brought against his will into the cult of killing, he had found his place in the company of men. The thick chest of his worthy opponent had felt very good beneath Ragnar’s foot, and he wanted to feel it again and again.

The defeat of the young Celt was indeed the first of many victories. By his twenty-ninth year Ragnar had killed more men than he could remember, and he had attained the rank of primus palus, the highest rank of gladiators. The Games were different now, louder, more crude, no longer making any pretense of refinement or protocol. He never knew what to expect when he entered the arena, yet over the years his reputation as a champion had kept the Consul from pitting him against impossible odds. He had long been considered more valuable alive as a crowd-pleasing victor than he was as fodder for a contrived slaughter, which was the fate of many of Ragnar’s shorter-lived colleagues. The Consul had grown fond of pitting two or even three tiros against one particularly well-muscled fighter in order to offer the entertaining spectacle of a prime male specimen hopelessly butchered merely by virtue of his being outnumbered. Other gladiators were informed prior to a fight that they would enter the arena with one arm bound to the thigh, or with a spike forced through one foot, forcing them to fight with a severe handicap. It was usually, though not always, a death sentence.

With the ascension to the throne of the sadistic young Emperor Elagabalus, a particularly vicious innovation became commonplace in the Colosseum. Elagabalus kept pet lions, which he was fond of nourishing with the severed genitals of defeated soldiers, condemned slaves, or dead gladiators. The knife sheathed to the upper arm of the gladiators, previously used mainly for defeating an opponent in combat too close for effective swordsmanship, or for slashing the throat of a downed fighter as a coup-de-grace, now doubled as a castrating blade. Ragnar had grown accustomed not only to killing his opponents, but to slicing or sawing off their cocks and balls as well. He typically held the heavy, bloody mass of hot, sweaty male flesh up above his head for the Consul and the crowd to observe and cheer while he positioned his foot on the stretched bare chest of the gladiator whose life and whose manhood he had taken. Once, when the Emperor himself had been in attendance, Ragnar had been invited to toss the severed genitals of a defeated opponent into the lion’s pit that had been constructed adjacent to the fighting area. It was a singular honor whire well known for their fierceness in battle. Shamed by their recent defeat at the hands of the Legions near the Danube, humiliated by their status as prisoners and slaves, the well-trained and once-proud Dacean men had little reason to live. They would fight fiercely and die well on the floor of the Colosseum. Ragnar’s dick twitched in anticipation of the combat. He enjoyed killing soldiers, whose strong and often very lithe bodies presented unique challenges to his own agility. They were men who had seen countless others die on the battlefield and who were thus well prepared to kill or be killed on the arena floor. Unlike slaves, who sometimes died whimpering and trying to crawl away, soldiers remanded to the arena almost always died proudly, if reluctantly, with rock hard dicks that spurted impressive loads of semen as their bodies were pierced in the final blow.

Ragnar tested the edge of his sword, which had been honed by a naked and handsome young fuckslave. The young man had done a very good job, the sword having acquired a fine sharpness. Ragnar rewarded the slave with a dollop of fat, which he scooped from a crockery jar and applied to the younger man’s ass as the slave bent over for his obligatory pre-game rape. If Ragnar was displeased with a slave’s work, he refused to lubricate the man he was fucking, forcing him to endure the full brutality of Ragnar’s massive, veined dick as it separated the slave’s ass and ripped into his guts. He had on occasion incurred the disfavor of the managers by fucking a slave to death prior to a fight. After lubing his attendant’s ass he inserted himself slowly into the man’s fuckchute, then rapidly pounded his meat into the slave’s guts, feeling his hairy balls slam against the young attendant’s firm asscheeks. The young man grunted from the pain, but his ass, having no choice, drank up Ragnar’s hot cum.

He spent himself inside the unwilling asshole, then pulled out and picked up his sword, swinging it over his head to limber his arms. He needed a pre-game fuck to steady his nerves and to prevent himself from ejaculating too soon on the arena floor. Even after raping an attendant in the preparation chambers, Ragnar was always rock hard when he strode in magnificent nakedness onto the Colosseum floor, acknowledging the cheers of his bloodthirsty admirers in the stands. His rape complete, the attendant turned and knelt before the tall, broad-shouldered gladiator whose semen he now held in his ass. He took the gladiator’s huge fuckrod into his mouth and sucked and tongued it clean while Ragnar seemed preocuppied with the fastening of his knife sheath onto the upper part of his left arm. He had not thought to request the sharpening of his knife, which had grown dull of late after the castration of numerous men with especially hard cocks. He dismissed his concern, however, confident that the blade was still honed enough to take the genitals of a Dacean soldier.

Ragnar shoved the fuckslave off his dick and threw him to the floor as he felt himself approach a second ejaculation. He wanted to save the next cumload for the chest and face of his opponent, whom he intended to anoint with hot seed after he had run the man through. He even considered the possibility of fucking the Dacean in the ass. It would have been unheard of in previous Games, but in the days of Elagabalus he suspected there would be no consequences for such a deviation. Ever since the Roman soldiers had swooped over the Alps and had claimed him as a lad working his uncle’s field, Ragnar had held a particular lust for soldiers’ well-trained physiques and tight, powerful asses. A soldier, he reasoned, would hate to be fucked and used in such a humiliating way and would resist with much greater force than would a slave or a horny gladiator comrade and fuckbuddy, whose pallet of straw he might share for a night. A fuck was always better if it was part of the spoils of victory.

He finished strapping his knife to his arm, took up his newly sharpened sword once again, and sucked in a chest full of air as he prepared himself for yet another entrance into the death ring. It was at that point that Ragnar caught the gaze of the fuckslave who had just serviced him. The young man of eighteen, a tall, good-looking slave who was soon to begin his own gladiatorial training, sat on the stone floor where Ragnar had thrown him and looked intently up at the seasoned gladiator who was girding himself for battle. With a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, Ragnar recognized the same look in the eyes of the slave which he had himself given to the men who had fucked him years earlier in this very room. It was the knowing gaze of a younger athlete in training, who instinctively knew when an older gladiator was finished. As a young attendant he had himself recognized the tell-tale signs that a man was about to fight his last battle as he strode out of the chambers to fight in the ring. Did this strapping young fuckslave know something that Ragnar did not? He averted his eyes, chilled by the penetrating gaze of the man he had just raped. Ragnar’s dick in his ass did not seem to have quelled the young man’s insolence. The familiarity of his knowing gaze enraged him, and if he were to be honest with himself, it frightened him. The managers signaled for Ragnar to exit the chambers and ascend to the arena. His time had come. He took two strides toward the exit, then made a decision. He turned on his heels and strode back to the naked attendant, who was now struggling to his feet. “Stand and die, you young pig,” Ragnar growled. The eighteen-year-old rose to his feet, demonstrating that he was nearly as tall as the gladiator. He was very handsome, and his young body showed clear signs of developing strength and musculature. He looked at Ragnar with trepidation, knowing that his life was in the hands of the champion deathfighter. “This is how I reward insolence,” Ragnar announced, pointing his sword at the slave’s midriff. He thrust it suddenly forward, running the lean young slave all the way through. The slave grunted and cried out in sudden surprise and excruciating pain. His flaccid cock sprang to semi-hardness and ejaculated a dribble of cum. He grasped Ragnar’s merciless blade with his bare hands, cutting himself in a vain effort to prevent the sword from piercing his body. The tip and a third of the sword’s length protruded from his back. Then his eyes became glassy and his knees weakened. He stared into Ragnar’s face, this time with a recognition of his own death. Ragnar extracted the sword as the young victim collapsed on the floor. He kicked the dying slave so that his body lay sprawled on the floor of the chamber, then he brought his foot down hard onto the young man’s chest, smashing several ribs as he crushed the air out of his lungs. The slave’s dick spurted a final wad of semen out onto his belly.

There was a general outburst of amazement from the other gladiators and from the managers as Ragnar regarded his bloodied sword blade with great satisfaction. Several attendants and fuckslaves cowered in fear as they realized one of their number had been cut down by a gladiator with so little provocation. Cruelty to the fuckslaves and other attendants was not uncommon among gladiators, but it was generally understood that only the Consul had the right to execute them for infractions. Ragnar had exceeded his bounds. The Consul had hopes that the now-dead slave would make a promising gladiatorial trainee, perhaps eventually reaching the ranks of the primus palus. Ragnar’s ill-considered outburst against the slave was in effect the destruction of private property.

“That is what I will do to the Dacean,” Ragnar growled at the men who were staring at him in awe. But it sounded as if he were trying to convince himself as much as the others.

“You must do it twice more then,” responded the manager. “The Consul has decided you will have two opponents today.” Was this what his attendant had known when he had looked at Ragnar as if for the last time? “And for your foolhardiness in executing your attendant, Ragnar, you will wear this helmet during your fight.” The manager placed a Roman Legionnaire’s helmet on the gladiator’s head. “The imperial archers have instructions to kill you should you ever remove this helmet,” warned the manager. The added head protection made little sense as a punishment, but Ragnar exited the chamber and ascended to the arena floor wearing his helmet as instructed. He was greeted by a massive outburst from the assembled throngs who had come to see him slaughter or be slaughtered. A crier stood just below the Emperor’s loge and raised his hands for quiet. The level of the din lowered just enough for most of the audience to hear the announcer introduce Ragnar falsely as a “Legionnaire of the Danube campaign, the rapist of a hundred Dacean villages.”

It was then that Ragnar caught sight of his opponents, two naked, well-built Dacean soldiers with hairy pectorals and powerful arms and legs. They were both somewhat shorter than Ragnar, who stood over six feet tall, but both of them had sculpted physiques and were well-hung, their cocks semi-hard and arching out over massive, low-hanging testicles. The manager’s sadistic trick of forcing Ragnar to wear Roman military headgear was working well. Upon seeing the Legionnaire’s helmet on the head of their opponent, and after hearing Ragnar introduced as a plunderer of their homes, the Daceans screamed their rage and hatred, determined more than ever to fight and kill. One of them was outfitted as a retiarius with trident and net, the other as a secutor like Ragnar. Both not only had knives strapped to their upper arms, but a second smaller, curved knife strapped to their right ankles. The ankle knives were to be drawn only after the opponent’s defeat, when the dead gladiator’s cock and balls were cut from his body. As Ragnar heard the men snarl their bile at him he realized with a gathering sense of foreboding that he was the guest of honor at his own retirement party. Seldom did a gladiator survive to see his thirtieth year. Why had he thought he would be different?

Ragnar marched to a position twenty paces from the edge of the arena, directly in front of the Emperor’s loge. Elagabalus himself was in attendance and leaned forward in sadistic anticipation of the champion’s greatest challenge yet. Ragnar clenched his sword in his right hand and raised it in the traditional salute, calling out in a stern, clear voice “Morituri te salu--” but was interrupted by the ambush of his Dacean foes, who clearly had no understanding and no respect for Roman tradition. The retiarius cast his net while his colleague jabbed at Ragnar’s muscular side with his sword. The crowd erupted in a renewed frenzy of shouting and bloodlust, amazed and perversely delighted at the Dacean gladiators’ flaunting of arena etiquette. With great difficulty Ragnar managed to avoid the snare and the sword tip. He longed to remove the infernal helmet from his head, as it was an unaccustomed piece of equipment which tended only to distract and encumber him, yet he was mindful of the archers along the edges of the ring who were poised to execute him the moment he disobeyed the orders to keep it on.

The Daceans were not only some five years younger than Ragnar and powerfully built, they were also cagey men who appeared to understand the value of teamwork. They circled Ragnar, taunting him with occasional jabs of the trident or sword, all the while gauging the speed of his reaction, the length of his sword’s reach, the agility of his footwork. Ragnar likewise sized up his opponents, realizing the odds were decidedly against him unless he could kill one of the men without sacrificing his weapon or his right arm. He successfully eluded five more net-tosses and an equal number of jabs with the trident before the Daceans broke from their circling maneuver and attacked. The netman succeeded in getting his web over Ragnar’s head, after which the secutor moved in from behind to run his sword through Ragnar’s back. It was only with the swiftest of reactions and a fortunate slash with the sword that Ragnar was able to cut enough of the netting to avoid entanglement of his weapon. He whirled on his feet and met the secutor’s thrust with his own sword, deflecting the attack. He slithered out of the net, avoiding a deadly trident thrust, and parried his adversaries in a crouched position, ready to pounce. The crowd yelled as his big balls swung back and forth between his legs, bouncing against his muscular thighs. Many in the audience would have paid dearly for those nuts, believing them to have the power of an aphrodisiac. There was a sense in the air that this was the day the great Ragnar would finally lose them.

The Dacean secutor lunged again, this time in an all-out frontal attack while the retiarius hung back, waiting to execute a follow-up net throw. The Dacean screamed a fierce war cry, articulating in his language the imperative that the Roman must die. Ragnar’s reflexes were quick enough for him to hold his sword upright and grasp the hilt with both hands. He parried the Dacean’s sword, allowing the two blades to scrape each other along their entire lengths, deflecting the enemy’s blade tip away from his chest. But the man’s momentum propelled him forward, and he lunged directly onto Ragnar’s firmly-grasped weapon. The tip entered the man’s bare chest dead center. Ragnar heard his war cry turn to a death call as the Dacean literally impaled himself on his opponent’s sword. Once the sword was all the way into the man’s body, the hilt pressed against his hard chest, Ragnar pushed forward, forcing the impaled man backward so that he fell to the arena sand splayed on his back, his arms and legs spread. Dark blood, emanating directly from the warrior’s heart, spurted upward in a geyser from the man’s chest, coating Ragnar’s weapon and spraying his massively muscled chest. The sword tip hit the ground, forcing the blade partially upward again, back through the swordsman’s body, yet the blade had lodged in the narrow space between his ribs, and Ragnar found it necessary to plant a foot on the man’s belly as he heaved backward on the sword, trying desperately to dislodge it from the dying man’s ribcage. As he did so Ragnar felt another warm spray against his leg. The Dacean was ejaculating his death cum, spurting his seed onto the muscular leg of the man who was killing him. The crowd roared its approval, many of the spectators chanting Ragnar’s name. Perhaps his dream of fucking tight young soldier ass might yet be realized.

Ragnar’s brief surge of optimism after killing one of his adversaries rapidly dissipated as he realized he had wasted crucial time when struggling to remove the sword from the Dacean’s body. Immobilized by his necessity to remain with his weapon, Ragnar soon found that the retiarius would waste no time in avenging his countryman. The Dacean tossed the cut and damaged net over Ragnar’s head. A hole in the net from Ragnar’s earlier sword slashes allowed the gladiator’s head to protrude through the webbing, but it hung down from his shoulders, restricting his arms. Ragnar abandoned his sword and grasped the knife that was sheathed to his upper left arm. He slashed at the netting from underneath, trying to hack a larger hole in it. The blade, however, dulled by many castrations of hard-dicked fighters, was of insufficient sharpness to free him from the net before it was too late. The trident found his left leg, sending sharp pain through his frame as the sharpened tips cut deeply into his muscle. A second brutal jab of the trident through the netting struck Ragnar in the small of his back, jabbing his kidneys. He groaned and cursed from the pain, enraged by the suffering the rugged soldier was inflicting on him.

Then a bad situation became even worse. The retiarius tugged on the net, causing Ragnar to lose his footing and fall to the sand. The Roman helmet came loose from his head, leaving him once again completely naked except for his knife sheath. He lay helplessly on his back, clasping his knife, struggling to free himself from the entanglement. His hard cock protruded through an opening in the net, vulnerable to the Dacean’s trident. Ragnar’s determined adversary moved in quickly, smelling victory. The crowd seemed to smell it too and roared with a deafening swell of bloodlust. The Dacean, filled with hatred for a man he perceived to be the epitome of Roman hegemony, determined to kill Ragnar slowly and painfully. He used his trident with excruciating skill, jabbing Ragnar’s right leg both in the thigh and in the calf. Ragnar screamed in pain and writhed in the net, slashing at his opponent with his knife. He would not do so for long, however. The gladiator’s powerful right arm was the next target of the trident-bearer. Remaining outside Ragnar’s reach, he used the length of the trident’s shaft to his advantage and managed to insert all three points longitudinally into Ragnar’s thick upper arm, tearing the muscle and rendering the arm immobile. The defeated gladiator reluctantly released his grasp on his one remaining weapon as Ragnar’s disabled arm was pinned into the sand of the arena floor.

The left arm was his next target, and the Dacean made quick work of it, rendering all four of Ragnar’s limbs useless. He lay sprawled under the net, spread-eagled on the bloody arena floor, awaiting his fate.

The Dacean paced around his prey with deliberate slowness, sporting an enormous hard-on that smacked against his belly with each step. Occasionally he gigged Ragnar’s arms and legs again with his trident, making sure the powerful gladiator was unable to defend himself from his coming death. The Dacean stepped across the body of his dead comrade, whom Ragnar had dispatched so skillfully, circling Ragnar six times in a pre-victory taunt. He removed Ragnar’s sword from the chest of the dead secutor, claiming it as a trophy. The crowd roared its approval as the Dacean soldier held Ragnar’s sword up in his left hand and the trident in his right hand. He thrust the trident into the ground next to Ragnar’s face, then grasped the sword in his right hand. Ragnar looked up at his adversary with the most intense hatred he had ever felt for another man. To die in the arena was perhaps inevitable, but he had never contemplated the shame of dying by his own sword.

Such was not to be Ragnar’s fate, however. The Dacean had other plans. He used Ragnar’s sword to cut away the tangle of netting, freeing the magnificent, hard-cocked body of the defeated gladiator and laying it bare for the cheering crowds to see. He paced in another circle, this time abandoning the sword by sticking it into the ground next to the trident. Finally he straddled Ragnar’s mangled legs, looking down at the thick-chested fighter as he stood with engorged dick, casting a death shadow over the gladiator’s doomed face. Then the Dacean knelt, inserted his hands under Ragnar’s wounded thighs, and lifted them up with his arms. The crowd’s cries grew audibly deeper as they realized what the horny soldier was about to do. Lifting the defeated gladiator’s legs up onto his powerful shoulders, the victorious fighter positioned his adversary for a deathfuck. Ragnar yelled his anguish and rage, his face purple, his mouth foaming. He could not defend his ass, however, and the Dacean thrust his hard dick into him, plunging roughly in all the way to the hilt, then fucking him with a rapid and brutal force. “I rape you as you raped my people, Roman dog,” said the soldier, his face contorting with an approaching ejaculation. He spurted a large quantity of semen into the ass of the muscular gladiator, ramming him several more times even after he had spent himself, just to heighten Ragnar’s utter humiliation. His legs and arms pierced through and badly mangled, Ragnar could only tilt his head upward and watch the soldier’s powerful, sweaty, fur-covered pec muscles flex as the man raped him.

Observing from his imperial loge, Elagabalus, his own cock hard and oozing precum, laughed uproariously at the ruse the managers had perpetrated on the Daceans and Ragnar. “The man truly believes Ragnar to be a Legionnaire!” Elagabalus exclaimed. “Observe the depth of his hatred for our army!”

The rape complete, Ragnar had only now to die and be castrated. He tilted his head and cast a farewell gaze upon his massive cock, which had fucked hundreds of men and shot thousands of loads of semen. He understood with sobering clarity that his dick and balls would soon become cat food, just like the severed sex of so many other men who had died there before him, many of them at Ragnar’s own hand. He spat at the Dacean as he pulled the trident from the sand and positioned it against Ragnar’s abdomen. Ragnar’s enormous dick lay flat against his belly, so the killer moved it aside with the trident, positioning it between two of the tines rather than impaling it under the center tip. The cock was a prize which should be left intact until it was cut off.

The soldier would take his time with the kill. He stood over the defeated gladiator, his dick still raging hard, and grinned down at him. Then, after a moment of waiting, during which Ragnar’s belly heaved in and out with an increased rate of breathing, the Dacean suddenly thrust the three points into Ragnar’s abdomen, eliciting a loud cry of anguish and pain, which was scarcely audible over the noise of the crowd. He extracted the trident, but some of Ragnar’s entrails were impaled on the hooked tip, and as the weapon was removed from his body, his guts were pulled from his belly in a long, bloody string. The Dacean removed the knife from his arm sheath, a weapon he had so far not had reason to use, and slashed through the tangle of bloody guts clinging to the trident’s points. Ragnar screamed his pain and writhed on the ground, hoping now only for a quick death at the hands of his nemesis.

A second trident thrust was positioned over the lower part of Ragnar’s throat. The center tine would pierce the hollow of his throat while the outer two would penetrate the sinewy muscle at the top of his shoulders. The Dacean held the trident in place for another few moments, savoring Ragnar’s predicament. “You were a good fuck, Roman,” the warrior taunted him. Then, as Ragnar was about to respond with an obscene retort, the Dacean drove the trident into his throat, cutting off his speech for the second time that day. The muscles on the top of his shoulders tore away in bloody gashes. Ragnar lifted his hips from the ground, arching his pierced belly up as his neck was impaled and pinned to the floor of the arena. His eyes were so wide it appeared that they would pop out of his head. The Dacean placed his left foot on Ragnar’s raised belly and forced it back down, stomping the man downward and squeezing more guts out of his belly wounds. Ragnar wheezed and began his death gurgle as blood and air were sucked in and out of his pierced throat.

The Dacean jerked the trident from Ragnar’s throat and re-positioned it for a third sadistic impalement, this time across his massive pecs. The center tine rested against the gladiator’s breastbone, center chest, while the outer two tips found their marks against Ragnar’s nipples. The Dacean grinned as he listened to Ragnar’s death rattle and observed his wide-eyed awareness of what the soldier was about to do to him. “I saved your heart muscle for last, Roman,” the killer told him. Then Ragnar saw the man grasp the trident’s shaft with both hands. His biceps flexed as he brought all his strength down on the weapon, forcing its points into Ragnar’s defenseless chest. The center tip cracked the breastbone, splitting it open and allowing the iron shaft to penetrate the stud’s thick chest. The other two tines likewise pierced him, passing through the ribs and poking holes in his lungs. Ragnar rolled his head back, pointing his chin skyward as he screamed silently, his shoulders tensed, his knees bent slightly, his pelvis once again bucking upward in reflex from the penetration. The victorious fighter gigged him mercilessly, forcing the trident all the way through Ragnar’s chest, busting his strong heart and wrecking his lungs. Blood filled the gladiator’s mouth and also bubbled up from the center chest wound, then spurted ferociously in dark plumes as the heart expelled the dying man’s life force. Ragnar’s cock flailed involuntarily, spasmodically bobbing up and down and ejaculating huge quantities of hot seed. Ragnar’s cum sprayed all over the Dacean’s legs and ran in gobs down the shaft of the deadly trident that was fucking his body.

The Dacean left the trident inserted in Ragnar’s chest after the plume of blood ceased and the cum stopped spurting from his dick. He extracted his castration knife from its sheath and quickly sliced off Ragnar’s meat, both the cock and the ballsac, holding up the big lump of flesh for the Emperor to see, placing his foot on the upper part of the dead gladiator’s once powerful chest, just beneath the throat, to assume a victor’s stance. The crowd roared its approval, and the Emperor nodded his head in acknowledgment of the victory. With his left hand the mighty Dacean warrior grasped his dick and pumped out another load of seed, this time in celebration of his victory and as a final humiliation for Ragnar’s mutilated carcass. He spurted ropes of white cum onto Ragnar’s face and chest, then smeared the semen into the dead flesh by rubbing it in with his foot.

At a barely perceptible signal from the Emperor’s loge, the archers drew their bowstrings and fired a volley of arrows at the surviving deathfighter. Having fulfilled his function as the means by which Ragnar was to be retired from gladiatorial service, the remaining Dacean prisoner of war was no longer needed. The rugged warrior dropped the severed trophy he had claimed from Ragnar’s crotch and looked in amazement at an arrow that suddenly protruded from his own chest. It was quickly followed by several more. The Dacean was tough. He remained standing, cursing all Romans to hell, until the seventh arrow caught him, this one piercing his neck, after which he finally collapsed to his knees. Five more arrows in his broad, muscular back finished him off, and he fell forward, impaling himself on his chest arrows, coming to rest on top of his still-hard dick, which lay pinned beneath his muscular belly.

Two charons entered the ring, each of the little men bearing a deadly hammer which was the tool of their gruesome trade. One of the charons administered the final head blow to Ragnar while the other one hammered the skulls of the two Daceans. Kicking the heads of the fallen men so that the right temple lay upward, the charons administered a forceful blow to the temples of each skull, ensuring that the deathfighters had indeed found their intended deaths in the arena. The charons collected Ragnar’s severed cock and balls and used a wicked serrated blade to saw through the thick cockshafts and fleshy scrotums of the two dead prisoners of war. They placed these in the helmet which Ragnar had worn into the arena, then delivered the three sets of cocks and balls to the Emperor for feeding to the lions.

Ragnar’s body was the first to be dragged out to the spoliarium. Two men were required to negotiate its weight. As he was dragged away, Ragnar left a trail of blood and spilled guts across the floor of the arena where he had killed so many men. In the spoliarium, where his body would await later committal to the carnea outside the city walls, Ragnar’s magnificent corpse was laid beside that of the young fuckslave he had run through with his sword. That corpse too had been relieved of its genitals, which were long since in the belly of an imperial lion. The two Daceans were dragged out next, their pierced, naked bodies laid on top of the slave and Ragnar. The man who had defeated, fucked, and killed Ragnar, and whose body was now prickly with arrows, was laid on top of his former opponent, their faces and dickless crotches resting against one another, the broken arrow shafts in the Dacean’s hard chest poking into Ragnar’s once proud, now slowly rotting muscles.

The news of the great Ragnar’s “retirement” spread like wildfire. In the gladiators’ preparation chambers below the arena floor, yet another naked musclestud was inspecting the work of his attendant, testing the sharpness of his blade, and feeling the spasm of his hard cock as he prepared for what could either be his last fight or, as he boastfully chose to believe, the beginning of a career even more glorious than that of the dead and emasculated Ragnar.