You are about to read an epistle written by Antinous to his dear friend Lysicles, in which he describes a carnal encounter with the much older Cyprias, as it might have read if it actually existed.

Presented by Sir Richard Wadd

Hard Resolution

Lysicles

Though he endeavours often to keep me close to him, there are times when sensitive affairs of state preclude even my own eyes and ears from learning certain things that doubtless press heavily upon Hadrian’s shoulders. When, however, we are later reunited into each others’ arms, I do my best to help him forget – if only for a brief respite – the weight of those responsibilities upon him.

Such is my duty, and it is not one I take lightly. While Hadrian has made it clear that his sights are set on a lustrous future career for me, and that he shall do whatever he can to ensure that I achieve it, I have also made it clear to him that my present concern is only for his immediate comfort. And so, while I shall work hard to learn as much as I can from him concerning the business of administering a civil service, I shall also take pains to unburden him of its stresses when and wherever I see fit to do so.

It goes without saying that I will not knowingly add to his daily burden, nor bother him with the trivialities of others’ requests, petitions, or prayers.

At least, it used to go without saying, for it was always an unspoken understanding in my brain; something I intuitively knew without needing to articulate into private thoughts. Perhaps it was the shock of betrayal at the hands of Mordanticus; the sudden understanding that, simply by virtue of my proximity to Hadrian, I was in constant danger of being exploited by unscrupulous others as a tool to access his ear. That experience had the gradual effect of turning me into an extremely cautious fellow, to the point where I now find my defensive walls grown increasingly fortified when in the company of others – especially if Hadrian is not present.

Thus I was not entirely surprised to find the requests beginning almost immediately, mostly from those whom I know only casually. What is far more disappointing to me, however, is the fact that such petitions have also begun to come from my friends, or, at the very least, those with whom I have a friendly acquaintance.

The most painful event (for that it has caused the most grief in me) is the one that transpired a few days ago, in the company of Cyprias. I had gone to him to replenish my supply of soaps – both for me personally and for Vitalis who had officially replaced me as Keeper of Epeius. But I had also gone simply to visit, for I had not seen Cyprias since my ascension to Favourite and sensed that he was keen to see and congratulate me.

Indeed, he was quite effusive in his praise, and made clear his delight and pride in my new position. “No doubt,” he joked, “a small part of that success is owing to the enjoyment that Hadrian has consistently had from the fragrant cleanliness of his horse!”

I laughed, and was very gracious in agreeing with his somewhat farcical assessment. “May I pleasure you?” he asked me eagerly. His face was warm and sincere, and the desire in his eyes was genuine and loving. I thought of Hadrian, and of his schedule. He was very busy that day: he was at that moment taken on an arduous inspection of the Guard, and then we both shared the promise of a long evening of entertaining ahead. I resolved that, in our time together that night, Hadrian would likely not be in so demanding a sexual mood as on other, less strenuous days. The result was that I felt comfortable in my decision to share some pleasures with Cyprias. “But I will not be entered,” I warned him. “You may have my thighs: not my arse.” (For I was being cautious – just in case!)

This to him was quite amenable, and we fell into our familiar pattern: myself in his mouth to my climax, and then he behind me to his.

I have always enjoyed the warmth and wetness of capable lips around me – and it is all the more astonishing an experience when the mouth into which I am thrusting belongs to a man of stature above me. Gryllus, Cyprias, and Hadrian have all been such for me. (Decentius, however, has never taken me into his mouth, for he, at least, subscribes to the ancient fashion that demands of free men to abhor it.) Yet from these three, I have learned that rules are never so rigid as the cocks they would command, and human desires – expressed in their true and private authenticity – far outshine the dull and traditional edicts that supposedly govern them. That is why, though I am freeborn and a citizen of Rome, I may still have my backside opened and claim in truth to enjoy it. And that is why, though he is the emperor of the world, Hadrian may still take me into his mouth and happily swallow what my pleasure serves up to him. Such are the private exchanges of sensible people together, who share themselves beyond the glare of public scrutiny. And I am grateful for that, for it gives me hope that perhaps with Vitalis I may continue to share pleasures long beyond the end of our youth.

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An erotic tale by Logunede Jones

Don’t you think you could procure a blanket, and loosen my hands? No? Then it shall be as you wish, lieutenant. I will speak as to why you have encountered me here in these conditions. As you recall, you sent me on a reconnaissance mission to follow the rebel Captain Lewis with the purpose of determining where the Continental Army stores its ammunition. Captain Lewis’s imposing musculature and blond locks made him easy to spot from the grove of trees where I hid to spy on their regimental training technique. He led his men in jumping and running and wrestling on the field, before he called off their exercising for the day. Then I followed him down a wooded path to a remote clearing, to this very barn where we now sit, thinking this place to be, perhaps, a seeming storage for ammunition. The captain entered through the main door behind you, so I slipped around the side of the building to the back wall, behind where I am now, where there is only a thin strip of land, separated from a steep riverbank by a row of thorny hedge. Along the back wall I found a rotted-out opening between the planks where I could just manage to see that Captain Lewis was expected. I peeked through the boards to see him embracing a young Indian woman whom I had never seen before, her shiny black hair trailing down her back to her waist. I did not learn her name, but we can call her Necklace of Pearl, a name that will be most appropriate, as you shall hear. They kissed passionately while she began to undress him. It turns out that she had drawn a bath for him here in the barn, so he could refresh himself of his perspirations from the field maneuvers. She unbuttoned his jacket and tunic as he rolled her ample posterior between his knuckles. When she had his shirt off, the differences in his skin tone wrought by the sun’s angry rays were certainly evident, leaving him two-toned red and white, both colors contrasting markedly with the dark chestnut color of her skin. He almost tripped getting out of his breeches, which made his noble parts, already aroused, flop around in the open air beneath their crown of curly gold. His penis struck me as rather wide, and it was even…

My purpose, Sir, is to show you that I do indeed have a keen eye for detail, and that your trust in me for this mission was not misplaced. With your permission, I shall continue. Captain Lewis lowered himself into the bathing basin, over there to your right, which as you can see is a rather large, oblong one made of wood. Necklace of Pearl made as if to pour some of the warmed water onto his chest, but smiled piquishly as she let it run down her own, making transparent the thin cotton of her embroidered blouse and awakening her nipples. Then she did pour the bathwater on the captain, proceeding straightaway to lather his chest and what I could see of his legs sticking up over the rim of the basin. As she bent over him, he pulled her blouse down over her bosom, exposing her quite large and wet breasts to his ardent gaze. He did not know, yet, that he had exposed them to mine own eyes as well. He made to lick and suck them, cradling one at a time of her bounteous bosoms in both hands as to fondle them and knead them like dough.

At this moment there came a knock at the door, a rap that seemed to be a coded rhythm. Necklace of Pearl smiled. “’Tis the sergeant,” she said, “the man I’ve chosen for us this afternoon. Let him think he is alone, at first.”

Such was the captain’s haste that he did not bother to dry off his body, but only leapt from the basin in like manner as he came into the world, and crouched behind a hay bale not two feet in front of me, obstructing my vision of anything other than his glistening buttocks. I held my breath. I heard the sergeant enter and greet the girl. It seemed that the captain, at least, could see what was happening. Then there was only silence for some time, during which the captain, I could not help but observe, tugged repeatedly on his penis as it dangled between his legs, and pulled gently on his own sac. I was of a mind to follow his example, as I sat observing the pink pucker of the cleft between his buttocks perched just in front of my eyes, but I could risk no such movement to the possibility of discovery. I heard the splash of feet entering water, and began to assume that the sergeant was commencing where the captain had left off. ‘Twas a most confusing but intriguing state of affairs, as I’m sure you can imagine, Sir.

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Charlene’s Daughter

Tom Hanson arches his stiff back and lifts the faded shirt off the fencepost to blot his damp forehead, watching a cloud of dust boil from the rear wheels of an approaching pickup truck.

It’s been a while since anyone’s paid a visit.

He lifts his sun-bronzed face to the sky.  Mid July in southern New Mexico; the sun has browned his skin above the waist, and grit clings as the warm dry air evaporates the sweat on his body.  He’s been setting new fence posts off the south side of the barn.  He doesn’t recognize the truck.  Whoever it is, their cautious driving tells him they’re not familiar with the gravel roads around here.  Maybe they took a wrong turn.

Tom heads across the crusty earth to the pump, reaches for his drinking cup, pumps the handle, pours the first cup down the back of his neck.  He downs the second in two gulps.  The third cup goes on the ground for Lady, one of seven born to a Collie.  Her daddy must have been Labrador, those irresistible, attentive eyes.  The dog becomes alert as the truck draws closer.  The sound of the tires crunching over the gravel reaches his ears.  Still doesn’t recognize the truck, a Ford, late eighties model, lot of miles according to the sluggish whine of the engine.

Some twenty feet away, two females pull to a stop, suitcases and boxes piled in the bed.  The driver’s side door opens.  A foot in brown sandals, a long thin leg, blue jeans too tight for a decent woman.  She’s aged.  Lot of miles etched on her face.  The girl stays in the cab, her feet propped on the dash.

“This place ain’t easy to find, big brother, not after all these years.”

He remembers how youthful she looked at their father’s funeral.  She looks harder now, too many trips around the block.

“You grew up here, Sis.”

She looks the place over.  “Nothin’s changed.”  She grabs hold of the front of her blouse, puffs it up and down to fan her neck.  “Reminds me why I left,” she says looking toward the river; she sees just a glimpse.  Between here and the river, the land, grown over with scattered creosote brush and yuccas, drops several feet.  She remembers the day she got caught swimming naked with Juan Garcia.
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