Daphne Boy

Ship's Boy

The 17th Tale of the Daphne Boy, the Ultimate Twink

by George Gauthier

Fair warning: This story contains explicit and graphic depictions of gay sex.

Prologue, 44 BC

It was a dark and stormy night. Battered and bedraggled from the long struggle with the unforgiving sea, I struggled ashore through the angry surf and an undertow that threatened to drag me out to sea to a watery grave. I crawled like a lizard, belly on the ground, leaving a drag mark, pushing beyond the reach of the surf, then passed out from utter exhaustion.

I came to my senses hours later stretched out on my belly, coarse gritty sand under my face, the hot sun burning my back and bare ass. Getting up unsteadily onto all fours, the best I could manage at the moment, I crawled up the beach to the foot of a rocky cliff. Putting put my back to it, I looked around and took stock of my predicament.

My prospects were not good. This shore was barren ground -- all rocks and sand -- with no sign of fresh water nearby. For all I knew I was on an island. I did know that I was stranded alone, naked, and unarmed. Moreover, my body was dehydrated, exhausted, and sore, bruised and scraped by the rocks that had holed my ship the previous afternoon, spilling much of her cargo and me into the water. I had survived the night by grabbing the rope handle of an empty water keg as waves tossed me about, wind and spume making it hard to breathe.

Somehow I was still alive. I was sure that all of my friends aboard the trade ship Astarte had drowned, the ship was so badly stricken. I could not hold back my tears at the loss of so many good men and boys. I had spent nearly four years aboard that happy ship, learning the ways of the sea, my first experience as a sailor. In centuries to come I would return to sea time and time again, whenever the quiet life paled, and I felt the need for adventure.

Chapter 1. Berenike on the Red Sea 48 BC

Four years earlier ...

After stints as a well-paid pleasure boy in brothels in Alexandria and Antioch I went into trade and became a successful merchant. I was well-suited to both pursuits. On the one hand, my physical beauty made me a much sought-after joy boy. On the other, my cast of mind and sunny personality were well-suited to trade and commerce. But after several decades of doing much the same thing I was restless for a change. I wanted to see more of the world. Time then for a wanderjahr.

I sought a fresh start, some place I was not known. That ruled out the eastern Mediterranean seaboard and especially my old stomping grounds in Alexandria where I might all too easily run into those who had known me before. What explanation could I give them for not aging a day in the decades since? My appearance was still that of a beardless boy rather than the old codger that I should, by all rights, have become after some sixty-four years on the planet.

I was born in the late second century BC in the German lands a bit southwest of the mountain range that separates modern Bavaria from Bohemia. For reasons I have never understood, some genetic quirk presumably, I had stopped growing and aging some months after my seventeenth birthday. Even today, I look just as I did: a stripling, a short, slender boy in his late teens and prettier than any boy rightly ought to be -- in modern terms, a cute twink.

I sailed from the river port of Antioch, where in the following century I would spend four years enslaved as a Daphne Boy, a temple prostitute. The ship cut across the corner of the Mediterranean to Alexandria-by-Egypt. I passed through the city as quickly as I might. Besides the danger of recognition, I feared the imminent civil war that loomed over Egypt's capital. Queen Kleopatra and her brother King Ptolomey were contending for power. So I hurried from the city just before the gates closed as the young king's army laid siege, penning both the queen and her lover and ally, the Roman general Caius Julius Caesar inside. History records what happened then. By that time I was safely away from the turmoil. One thing I learned early in my two millennia on this planet is the wisdom of steering well clear of historic upheavals.

I sailed by river craft up the Nile to the town of Coptos. The Nile makes a perfect water highway. The wind blows steadily from the North, propelling sailing vessels southward upriver. The return trip is even simpler, just furl the sail and float downstream with the current. From the river, I took one of the regular caravans overland across the Eastern Desert to the port of Berenike on the Red Sea. Through that city passed the trade between the Egypt of the Ptolomies (the successors of my namesake Alexandros III, called the Great) and Ethiopia and India.

After arriving in Berenike and poking around the docks for a few days, I learned of a certain captain Aristokles, a young seaman with a good reputation. His ship, the Astarte, had recently scraped a coral reef, staving in her side. She barely managed to limp back into port. The Astarte needed a complete refit which the captain could not afford. He was in danger of losing everything. Here was my opportunity.

I looked him up at the shipyard of Magas the shipbuilder. Like me Aristokles was dressed only in a low slung linen kilt, the typical garb of Egypt, and went barefoot, as mariners usually do. With their voices raised I had no trouble in hearing his argument with Magas, a powerfully built grizzled man with a regretful expression on his face.

"Young Ari, your father Aristokles was one of my dearest friends, but I simply cannot do the work on speculation, not even for his son. I must have money up front so I can buy materials and pay my builders their wages. And even then you would need a stake to buy trade goods. As a trader yourself you can understand how risky that would be. Why your ship might be lost at sea on the very next voyage or your trading efforts might prove unprofitable. Where would that leave me?

"I am sorry, but the answer is no. If, in the end, you cannot get the Astarte fixed, come back to the yard. There is a job here for you as long as you want it."

"Thank you for that much Magas. I understand your position completely. No hard feelings, and I may have to take you up on that job offer."

When young Aristokles turned around and I got my first good look at him. I was thunderstuck, overwhelmed by a passionate desire for this stunningly handsome young sea captain. He stood much, taller than I did by at least two hand spans. Powerfully built, lean but muscular, he moved with the grace of a panther. His face that was comely but in a manly sort of way, with a square chin, dark hair and grey eyes. In short he was very much my type. I badly wanted this potent male to make love to me.

Still, I was there on business, and it would not do for me to drool (much less to tent out my kilt). Composing myself with difficulty, I raised my arm to attract his attention. He turned his appraising gaze on me, looking me up and down. A saucy grin broke out on his face. It was clear that he liked what he saw in me.

And why should he not? I have always been blessed with a lovely form and a face that cannot but inspire admiration and lust in the heart of any male who appreciates a beautiful boy. The short white kilt I wore did little to conceal my fawn-like build, wiry musculature, and smooth hairless body. The young captain's eyes twinkled with delight as he looked me up and down. He wore a half smile as his gaze lingered on my delicate features. I like to think my face has an elfin quality to it by virtue of the slight points on my shell-like ears, high cheekbones, a chiseled jaw line, a straight nose, and a narrow chin. My large green eyes were set wide apart under finely arched brows, their lashes too long to have been meant for a boy. It did not hurt that the wind was blowing my straight blond thatch into a flattering halo.

The sea captain winked at the shipbuilder, then remarked in a loud voice:

"Well, well, well, what do we have here, Magas, but a vision of youthful male pulchritude. Surely this is young Ganymede come down from Olympus this day to grace us with his beauty. Hail immortal Ganymede!"

"I appreciate the flattery" I resplied, "but the name is actually Alexandros, captain Aristokles, and I have a proposition for you."

"Not Ganymede! Alas, Magas, the pretty lad is only a rent boy after all, though an incomparably lovely one. All right ... er, Alexandros, just name your price, I can still afford a tumble with a comely lad."

I get that reaction a lot. One look and they peg me as a pleasure boy. These days they would say kept boy or rent boy or maybe male model.

"That isn't what I am here to offer you, sir."

I put my proposition to the young mariner. For a one-third interest in the ship and any profits, I would pay the shipyard for repairs and stake him for his next voyage. In return he would take me on as his apprentice for a term of years and teach me the ways of the sea.

"A commercial proposition then. Too bad, you really are my type, just utterly scrumptious. Do you realize the effect you have on men who lust after pretty boys?

"Anyway, to busienss. Young Alexandros, you hardly look to have that kind of money, dressed as you are only in a worn linen kilt and unshod. I see no sign that you are a man or should I say a boy of means, certainly not on your person, no chains of gold nor jeweled rings nor any such portable wealth. Also, a man with something to protect usually goes armed, but you bear no weapon. Indeed, were one to strip that length of cloth off your narrow hips, you would look no different than any naked slave boy of the streets, though much better looking, certainly. You are really stunning, as you must know."

"Thanks, sir. What you say is true enough, but I do not believe in drawing untoward attention by a conspicuous display of tangible wealth on my own person, especially while traveling. Suffice it to say that by letter of credit, I can draw on monies due me by one of the leading merchants of this city whose notes I bought from his correspondents in Alexandria. He stands ready to cover whatever expenses we may incur."

"Hmmn. Look, Alexandros, I am just desperate enough to take your offer. The gods know I have no other choice. But you must realize that part owner or not, you can have no authority aboard ship. Even a youthful crew like mine would never take orders from a mere slip of a lad like you, both a landlubber and a beardless boy. You will have to work your way up, starting at the bottom as ship's boy. And I do mean at the very bottom. Do you take my meaning?"

I flushed then nodded, knowing only too well what was expected of a pretty ship's boy on a long sea voyage. He meant that I would be an outlet for the crew's sexual urges and would have to put out for everyone. As a veteran pleasure boy, that prospect did not bother me. Nor did I mind that the captain had referred to me as a slip of a lad and a beardless boy. That was only too true. I did raise an eyebrow briefly at his lofty language. After all, the handsome captain himself was short of twenty and clean shaven.

"Understand, Alexandros, that except with me as your captain you cannot play favorites. Each man will have his way with you in turn. Mind you, I run a happy ship. My crew will resent any reluctance or sullenness on your part."

"I realize that, sir, and I promise you that I will be properly enthusiastic with everyone. I am no shrinking virgin. No need to tell them, sir, but I did start out in a boy brothel."

"Really? Well then, things should work out. Now let's see the rest of you, Alex."

I slipped off my kilt and set it aside, holding my arms out as I spun around slowly to display my back and my bum for the captain -- and the rest of my audience. Workers in the shipyard lowered their tools to watch, and passersby slowed their progress or stopped entirely to stare. Not that I was really embarrassed to stand there entirely nude while everyone else around me was clothed. As a former sex slave and brothel boy, I had long since abandoned the body shyness inculcated during my boyhood among the barbarian tribes of Germany. My abbreviated adolescence as a modest German boy had ended upon enslavement at age fourteen when the Roman General Marius destroyed the army of my tribe the Cimbri in 100 BC in Cisalpine Gaul.

Classical civilization had little use for nudity taboos, and not only in such venues as the public bath and the gymnasium and the gladiatorial arena. Public nudity on city streets was quite common in the ancient world, often an adaptation to practical necessity without any overtly sexual meaning to it. Workers in any hot, sweaty, or dirty occupation labored in the nude. Glass blowers, bakers, brick makers or potters firing their wares in the kiln coped with the intense heat by working unclothed. Also workers in dirty occupations worked naked to keep their clothing clean. Cloth was expensive and soap and detergents non-existent. Nudity was also usual for fleet footed messengers, males pulling carts through the streets, and rowers on galleys. Many sailors did not bother much with clothing once out to sea.

Still my nude body drew their attention with a physical beauty far beyond the ordinary. I had the kinds of looks that literally turn heads. People of both sexes often do double-takes, some shaking their heads in wonder, even blurting out loud: "How can anyone could be that good looking?" Even those men whose glances were disapproving would dismiss me with words that implicitly acknowledged my comeliness saying things like: "Much too pretty for a boy", or "Humph, someone's catamite or bum boy for sure".

So no wonder that Ari's smile grew wide in appreciation of my diminutive but well-formed physique. I am fairly small, standing no more than five foot five (165 cm) and weighing in at a mere 120 pounds (54 kg). Mine is an androgynous if wiry physique, toned and taut from work and exercise. Some would say I was skinny though I always describe myself as slender. The tracery of veins on my forearms, calves, and belly showed how little body fat I carried.

My twirl gave my audience a good look at my flat chest and corrugated stomach and firm round rump with its deep cleavage. Only the marked definition of my muscular development and my light tenor voice showed that I was post pubescent and past my growth spurt. I like to think my manhood is more than adequate but it wouldn't be scaring the horses. It takes both my small hands to cover an erection, but only one when it was soft. My naturally pale skin wore the tawny gold that results from habitual exposure to the sun leaving my wiry physique sleek and smooth and deeply tanned.

The big man stepped closer, facing me, looming over me. I could catch his scent: a heady mixture of sweat and salt and male musk. He reached out to run his hands over my nude body while I stood there submissively, arms at my sides. Ari squeezed my deltoids then reached around me to trail his hands between my shoulder blades and along the bumps of my spine down to my waist. That brought him very close, his kilt brushing my thighs. I had to turn my head up to see his face. His questing hands skimmed lightly over my ribs then slid down to touched the flare of my hips. His finger tips grazed my belly then followed the grooves of my Adam's girdle, the back of his hands actually brushing my genitals. My pulse quickened. I felt lightheaded and hot. I realized such sensations meant that I might become physically aroused right there and then in that public place, with so many men and boys looking on while the captain made free with my trim body. But I was already enthralled by his masculine appeal. I could deny the man nothing.

The wink which the young captain gave me showed that he understood my emotions. This public foreplay was a deliberate affirmation that I had fallen under his spell and henceforth belonged to him. I was his, rent boy or not.

"You are mine, now. Aren't you, little Alex? You would fall to your knees and worship my manhood or let me bend you over and fuck you right here and now in front of everyone, wouldn't you?"

"Yes sir," I agreed fervently. "Do with me whatsoever you will."

"All in good time, all in good time. My, what a pretty little thing you are, Alex, and impressively muscled for such a slim lad. Yours is one of those physiques that are more about quality than quantity. Such a firm rump too, like a pair of melons. Still short as you are, so fine-boned, and impossibly comely, no one could take you for more than fifteen years. I don't like to take advantage of a boy so young, no matter how willing."

"I am actually seventeen, sir," I replied, which was, in a way, the truth -- if not the whole truth. "So I am of age."

The age of consent for sex was only fifteen in those days (a rule that applied only to free persons). At seventeen I was also old enough to enter into a valid contract. He reached down to my groin, cupping and weighing my genitals. Rolling one of my balls between his fingers he added:

"Seventeen yet still totally smooth. Nothing on your chest or arms or lower limbs or even here at the fork of your legs. Aren't these things working?"

That line was delivered with an eyebrow raised theatrically. Ari was poking fun at me, calling my manhood into question, making me blush from the humiliation of it all. He deliberately played to the crowd, quite successfully too. His witty sally brought a chorus of chuckles from the audience making me blush furiously. His ribald humor was not meant to wound but was an assertion of his psychological dominance over me which he reinforced physically by standing very close to me, looming over me. He wanted everyone to watch him take charge of me by his thorough and intimate physical inspection.

I left his somewhat rhetorical question unanswered. I saw no way to explain that while working at a brothel in Alexandria I had taken up the Roman habit of having all my body hair, little as it was, plucked with tweezers. It took several decades of plucking, but afterwards my body hair stopped sprouting. So I was completely smooth and would stay that way forever. Also, since I had stopped aging before my beard grew in, I have never had to shave.

By this time I was fully erect and dripping, my member throbbing with the beat of my heart. Ari tapped the tip of my glans with a finger, held it up before my nose, then brought the drop of seminal fluid to my mouth. I parted my lips and suffered him to coat my tongue with my own pre-cum. He repeated the action, twice more. The third time he gripped my chin, using his thumb to coat my pouty lips thrusting his digit in and out of my mouth in a lascivious manner.

I heard voices counseling the captain to put me on my knees and set me to worshiping his cock. I would have done so willingly. Instead, he bent his face toward mine and kissed me full on the lips, his tongue darting into my oral cavity, his tongue thrusting and dueling with mine. I put my arms around him and tried to smile and kiss him back at the same time. Then his hand reached down between us to stroke me some more, his thumb circling the head of my cock, a finger rubbing the sweet spot just below the flange of the glans.

It was all too much: the physical stimulation, his closeness and manly scent, my shameless public nudity and arousal. My balls drew up tight to my belly, my breathing quickened and before I could pull back or ask him to stop I started spewing my boyish juices all over my belly and onto his kilt. Spent and trembling, I sagged in his embrace as onlookers applauded. He held me up, hands under my buttocks, pressing my nude body to his. I could feel his erection through his tented out kilt.

"Whew, Alex. You are quite the sexy little thing aren't you. But look at the mess you have made. Naughty boy!"

I blushed and hung my head in shame. Ari turned me around, putting an arm over my shoulder proprietarily then pointed me away from the docks.

"Better we continue this at my lodgings."

With that he gave my buttocks a firm smack propelling me in the desired direction. I looked toward my discarded kilt, but Ari only shook his head.

"No, Alex. Clothes are not for you, not any more. As ship's boy you will go naked at all times, whether at sea or in port. Better get used to it. You will be spending the five years of your apprenticeship totally nude."

"I'll bet that would suit you just fine, Alex, shameless boy that you are. You like people to see every part of your lithe body, your smooth limbs, your shapely manhood, and that pert rump that twitches so fetchingly when you walk. Admit it. You like the way I have taken charge of you, stripped you naked with everyone looking on, then forced you to a public orgasm. And now they all know that from now on, you will be running around town entirely bare ass in my service."

I look up appealingly at the man, choked with emotion, so I could only nod to acknowledge my confession. Yes, it was true, A wanton bum boy cum shameless showoff like me did not deserve the decency of clothing. I should not have any right to cover my nakedness, no matter how embarrassing the occasion. I realized that made me no different than a naked slave boy. After all, who could tell the difference, except that I didn't bear any whip marks.

Suddenly I was apprehensive.

"Sir, may I ask, as the most junior member of your crew, what punishment I might draw for any infraction of the rules. Would you take a whip to my back or ass. I would not care to be marked with the scars of the cat."

"Don't worry lad. The Astarte is no military ship. We never take the cat to a man. When you meet the crew you will see that none of them bears scars. Oh, if you misbehave, I might very well take a tawse to your bare rump, or, in view of your tender years, I might turn you over my knee and spank you. Hmmn, an over-sexed youngster like you might enjoy it. In which case, I would assign tedious fatigue duties as punishment, like digging the latrine for our nightly stops along the shore. For anything serious, and I would just put the man ashore and pay him off."

Somewhat reassured and rather intrigued by the thought of the handsome captain's calloused hand spanking my bare butt in earnest, we went off to his lodgings in a small inn near the docks. It was no dive for drunken sailors but a decent establishment that offered clean accommodation to those with modest purses. The main room was nearly empty as we passed through it and up the stairway, though I did draw stares. The barkeep merely shrugged at the sight of a nude boy in the arms of the tall captain. One customer, evidently an acquaintance of the captain, smiled and gave him a thumbs up.

Chapter 2. Ship's Boy

Young though he was, Ari was an experienced and enthusiastic lover. I was clearly not his first boy. He knew just what to do to satisfy a submissive bottom boy like me, and, for my part, for our first coupling, I tried to give him the best sex of his life.

Just short of twenty, Ari had the strong strong sex drive of a randy teenager. Nevertheless, our first kisses were tentative, even shy, but our hormones soon took over and we went at it with a will. He rolled me onto my back, so we could lie face to face, and threw my legs over his shoulders, pulling my ass into his groin. I appreciated his solicitude in keeping most of his weight on his own knees and arms instead of pressing down on me. Large men often forget that we boys have to breathe.

Ari bent forward to lick my nipples then bit down on them gently. He had realized from my reaction at the shipyard that they were one of my most sensitive erogenous zones. Still he did not linger at foreplay. Our earlier encounter had satisfied him on that score. No, this was the main event. He intended to impale me on his alarmingly large virile member.

Yet Ari was a considerate and careful lover. He had no wish to cause me pain -- quite the opposite -- so he took some time getting me ready, lubricating my hole with olive oil, stretching me open, priming me for the fuck. With his turgid member in his fist he addressed my cleavage, moving the head of his cock along the length of my perineum, poking at my ball sac and the inside of my thighs, then prodding and poking the anal ring.

With our passions aroused, nothing could stop our joining. Powerful hip muscles drove his fleshy rod into me. I felt him stretch my anal ring as the head of his cock penetrated the first sphincter, paused briefly then slowly sank to the hilt. Bending forward and putting much of his weight on his arms, he started pumping into me, falling into a rhythm, sliding in and out, his shaft pushing, prodding and probing, driving me wild with desire. My eyes lost focus and rolled back sightlessly as I surrendered himself to the good feelings coursing through me. I was lost to rational thought for the time, my body tempest-tossed on a sea of sensation, the blood pounding at my temples, my own boy cock at maximum rigidity.

As the invading shaft stimulated my prostate, my whole body shuddered helplessly, my guts clutching in an internal orgasm. My lithe torso rippled in a wave that started at our joining and traveled all the way up to my head and shoulders. Every time he slid out halfway, I caught my breath. Then he slid in again and I shuddered and shook. He had taken total control of my body and my sexuality.

One thing I liked about his lovemaking technique was that he tried to synchronize his orgasm with the boy he was fucking. His thrusting set my small boyish body to shuddering again and again till I climaxed, shooting all over my chest. My orgasm set off his as my spasming ass muscles clutched at the intruding member, clamping down and squeezing the invader, massaging and stimulating it. That set him off only a second after I started to come. As he climaxed, he shot his masculine juices deep into my body. I could feel him flooding my innards with his warm wetness. Afterwards, he rolled onto his back pulling me onto him, still joined, my sticky belly pressed to his. I was happy, content that I had given him a good ride. I had so much wanted our first experience to be memorable.

Can I give a good fuck or what? That is especially true when I respond to powerful males like the young sea captain, men who use their size and strength to dominate me, to take control. Sex with a taller and powerfully built male is like a craving; I cannot get enough. With a big man I go all weak in the knees and submissive, head hung low, ready to drop to my knees and worship as a supplicant or to bend over and offer him my ass. That is the way I am: an abject bottom boy at heart, a natural submissive (at least in sexual matters).

I always respond well to powerfully built men who know how to dominate a boy in bed without unnecessary roughness. I also like sex with boys who look like me. The difference is that when I have sex with another pretty boy, I am having fun with an equal. We usually trade off taking the more active role. Sex with another boy is a delight. Sex with a big man like Ari is a craving, a need. With a boy, I feel energized as we jump into bed. With a man like Ari I go all weak in the knees and submissive, ready to drop down and worship.

Along the way, I don't mind a little physical and verbal humiliation either though not in excess, please. I am a submissive but not a masochist. (The caution induced by my long centuries of life experience make it impossible for me to submit to bondage except with someone I trust implicitly. It reminds me too much of episodes of captivity and slavery.)

Ari visited the shipyard daily during the refit. I ran errands for him and helped with the work, learning something of the structure of our vessel. He took me around to their lodgings and introduced me to his crew. Everyone understood that I would not be on duty, as it were, till we put out to sea. That gave me the chance to get to know them as people before I became their boy toy. They certainly liked what they saw, and they could see everything about me, naked as I was. Meanwhile they had the typical distractions that a major port offers to sailors: food and drink, girls, and gambling. The belligerent sort would engage in roughhousing. Maybe it is just me, but I have never quite grasped the concept of recreational brawling. (Except for the hilarious bar fights in John Wayne movies.) Perhaps my small physique has something to do with it.

Eventually, one fine day we put proudly out to sea. The sail caught the wind propelling the Astarte at a respectable five knots. Old Magas had worked wonders with the ship. She was faster than ever. The young captain stood at the rear near the steering oar. Dressed only in a breech clout, legs wide apart, wind whipping his black locks, he looked magnificent. I crouched beside him, holding on to the rail, trying to keep my breakfast down but finally having to spew over the side. Fortunately that was my only experience with sea sickness. In short order, I got my sea legs under me and settled into my new existence as a ship's boy.

The crew numbering twenty-eight was young, their ages ranging from a couple of kids my own age to one guy in his mid thirties. Most of the experienced older hands who formerly sailed with her had taken berths on other ships while the Astarte was laid up. Much of the crew had never done any deep water sailing or gone out on long voyages. For the most part, they had worked fishing boats, barges, and lighters in local waters, waiting for a chance to take part in one of the more lucrative trading ventures. Those other jobs just paid wages. A sailor on a trading voyage earned only modest wages but was in line for a potentially lucrative share of the profits, one quarter of which went to the crew with the rest to the captain and owner.

The only grizzled old salt aboard was the irascible cook, Horemhab, a man of forty and five. When he learned that I was a landlubber, he grumbled:

"A skinny boy like that is more trouble than he is worth -- too small to pull an oar and likely to be seasick the whole time. I won't have him spewing the tasty comestibles I work so hard to prepare. Not for him or for the rest of you ingrates!"

I found out later that his bark was worse than his bite. His acerbic profanity was laced with real wit, which most of us found entertaining. So everyone put up with his largely feigned tantrums. I came to like him a lot. He was a terrific cook too -- considering what little he had to work with.

Once we put out to sea, I was made available to everyone, taking four or five every evening in turn. Regardless of the tarts or girlfriends or even wives they left behind, virtually all of them took advantage of the situation. And why should they not? Compared to a worn out tart or drab, I was a walking wet dream, a comely lad available free of charge, already unwrapped so to speak, conveniently to hand right there among the crew, a boy known to be shamelessly promiscuous, and one supremely practiced in the amorous arts. There all wanted their chance to clutch my taut body, to feel it all slick with sweat, tugging, pulling, and squirming, orifices plugged and at work, pleasuring them better than any boy (or girl) had ever done before.

It wasn't a free-for-all or an orgy every evening. The sailors took me in rotation and no more than five a night. A couple of men weren't interested in "sea pussy". The cook was satisfied with oral service only. With me on my knees, down there between his legs, my pouty lips closed around his turgid cock, I looked little different to him than a pretty girl giving him a blow job. Actually he admitted that I was prettier than any girl he had ever known.

Then there were the youngsters, the cousins Daphnis and Leander, two boys my own age but with typical Mediterranean features: slender, dark curly hair, limpid brown eyes. Much as I respond to dominant males, I also love sex with twinks of my own sort, small and slender and preciously cute. For me such sex play is an absolute delight. I feel energized as we jump into bed and roll around kissing and laughing and touching. When I make love to another pretty boy, or even better two at once, we pleasure each other equally and in much the same way as we are pleasured. The three of us aboard the Astarte took turns at the more active role or sixty-nining.

I loved it especially when the cousins double-teamed me, thrusting into my fundament while the other boy fed me his cock. They liked to bend over me and kiss when they came, often at the very same time. I had to swallow one's boy's cum while his cousin shot into my innards.

At times the lads drove their cocks into my ass as the same time. With Daphnis lying on his back full length, I would straddle his hips then sink to my knees to impale myself on his upright virile member. Daphnis would embrace me pulling me to his chest and kissing me. Then Leander would kneel behind and insert himself into my hole alongside his cousin. Taking two cocks at once can be painful, so we had to be careful but once we got going, it was incredibly exciting. OK, maybe that makes me a cock slut, but you should try it before you pan it.

Occasionally a brave soul would straddle Daphnis facing me, demanding I suck his cock too. I called him brave because, with the pain of a double penetration, who knows, I might bite down accidentally. Oops!

Regardless of the rotation, the captain always had me last, then made sure I got my full rest. After our nightly sporting, we would talk softly till we fell asleep, often with me spooned to him, his member still lodged up my butt.

Putting out for the sailors was no worse than what I had done at the tavern and these were all men I worked with daily and had got to know as individuals before hand. Also they were mostly young and all were muscular and fit. That was generally true of the males of earlier times when muscle power counted for so much, especially compared to today's push button world where obesity is a serious health problem. In the first century BC few but the rich could afford to be overweight.

Not everyone was gentle but nobody got really rough with me either. The lusty sailors took me every possible way: on all fours, kneeling, on my back, astride a sailor's hips, sometimes at both ends at once, pumping for all they were worth into the warm depths of the sexy blond youth who, as ship's boy, was everyone's toy.

As for my apprenticeship, Ari taught me the science and the art of seamanship, just as his father, old Aristokles, had taught him. Actually "old" Aristokles had been younger than the cook when a fever carried him off two years earlier. I learned about lines and knots, winds and currents, gauging the weather, navigational stars, caulking and carpentry, you name it. It laid the foundation for all my future adventures at sea.

The good ship Astarte was a clinker built merchant galley with ten oars on each side. Though the ship sailed with the wind in open water, it relied on its oars for propulsion into and out of harbors and anchorages or simply when the wind died down. Despite my small size, I was expected to work an oar myself. Everyone needed to know how to row in tandem in case of emergency. With a new hand like me, the captain did not set me to the oars for the trickier approaches but trained me when the wind fell away and we had to use the oars to keep going.

You might think that rowing was tedious, the same movements repeated time and again: bending forward as you lift the oar out of the water, feathering the blade as it swept forward, dropping the blade cleanly into the water with nary a splash, then leaning back on the oar, legs braced on the block in front of you, pulling with the full strength of your legs and buttocks and back and shoulders, your rump almost coming up off the bench as you put your weight into it.

But the rhythmic movement engendered a very real feeling of teamwork, satisfaction, and shared accomplishment. We synchronized our movements to the rhythm of the sea chanties that the captain or the steersman sang for us. Oh the men might groan theatrically when told to sit down to row, but such grumbling was a sailor's prerogative. I myself seldom complained. I liked to row, at least once I developed thick calluses on my hands.

Some of the sailors were skeptical at first that a small nude lad like myself, a beardless and hairless pleasure boy, could wield an oar and keep the tempo with the other rowers, but I soon proved the doubters wrong. I may be small but my wiry build makes me a lot stronger than you might think. All the sailors came to enjoy the sight of me working my big oar, the muscle bundles on my arms and shoulders and back outlined under my tawny skin, abs heaving with my exertions and deep breathing, the long muscles of thigh and calf standing out like a classical sculpture of an athlete, and my pert buttocks rock hard as I braced myself and pulled on the oar.

As I got better at it, I learned to use my strength economically, without any wasted motion, flexing forward and back like a long bow flexing in the hands of an archer. To do this right, you have to move in time with the other rowers, careful not to entangle your oar with anyone else's. Maybe I couldn't impart as much impetus to the ship as the bigger males could, but no one could fault me for not giving it everything I had.

I soon found myself falling in with the daily routine on the small ship. It was crowded but we usually put in to shore every night and cooked and slept on land. Ancient sailors had few navigational tools. Longitude was just a guess based on dead reckoning and latitude only crudely measured. So ships mostly remained in sight of the coast. the easier to navigate from landmark to landmark. Such practices kept ships close to ports for trade, and they could take advantage of coastal currents and and on-shore and off-shore winds different from the prevailing winds farther out. Another reason for galleys to remain near the coast was the need to refill their water casks for their large sweating crews. The Astarte's shallow draft allowed us to put in to small bays or beach the ship, to travel up rivers, and to operate in water only waist high.

The Astarte plied the waters of the misnamed Red Sea, so-called not for the color of its waters, but because it bordered the Red Land, as the Egyptians called the deserts that surrounded the Black Land of the Nile valley. Separating Africa from the Arabian Peninsula, the nearly landlocked Red Sea is larger than you might think, measuring fourteen hundred miles (2250 km) North to South and over 200 miles (320 km) at its widest, East to West. It is the northernmost tropical sea with coral reefs dotting its extensive shallows. Its waters are more saline that those of the open ocean due to high evaporation in the hot climate.

This was the first time in my long existence that I was totally naked for years at a time. I found I hardly missed clothing except during a few memorable excursions ashore. Galleys have to put in for water frequently. Sometimes they filled their casks from streams flowing into the sea at other times from village wells. Regardless of the villagers all around, my uniform of the day, every day, was just my tanned hide.

I did sometimes feel embarrassed carrying or rolling a water cask through a village, while the villagers smirked at my naked body. With the bigger type of cask I had to bend over to roll it along the dusty street giving everyone a fine view of my pert rump, the crinkly whorl between my buttocks, and my dangly bits as they swayed with my movements between my slender thighs.

Inevitably this drew taunts from male teenagers and unmarried young men centered at my complete nudity, small size, and hairlessness even at the fork of my legs. Unfortunately their dialect was close enough to those I already spoke that I could follow their meaning. I was humiliated, not because I was body shy, but of loss of status. Nudity in that context made me seem no different than any galley slave. Naked as I was, who could tell the difference between a free boy and one liable at any time to suffer the lash of a taskmaster? Watching me bent over as if on all fours, more than one cruel boy compared me to a farm animal or a dog, more specifically a bitch. Several made shrewd guesses about how I spent my evenings, entertaining the crew. They called me unflattering names like bum boy, whore boy, or catamite.

When no one else in the crew was around, some of the more aggressive locals would step forward to smack my bare rump or to take a switch to it. One time I had to be rescued from a all-out gang-bang. A half-dozen boys grabbed me, disabled me with a nasty kidney punch, and hustled me among some rocks where they bent me over a boulder. One guy straddled my neck and locked me in place with his thighs. Another twisted an arm behind my shoulder blades while the boy standing behind me grabbed my ball sac and squeezed my nuts to subdue me. One by one they fucked my ass till they shot their juices into my bowels, then walked around in front to present their slimy cocks for me to clean off with my mouth. They mocked me as I licked them clean and swallowed their cum and my own ass juices. I was glad when my rescuers thrashed them soundly, though the sailors were careful to inflict no permanent harm. No point starting a minor war.

My service aboard the Astarte occurred during my first lifetime, when I was an especially easy target, a natural victim for bullies and rapists. To aggressive and sexually dominant males it seemed only natural to oppress slightly built lads like me especially given my mild disposition and submissive sexual proclivities. Small as I am, outnumbered, and overpowered, I could offer no effective resistance when they ganged up on me and forced me to submit.

It was only in succeeding centuries that I started the training that turned me into a deadly combatant with a blade and even later that I synthesized various schools of unarmed combat into an eclectic system best suited my physique and capabilities. Since then, I can give as good as I get. Better in fact.

Regardless of such occasional unpleasantness, I have fond memories of my life aboard the Astarte. I am eternally grateful to young Ari and to all my friends among the crew. It was a happy ship and a successful one. In the four years I sailed with her I more than recouped my investment, putting my profits to work with a trustworthy merchant in Berenike who bought shares in my name in the ventures of other captains and vessels. My fortune seemed assured.

Then a storm came upon us while we traversed the dangerous strait at the southern end of the Red Sea, the aptly named Bab-el Mandeb, the "Gate of Tears" and I was washed overboard.

Chapter 3. Slave Boy

As I sat with my back to the rocks, disconsolate, I heard the scrape of sandals. I turned to see five big men in robes, all carrying staffs with a big hook at the end. They leered at me while speaking among themselves. From their Semitic speech I realized I had touched shore in the Yemen, the land the Romans called Arabia Felix for its wealth and prosperity which was based on the cultivation and trade of spices and aromatics like frankincense and myrrh. These were exported by camel caravan through Arabia and to India by ship.

"Well, well, well, you never know what the sea will cast up on shore after a storm".

"Aye, Banzar, the best kind of flotsam and jetsam, a pretty boy."

"Water ... please." I croaked.

One of them handed me a water skin. I drank deeply then handed it back. The leader, the big hairy fellow named Banzar, held up his peculiar staff.

"We are a salvage crew, boy, walking the shore after a big storm, checking the beach and the shallows for salvage. You would be surprised what he have dragged out the surf with our hooks. Today is our lucky day, taking ownership a fine looking slave boy. That means you, little one."

"What?? But I am not a slave!" I sputtered.

"You are now." he answered flatly.

They closed in on me. I could offer only feeble resistance, exhausted and outnumbered as I was, as they bound my wrists behind my back.

"What a catch! Just look at him men. He'll fetch a high price at the slave market. Brothel keepers and rich men will drool over a chance to bid for a catamite like him. He is perfect: so young and small that he is still smooth at the fork of his legs. Pretty as a girl too and with hair the color of wheat. A rarity in these parts."

I tried to protest but got cuffed for my presumption. I had to stand there, lips bleeding, helpless while Banzar tied a leather thong around my ball sac as a leash. Holding the other end firmly, the man led me up the rocky slope. I dreaded what fate awaited me in the slave market.

In those days virtually no one carried any kind of identification or papers. I could not prove my free status. A naked boy in bondage, one evenly tanned all over from constant exposure to the sun, would simply be presumed by the authorities to be what his captors claimed he was: a slave.

What a reversal of fortune! Once again I found myself captured and destined for the sex trade. That was to be the pattern of my existence for the next millennium and a half: salad days of wealth and freedom alternating with periods of captivity and sexual slavery.

The truth is that all my long life I have been both blessed and cursed by a lovely form and face that inspire admiration and lust in the heart of any male who appreciates a beautiful boy. I am small and pretty and uniformly bronzed from habitual nudity. So I look entirely too much like everyone's ideal of a catamite or pleasure boy. With my androgynous if wiry physique and fine-boned features I fell far short of normal male standards in height, muscular development, and secondary sexual characteristics like beard and body hair. I was smooth even at the fork of my legs. Since I had stopped aging before my beard grew in I have never had to shave. The upshot of it all was I often wasn't taken seriously as a male. They saw me not as a man but as a mere boy, hence fair game for capture and taming.

Now I am not complaining. I like my looks just fine. I have never cared to be taller or more muscular, or to grow hair on my chest nor anywhere else. I like myself just as I am: a short slightly built, smooth skinned pretty boy, a super-cute twink in modern parlance, and quite obviously, a bottom boy, a "beta male" if you will. Yet, there is a definite downside to looking like a perpetual seventeen going on fifteen. It does not help that I am something of an exhibitionist and seize on any excuse to strip off and run around stark naked, often alone and always unarmed. To alpha males of the ancient world, that made me a target of opportunity. As was to happen all too often in the centuries to come.

I would have shouted my protest to the heavens, but I had long ago abandoned belief in the gods of my youth. As an unbeliever all my adult life, I have had no use for rituals or creeds or cults of any kind.

My captors led me to their compound situated on a stream that the thirsty earth drank dry before it ever reached the sea. There I was fed, and allowed to rest to recoup my energy. The men wanted me fresh and perky when they frolicked with me. Banzar looked at me shrewdly and remarked:

"A boy as preternaturally beautiful as you, Alexandros, cannot have remained a virgin till now. Blessed as you are with that lovely form and a face you must have been deflowered quite some time ago. That is so, is it not?

I nodded. No point in playing the shrinking virgin with these hard men.

"Good! Of course we will want to test the quality of the new merchandise. Give you a test run, like any new filly."

"A filly? I am a male."

"All right, a colt. There, you see, I am so pleased with our good fortune that I am indulging your impertinence -- but only this once. Understood?".

I nodded. No point irritating the man who held my fate in his hands. I spent the afternoon and evening entertaining my captors with my sweet body and my expertise in the amatory arts. That only confirmed the men in their intent to sell me into sexual slavery. They were not overly rough with me. After all I was valuable merchandise destined for transport to the slave market the following day. Still their standards of personal hygiene were deplorable, to say the least. I felt dirty and soiled both inside and out. They delivered me to the auctioneer who had me bathed, primped, and scented to present me in the best possible light for potential purchasers. I dare say I looked stunning standing up there on the auction block for all to examine.

Banzar was right about the high price I would bring in the slave market. The auctioneer put it about that I was a complaisant lad not yet fifteen, the former pampered catamite of a rich merchant, the only man who had ever enjoyed my charms. As he was carried off by a sudden illness, his heirs decided to sell me for what I would bring. My small stature, elfin features, and smooth hairless body seemed to confirm this fabricated history.

The bidding was lively though it swiftly concluded when one man called out a very high bid that discouraged those who coveted me for their personal use. The winner in the auction, my new master Faisal, was the owner of an upscale brothel in the port of Mocha (from which the coffee bean takes its name). He knew that my exotic looks meant I would command fees counted in silver rather than in copper coin.

And so it turned out to be. My early customers sang my praises to their friends and acquaintances. Word of mouth spread my reputation. In short order I became Faisal's biggest earner with many repeat clients. Travelers came to his establishment expressly to seek me out. I gave them value for their coin, always ready, seemingly eager and energetic in our couplings. I was never reluctant or resentful, no matter what I felt inside. Outwardly I was ever perky and cheerful. Sullen slave boys lose custom for which infraction they get switched by their masters for their presumption.

For my part I knew better than to resist or try to run away. That would only lead to whippings and short rations. I had no funds, no friends, no weapons, not even clothing -- Faisal kept me naked, often sending me on errands around town. He knew that a comely nude boy was the best sort of advertisement for his establishment especially the way I stood out from the crowd thanks to my long blond hair. Men often stopped me in the streets and asked if I were available. I would reply that, yes, of course I was available -- for a fee of two silvers at Faisal's -- during afternoon and evening hours. The bolder of them would get a preview of my charms by copping a feel. I knew better than to object no matter how forward they were with their questing hands.

But you cannot please everyone. For every potential customer, there were those who were much less tolerant of a pretty bum boy running around town stark naked. That was especially true of men dressed in full robes. My total nudity offended their sense of modesty. I found myself berated as I threaded the narrow streets and lanes:

"Cover yourself, shameless boy!" or "Your master should take a switch to you, running around like that." or "Bum boy with a bare bum, ply your trade elsewhere than among decent people."

I knew better than to talk back, but what did they think. That it was my idea to troll for custom bare ass? It's not like I got paid. My fees went to the man who owned me.

I spent a year in that brothel, biding my time, hoping for a lucky break. I cannot say life there was particularly onerous. Faisal was no nonsense, a firm disciplinarian, but never mean for its own sake. As a man of his time he saw nothing immoral in keeping young males captive and renting out their sweet bodies to boy lovers. Keeping a boy brothel was just as legitimate a business as any other. And he had a vested interest in keeping his boys clean, healthy, and reasonably content. So my year in his brothel was tolerable.

Certainly I was better off than slaving away in the mines or chained to an oar in the galleys. Still I had to service so many men whom I would not otherwise have chosen as sexual partners. That is the worst part of sex slavery: the loss of freedom of choice and the sheer number of males who fucked me every day -- at least a score -- except for a few religious festivals when I got the day off.

I have always hated slavery having lost my liberty so many times myself. In my periods of freedom and prosperity, I never owned a slave. All my servants and employees got paid fair wages. Yes that meant less money for me but that was the price for a clear conscience.

In the fullness of time, a new customer visited Faisal's establishment, drawn by gossip passed from port to port of Faisal's new blond beauty. I saw him enter: a tall, dark, lean seaman. It took me a moment to realize it was Aristokles. He was alive! I nearly shouted with joy but caught his signal to dissemble. He did not want Faisal to realize that we were not strangers.

Just as if he were no more interested in me than any other customer, he calmly paid my fee and followed me upstairs. Once the door closed, I flung myself into his embrace. We held each other a very long time, tears rolling down our cheeks.

"How???" I finally asked, trembling with relief, and utterly flabbergasted. He shook his head.

"From the saucy stories that reached Berenike. I was sure it must be you."

Ari was all smiles as he told of how the Astarte, badly holed though she was, managed to stay afloat long enough to ground herself on the African shore of the Red Sea. Most of the crew had survived though he did lose both the cook, crusty old Horemhab, and one of the young cousins, sweet Leander. Since I had already mourned them, I did not let this news detract from my happiness at being reunited with Aristokles.

We fell into bed affirming our love with the most passionate lovemaking that Ari and I ever shared. We were upstairs so long that Faisal banged on our door complaining that Ari's time was up. He tossed the man a gold coin, enough to rent me for the next several days, most of which we spent in bed, though I did get to show him the town.

Ari's arrival held out the prospect of imminent freedom. In my youthful enthusiasm, I assumed that Ari planned some dramatic rescue. I imagined he would have me slip out a window at midnight and cross the rooftops to the docks where his ship which would cast off immediately to frustrate pursuit.

That was not the case at all. First off, he was only the mate on his current ship, not the captain, though much of his old crew served with him and were personally loyal. No, he intended to purchase me with the wealth that had been accumulating for me back in Berenike. The amount was more than enough to buy me from Faisal and to set me free. Technically I was Ari's slave for a time, but he manumitted me once we got back to his home port.

I resumed my career as a sailor, though now as a seaman in full, no longer a ship's boy, no longer required to service the entire crew. My apprenticeship over, Ari became my only lover. In time he was promoted to ship's captain and later bought a new ship, also named the Astarte. We lived happily together for another seven years. Then it was time to move on before everyone wondered how I could look so young when I was supposed to be nearly thirty. Our parting was bittersweet, since he did not want to lose me, but I had to leave. I will always remember my lover Aristokles the sea captain with fondness and gratitude.

Epilogue

When I recall these events of my first century, I wince at how naive and vulnerable I was in those days. My life experience till then was so limited. Yes I had lived nearly the proverbial three score and ten but not like other humans. I did not pass through the various stages of life. I was a beardless boy throughout. That limited my interaction with the rest of society. By apparent age, pretty boy looks, and, often lowly status as a slave, I could not participate fully in the growth and maturation that normal humans experience during their single lifetimes.

I still sail, though these days only recreationally. I keep a twenty-five footer named (inevitably) "Daphne Boy" at a marina on City Island, in the Bronx. I love to watch their faces when I explain to interlocutors what that phrase means. For some, the implication is that I am a modern day equivalent, either a rent boy pure and simple or some rich New Yorker's kept boy.

That was what Fred, the elderly doorman at my building on Central Park West, assumed a couple of years ago when I moved in all by myself. It did not help that the purchaser of record was one of my shell companies. He was sure that the corner apartment, formerly occupied by a nice Jewish couple he had known for years, had just become a gay love nest. Not that Fred is bigoted about our sort. He just doesn't like idlers, people who think the world owes them a living just because of their looks, their blood line or inherited wealth. (Neither do I.) So at first he pegged me for a "social parasite". (Fred is an old style Marxist. He grew up in the Amalgamated Houses in the Bronx.)

The marina's location at the extreme northeastern edge of the city gives me immediate access to the sheltered waters of Long Island Sound and avoids the worst of the commercial traffic in and around the great port of New York. City Island is like a New England fishing village moored just off the mainland. Great seafood restaurants! It is buffered from the built-up areas of the Bronx by the greenery of the largest park in the city.

Did you know that a quarter of that unfairly maligned NYC borough is in parks? Its largest economic sector by number of jobs is health care -- all those hospitals and nursing homes. Then there are the colleges and universities and upscale enclaves. But don't get me started. Suffice it to say that I am a big fan of the Bronx these days, though admittedly there are blighted areas you have to steer clear of.

I regret that I had to leave Ari behind sooner than either of us would have liked. However, it was (and still is) dangerous for me if others realize that I am effectively immortal. Some would seek to slay me as an abomination. Powerful men feeling their years weighing upon them would have me seized and tortured for my supposed secret. Alas, I do not know the formula for the elixir of life nor the location of the legendary fountain of youth. My peculiar vitality is just a quirk of nature, a genetic sport, perhaps something to do with self-repairing or replicating telomeres in my chromosomes. (I keep an eye on scientific research into aging.)

Today even liberal governments would likely incarcerate me in some secret laboratory and treat me as a human guinea pig. My rights would be ignored. After all, I really am an illegal alien with false papers, a stateless person everywhere in the world. I like to think that makes me a citizen of the world though I have my favorite countries including this American republic in which I now live and the prosperous European democracies.

I still have a special fondness for Germany, the land of my birth. These last couple of years my visits have become more frequent as I fly in to catch one of the shows featuring that exquisite German boy, Eike von Stuckenbrok, who calls himself an "equilibrist". His act melds music, showmanship, athletics, and dance into an exciting and erotic spectacle. Until you see it, you cannot believe that such a slightly built boy could be so strong and agile. Never mind the handstands and tumbles and leaps and such. With arms straight, the boy can hold his entire body out from a pole like a flag!

Incredibly cute, this sexy lad has a physique just like mine. Yum, yum. It helps that he usually performs in skimpy outfits. Would that they were non-existent! His web site does feature a portfolio of tasteful nude photos plus videos of his performances. By all means, check him out at this address: www.handbalance.de/pages/intro.php.

And here I thought I was in good shape with all my running, swimming, weight training, yoga, martial arts, and athletic pursuits like parkour and volleyball. He inspired me to start working with a private trainer so I can duplicate some of Eike's feats.

I get a real kick when Germans try to place my accent. Unlike in Britain, where everyone is conscious of class accents, in Germany, the attention is on regional accents, those of the various homelands or heimats. (Strong regional loyalties are a big part of the reason Germany is organized as a federal republic rather than a unitary state like France.) My original language was a Germanic tongue but one as far removed from today's standard High German as Anglo-Saxon is from modern English or Latin from Italian. I do get miffed when native speakers take me for a foreigner, maybe complimenting me on my command of their language, but recommending that I work on my weird accent. Hey! I have been speaking various forms of German for two thousand years.

Today's united and democratic Germany is quite a decent country. I much prefer Catholic southern Germany, -- land of Gemutlichkeit and the Okbtoberfest -- to the more northerly regions inhabited by dour Protestants -- the land of Weltshmertz and Schadenfreude. I think Munich would be a fine place to settle down for a while, but I am reserving that for my next incarnation.

Englischer Garten, here I come!

Only recently could I write of these things, choosing, from caution, to cast them as fiction, a series of fanciful tales of an immortal youth written under a pseudonym. My secret is safe for no one in these days of modern science will believe it. In this tale, all of the names are real. The events described really did happen just as I have written

Author's Note

This is the seventeenth in a series of tales about "the ultimate twink", an undying youth named Alexander who bears the sobriquet "the Daphne Boy". The other stories in this series so far are 'Antebellum', set in the American South just before the Civil War, 'Daphne Boy', set in Roman Syria, 'El Dorado', about the conquistadors, 'The Erythraean Sea', set in Arabia just before the rise of Islam, 'Stupor Mundi', about the Sixth Crusade, 'Ferghana', a tale of the Silk Road in Central Asia, 'Zulu' set mostly in Southern Africa during the Anglo-Zulu War, 'Sol Invictus' set in the Roman Empire during the reign of the dissolute androgynous and sexually insatiable gay emperor Elagabalus, 'Reniassance' set in Italy around 1500, 'Gupta' set during the Golden Age in India in the Vth century AD, 'Palmyra' set during the crisis of the IIIrd century that nearly destroyed the Roman Empire, 'Tobago', set in the Caribbean and South America during the middle of the XVIIth century, 'The Apostate' set during the age of the Roman Emperor Julian the Apostate in the mid IVth century, 'Marlowe', set it Elizabethan London, 'Isfahan' set in XIth century Persia, and 'Delos', set in the Mediterranean during the Ist century AD.

These stories can be read in almost any order. The first story has extensive flashbacks detailing the character's origins. The second story explains how he came by his appellation of the Daphne Boy, the term for a comely youth enslaved as a prostitute at the temple of Daphne in ancient Antioch in Syria.

This tale is as historically accurate in its setting as I could make it, with only minor poetic license for the sake of the story. This tale, after all, is fiction. It is not a historical monograph. The characters are not intended to resemble any actual person living or dead.

Readers who like these stories might want to try my 'Jungle Boy' series of tales in a modern setting, posted in the Gay/Authoritarian section of the archive. See also my series 'Naked Prey' in the historical section, my 'Mer Boy' series in Gay/Beginnings, and the 'Track and Field' series in Gay/College. For links to my stories, look on the list of Prolific Authors on the Archive.

Comments and feedback welcome at georgegauthierdc@gmail.com. I always write back.