Blair’s

You’re in an amphitheatre, a vast structure of marble and dust, as depicted in every movie you’ve seen about ancient Rome. The seating is packed with noise and anonymous figures, only partially detailed.

Riding in the middle of this theatre, acknowledging the cheers of the crowd is Blair. She’s wearing a red metallic corset, a short leather skirt, a golden tiara, thigh length dark blue boots. She’s dressed as Wonder Woman. She’s riding a chariot, akin to the chariots from Ben Hur or other Romanesque movies.

But instead of horses, her chariot is being pulled by 4 naked men. They are ripped like body builders, thick thighs, six packs, hairless bodies except for their heads, each having a long mane, one blond, one black-haired, one brunette and one white-haired. The white-haired and black-haired men sport well-groomed beards. The other two are clean shaven. But the biggest draw are their cocks, long, thick, bigger even than your monster, thicker than that, horse cocks, that stretch down to their knees and must slap against their thighs when they run.

She pulls her chariot to a halt. As she stops more naked men rush towards her. Although they are different, different sizes, different shapes, every one of them is muscled and every one of them has an impossible size cock. And as they reach her, they kneel in the sand, and they bow their heads. She walks past imperiously, letting her whip drift into their faces. When it slaps one, he utters at exultation of joy, and his horse cock shifts in pleasure.

She strides straight towards you. You are also naked. But your cock is only the size that the bands have given you. But it is erect while the horse cocks around her are flaccid. Her blue eyes catch sight it and greet it with pleasure. That pleasure is lessened when you don’t kneel before her.

“Kneel,” she tells you.

“No.”

“Kneel,” she repeats. She flicks out her whip, and it slaps you painfully across the chest. “All men will kneel to me,” she tells you.

“No.”

She raises her whip again. But this time you don’t let it fall. You slip around her. You grab the hand holding the whip. You wrap your other arm around her waist and pull her in. You’re wrestling, and her garments fall off her, as if composed of tissue paper, leaving her glistening, naked body writhing against your naked form. Your swollen cock prods her swollen sex. Her free hand slaps your face. Her pert behind rubs against your stomach.

“No,” she declares. “I’m in control. I’m in command.”

Together you tumble into the sand. Together you writhe naked across the ground. The crowd cheer is deafening. The naked horse-cock men are nowhere to be found. You wrestle, naked flesh against naked flesh. The dampness of her sex is matched by leakage of your pre-cum. The anger in her eyes is matched by her lust.

Then the dusty realm shatters. You’re in your bed. The feel of the cap on your head, the painful erection, the only residue of what you had seen.