THE GLADIATOR (3 page)

She should have stayed down. Remembering back, as she squirmed on her buttplug, waiting for someone to return and enjoy her discomfort, Tara knew she could have saved herself a lot of whipping and the most testing penetrations she had ever experienced. But as she tried to grin despite the gag strap, she knew that that was the exact reason why she had struggled up again.

By then the arena was reverberating to the sounds of the whips being plied at the top of the hill and the deafening cheers of the crowd. Exhausted slaves nevertheless performed their erotic dances under the lashes. Some men were dragging the last few slaves up the hill to wait their turn. Tara could see no formal tally of punishment or reward being given by the thumbs up or down, in fact once she looked more closely at the crowd she realised that the whole arena, slaves, guards and onlookers were in the grip of a ferocious sexual frenzy. Behind the fences she could see a lot of naked flesh on the terraces and felt a surge of excitement at the thought of the frenzied couplings which would be going on.

Gathering herself once more, finding that her reserves of strength had not quite been exhausted, she tottered up and found a whip. The first male gladiator she encountered couldn’t believe that one girl remained ready for more. But a few clumsy lashes from her convinced him. He was a tall, wiry black man with a long, slender cock rearing up from his belly. He easily disarmed her but instead of taking her where she was, he dragged her over to the fence and pushed her up against it, face first. She clung onto it for support as he treated her back to some more punishment to get her seething inside again and then rammed into her back passage as she stuck her bottom out for him. In front of her, men and women reached for her breasts through the fence, their faces glazed with lust and excitement. Particularly the women she noticed. Some of them were even scoring their own breasts with their nails. Their clothes hung from them in rags and even as she was taken in the arena, they were being taken by any man who cared to in the audience.

She collapsed to her knees once her sodomiser had finished with her but stubbornly climbed up again. This time the crowd’s noise surged again as she did. She realised she must be on every screen now. The last slave standing.

She couldn’t remember whether she kept getting up or the men wouldn’t let her stay down from then on. But at long last she had reached the end of her tether and had fainted under the assault of one last almighty orgasm when four men had held her spreadeagled on the sand while a man lay under her, plundering her rectal passage, another lay on top, shafting her inundated vagina and when they had finished three more stood over her, whipped her and then pumped their cocks with their hands till their spend splattered her from throat to crotch.

Even in her agonising bondage, Tara squirmed again as she felt her labia, still sore and stinging, engorge and peel apart at the memory of how it had felt to be the star of such a depraved show. But suddenly, in the deepening twilight around her, she heard voices approach and one voice was that of her owner. She knew that however wonderful the arena had been, being shown off by him to his guests would crown the whole event for her.

There was, however, one person who had not enjoyed the show. She was Patti Campbell and she was Mark Cavanagh’s original slave. She had been devoted to him even before he had become involved with Conor Brien and the arenas. She had watched as the two men had developed the whole concept of promoting female fighting, and she had noted how the big Irishman had gradually asserted himself over Mark. Certainly everyone on the estate referred to Mark as ‘Boss’ but she knew that when the two were alone, it was Conor who held sway. He was away recruiting another twelve girls to swell the ranks of the squad at the moment but Patti knew who really ran the show. However, that wasn’t really her major concern just then - it was the big blonde squad captain. Patti was normally self-confident about her appearance, she was big breasted and had the sort of luxuriant figure which promised long endurance under the whip, in addition she had a spectacular mane of copper-coloured hair which she knew Mark adored. But over the past few weeks she hadn’t been able to shake off the feeling that this blonde could provide competition for her. At thirty years of age and with a lot of money saved up, Patti was beginning to think that maybe it was time she made a move.

Mark had been completely wrapped up in the performance of his slaves and had ignored her totally. The fact that she had loved every second of watching the combats, the chariot races, the evening pony races, the pursuit running, the mud wrestling, the whip duels, only made it worse that she had not had the release of being at her master’s mercy. Instead she had had to either masturbate frantically or have a household slave kneel and give her relief orally. Neither came anywhere near having the whip followed by her master’s cock.

And even now that it was all over and Mark’s stable had emerged as overall winners, she was still feeling badly out of sorts. Mark was in high good humour but spent all his time with the cold and threatening Prince, who owned the opposing stable, even during the party. And to make it worse, Ali, the Sudanese major domo and Gerd, the estate’s manager had surpassed themselves in the cleverness of the way the slaves had been displayed. As she had dutifully fulfilled her social duties with Mark’s privileged guests, strolling through the gardens, she had caught her breath at the way the naked bodies had been suspended and tied. Pergolas, redolent of scented blossom in the twilight, had been further adorned by girls whose bodies had been twined around with tendrils of the climbing plants. They had been chained and tied tightly enough that they couldn’t squirm and spoil the effect of the tableaux they presented even when one availed oneself of the nipple and labial clamps and needles which had been left for the guests’ enjoyment.

Patti had repeatedly felt herself heat and moisten as the slaves groaned and tried to twist, their eyes closing as they experienced the submissive’s tormented heaven. A scarlet paradise she had explored so well herself. The more blatantly exposed slaves, on the cartwheels and staked out on the lawns had been no less arousing. And the lack of whips had been made up for by the eager way they writhed and offered themselves for sex or whatever any of the guests cared to do to them. But the stars of the evening had been the solo gladiators who had been paraded in full harness and then stripped. And there at least the whips had been allowed. They were considered hardy enough to take as much as the two owners cared to dish out. All six had been suspended in frames and their stripes added to by Mark and the Prince, while amused banter and conversations with the guests had continued. Now finally there were the two squad captains to deal with and Patti was trailing after the crowd feeling frustrated and depressed - but mostly she was feeling jealous. She had witnessed the display the big blonde had put on at the finale and also the frenzy her stubborn refusal to give in had engendered in the onlookers. At least there she had got something for herself. Ali and Gerd had both had her from behind while they had all watched from The Owners’ box. And she had got to suck her master while the blonde underwent her final trials at the hands of Carlo and the other guards. But she had known that even while she devoted herself to delivering the most satisfying fellation she could manage, her master’s eyes were riveted on the spectacle below. And the same thing was happening again.

While she watched sourly from the back of the crowd, the two owners took their slaves down and while the guards rubbed some feeling back into the numbed limbs they moved across to a tall frame, from the crossbar of which dangled four nooses. She knew well enough what they meant and her heart raced while her throat dried with a mixture of vicious excitement at what the blonde thing was about to be put through and envy that it wasn’t she herself who would have to suffer it.

She found breast suspension the most frightening and the most thrilling thing she had ever experienced. She jumped as a big hand came over her left shoulder and slipped under the sheer silk of her dress to fondle her breast, sending tingles of excitement lancing through her from her hardened nipple. It was Ali. The tall black man leaned forward a little and she relaxed against him, feeling his erection at the base of her back.

“You’re pretty jealous, eh Patti?” he said softly.

“How can a slave be jealous? It’s up to my master what he does,” she replied, dutifully but unconvincingly.

“All the same, you’ve had no competition in five years. But now you know if it wasn’t for Blondie there, it’d be you he was stringing up by these.” Patti felt his hand squeeze hard around her breast. “And you got to admit, she’s some competition. I’ve never seen one girl take as much as she did today.”

Patti stayed silent and motionless as her master clipped the slave’s wrists to the back of her collar and then set about squeezing and manipulating the big, soft orbs of breastflesh into the nooses. All the while he was explaining to his audience how terrifying it was for a slave to be ‘tit hung’ but invited them to notice how compliantly she stood as he worked on her. And Patti did note the clear blue eyes of the slave looking down as she was readied, just watching her master’s hands working on her, making no move or sound. Beside her the Prince worked on his slave who was equally well behaved. And when the girls’ breasts had been settled fully and were already showing signs of constriction, the owners signalled to their men who hauled on the ropes. The crowd gasped in appreciation and the slaves cried out as the full weights of their bodies were taken by their breasts and they hung a few inches clear of the ground. Their legs kicked and their feet searched for something to brace themselves on. But there was nothing.

The ropes were tied off and everyone stood back to admire the sight of the two beautiful slaves hanging and squirming in their bondage against the rapidly darkening sky. Patti realised she was clutching at Ali’s hands now, urging them to grip her tighter. Her mouth was set in a rictus and she was repeating a mantra in her mind, ‘Suffer you bitch. Suffer. Suffer you bitch.’

“You’ll notice,” her master was telling everyone, “that the legs naturally hang a little apart when the body is suspended in this way. And as the crotch is about the only area of a fighting slave where the whip doesn’t land much in combat, it’s a good place to deliver the final whippings of this show.”

The hanging slaves made no response when they learned how they were to be further punished and didn’t struggle when the guards fastened the left ankle of one and the right one of the other to the outside of the frame and then fastened their adjacent ankles together. Thus spreading their legs a little more. Patti’s eyes feasted on the distended and swollen globes of flesh sticking out from the suspending nooses. She knew how bitterly the pull on their roots would be hurting and how the constricted flesh would be pounding. The crotch whipping would be wonderfully terrible torment until it hurtled them into shrieking orgasm. They would be unable to stop themselves from kicking and twisting under the lash, so presenting the audience with a delightful airborne ballet as they cried and writhed their way to their climaxes. Patti hoped her master would take it very slowly and make the blonde suffer all the way.

She needn’t have worried. While the two masters talked and joked with the guests, they plied their whips between the slaves’ legs, snaking the long lashes up from in front and behind, making the leathers snap up over the flinching stomachs or bury themselves in the buttock creases. Deliberately they kept to no rhythm, to slow the slaves’ inevitable climb to orgasm and Patti was dangerously near coming herself as she watched the twisting bodies in their bondage and listened to how their groans escalated into cries; and the cries into howls of tormented delight until at last they both arched rigid, treating the audience to one more spectacle of well-trained servility and were taken down.

Patti turned to face Ali as her master busied himself once more with his blonde. Ali read her expression and grinned.

“Please, Ali. I need pain,” she whispered.

“My pleasure,” he replied.

Chapter 3

“I heard the news, Mark. Well done!”

On the day following the show, and while the exhausted gladiators rested, Conor Brien was still on the trail of yet more slaves. He tucked his mobile against his chin and negotiated an especially tight bend in the road before continuing the conversation.

“I’m on my way to another auction, me bucko! Send Carlo up to meet the ship in a couple of days and I’ll have another twelve for us. That’ll just give him time to train them before the next show. And this time I’ll be there myself. I heard that blonde I picked up for the last lot did a good job.”

“Unbelievable, Conor!” Mark Cavanagh’s voice sounded tinny and distant in Conor’s ear. “Get us some more like her!”

“I’ll do my best. I’ve got eleven pretty good ones being held now, I’m hopeful I’ll finish the consignment this afternoon. And then I’m going to take a well-earned holiday and I’ll see you for the next show.”

He broke the connection and returned his full concentration to the potholed track he was following up through deep pine woods to some God forsaken farm where he had been promised there would be a good selection of girlflesh for sale. They were in transit from farther East and were being held here in Slovenia while arrangements were made to smuggle them on.

The last couple of months had been tough ones for him. Once Mark had made him aware of how much abducting English girls was costing, he had had to spread his net wider. But so was every procurer for the rival stables and he had found getting suitable material was time consuming and frustrating. It seemed as if every girl with a bit of fire in her belly and the submissive urge was being snapped up as soon as she appeared, leaving only the listless and pathetic dross.

As the log built farmhouse came into view at last, Conor prepared himself mentally for disappointment.

An hour later he was ready to call it a day. He had swilled down three glasses of the local, fiery brandy while watching a parade of nude women pass in front of him. Some of them had been attractive enough, some had been athletic enough, but none of them had exhibited that spark he was looking for. He wanted girls from whom the fight hadn’t been beaten, girls who combined defiance, intelligence and an adventurous spirit.

He pushed back his chair and made to leave but Josef, the thin little trafficker with the absurdly thick moustache, forestalled him.

“There is one more. And I think you should see her.”

Conor shrugged resignedly and resumed his seat. From the door on his left, from which all the girls had entered, two burly guards now came in. Each one held the end of a heavy wooden yoke, and stumbling under its weight came a girl. Her neck and wrists were imprisoned by the holes cut in the wood which lay across her shoulders, but her green eyes blazed contemptuous defiance as she gazed round her. One of the guards slashed a crop across her buttocks to drive her forwards but she hardly flinched. Instead, beneath her tumbled mass of black hair her eyes fastened on Conor.

For his part, Conor was astounded. The girl was superb, she didn’t carry an ounce of flab. Her hips were smooth and her thighs long and well muscled. Her breasts were generous and rode high on her chest. When she saw his gaze return to her face she gave him a blatantly challenging stare.

Conor took a wad of notes from his pocket and threw them onto the table.

“Leave me the crop and the key to the yoke. Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll tell you if you have a sale.”

Josef flicked through the notes quickly and then nodded. “Just don’t make her bleed,” he said and jerking his head at the guards he left.

Conor walked round the girl, noting that her smooth olive skin was criss crossed with marks on her buttocks. She was probably Romany, he thought, and had been sold for committing some misdemeanour or other. Whatever the reason, she was an incredible find.

“They beat you much?” he asked when he stood in front of her again. She nodded.

“Always when you’re tied up, right?”

She nodded again and a feral smile lit her face up, her white teeth gleaming.

Conor stripped off his shirt and took up the crop. Immediately she stiffened her stance, obviously expecting to withstand another thrashing. Her hands clenched into fists above the yoke, but Conor just smiled and took up the key to the padlock which held the heavy wood closed around her neck.

“I’m going to thrash you me beauty,” he told her. “But you’ll be free to try and stop me.”

He reached forwards, released the lock and eased the yoke off her. Even though he was ready for it, he barely got his knee up in time to fend off her first charge. But even though it caught her in the midriff she still came on and tried to push him down backwards. He flung away the yoke and swiped down hard with the crop, catching her twice down the length of her back. She reeled away sideways and he pursued her, flicking to left and right, catching her breasts, but she made no move to protect herself. Her whole concentration was focused on trying to get to him. She was perfect!

Time and again she ducked and feinted but Conor was ready each time; the crop flicking out, scoring her thighs, back and buttocks. But still she came on. Eventually Conor threw down the crop and tackled her bare handed, warding off her kicks and raking fingers, then pinning her arms to her sides in a bear hug and lifting her, squeezing her until at last she cried out. Then he flung her face down onto the table and retrieved the crop. The girl wriggled back until her feet touched the floor, then she stopped and looked over her shoulder.

“Beat and then fuck,” she said softly, and shifted her legs well apart so that Conor could see the dusky pouch of her sex.

“You like that,” he told her. He could see her state of arousal.

“Sure. But it needs a good man to make it really good. These guards are not real men,” and she spat dismissively.

“Twenty should do nicely, I reckon,” Conor told her, holding the shaft of the crop against the full roundness of her buttocks.

She lay flat and curled her fingers round the edges of the table.

“It was a good fight, yes? So make them hard, then I fuck hard!”

Conor lifted the crop high up behind him and smiled. Carlo was going to think he had died and gone to heaven when he saw this one.

Twenty searing lashes later, her bottom a scarlet mass of tramlines and flares, nothing more than strained grunts had escaped her. And when he stood behind her and aimed his helm for the glistening channel between her flogged cheeks and sank himself into it, he couldn’t believe the power with which she gripped him and sucked every ounce of delight she could from his penetration. In contrast to the way she had been silent under punishment, on the end of his cock she howled and mewed and groaned her way to the loudest orgasms Conor had ever heard.

Well, he thought as he counted out another wad of notes for Josef, while the girl was bundled into the boot of his car, that was a characteristic which Carlo and the guards could enjoy curing her of. But for now, he had finished recruiting the third lot of slaves for the squad and it was time he took a holiday.

Patti’s ecstatic, agonised cries still echoed in Ali’s ears, even though two days had passed since the after-show party. She had indeed needed pain after the display the boss had put on. Before he had finally allowed himself the pleasure of penetrating her, he had taken his time and she had experienced the slow building excitement of needles sunk into well-cropped breastflesh. Then he had turned her over on the bench and caned her hard before turning her onto her back again. By then she was writhing and gasping with the urgency of her need for him to take her the rest of the way into the blazing void of multiple orgasms under the lash. He had raised and spread her legs wide and then considered clamping her labia open, but instead he had freed her hands and she had held herself open, dragging her outer labia up and apart to expose the vivid pink of her inner flesh to the whip.

Ali smiled at the memory, Patti could really put on a show when she was fired up; twisting and yelping, arching and sighing, then screaming incoherently as she was finally swept away. He had let her have thirty lashes before he had at last sunk himself into her flooding depths and taken his own satisfaction, but he had watched her carefully all the time and even as he had left her to be attended to by a household slave, he was making plans.

Patti wasn’t just a dedicated slave, she was a clever and determined woman too. And Ali had watched every expression on her face as she had been driven towards her final explosions of tormented bliss. She had abandoned all pretence of giving her master - or whoever was using her - pleasure. She had concentrated purely on her own sensations. He had noted the way her eyes had closed as the whip had struck her sex, and he had noted the look of deep inner contentment on her face as she held herself open for the sting of the leathers. It was something he had seen before; when a dedicated slave felt she had been abandoned by her master, she was inclined to seek solace in her own enjoyment of slavery.

And he had also seen how she had looked at that blonde. The boss hadn’t noticed anything yet, but Ali was quite certain that soon Patti would make a move, and the fact that he was now on the lookout for it might do him a lot of good.