by Sean O'Kane
INTO THE ARENA
By
Sean O’Kane
Also by Sean O’Kane in Silver Moon
Church of Chains
Taming the Brat
Tales from The Lodge (with Falconer Bridges)
Bad Blood (with Francine Whittaker)
The Arena Series
The Gladiator
The Prize
Slave’s Honour
Last Slave Standing
Girlsquad
Naked Ambition
Slavemaker
Lost Property
PROLOGUE
Basking in the heat of the sub-tropical afternoon, two men, both carrying the intangible air of great wealth, leaned on a low concrete parapet, their hands casually straying over the bodies of the two girls who attended them. The girls were dressed in simple, very short, white tunics and had high-heeled, strappy sandals on their feet. They stood, one girl by each man with their hands behind their backs and their legs far enough apart for the men to explore and fondle what lay between the long, tanned thighs. The strained expressions on the girls’ faces betrayed the fact that they had endured the casual explorations sufficiently long enough to be near their climaxes but neither one dared to make any sound which might disturb the concentration of the men.
And what they were concentrating upon was taking place beneath them. The parapet ran in a circle about forty feet in diameter, and while on their side it stood a mere four feet above the ground, it dropped fifteen feet sheer on the other to form a pit. On the sand covered floor of the pit, two girls were fighting and the men studied them steadily and appraisingly. Professionally.
The girls were naked apart from leather triangles at their crotches, held up with thin laces over their hips. Their lithe bodies gleamed with oil and streamed with rivulets of sweat as they fought under the hot sun. The contest was a combination of boxing and wrestling, a sport that would have been familiar to the Romans. Each girl wore strapping over her knuckles and from the way their arms swung when they punched, and from the recipient's grimace and grunt of pain, one could deduce that the straps were weighted. But wearing the straps didn't prevent use of the hands as boxing gloves might and frequently the combatants came together and wrestled.
The men watched critically as female thigh muscles strained and superbly honed buttocks hollowed and clenched with effort as the girls pressed breast to breast, the soft masses squeezing out sideways as they pressed into one another. Hands clawed and dug into buttockflesh and occasional blows were traded to ribs. For a long moment the combatants held and then the contest became a real catfight as eventually hair was grabbed and heads were pulled back. The small arena echoed to the thuds of solid blows landing on flesh and the grunts of exertion and pain as the bodies grappled and the arms swung, delivering blows which left livid marks instantly.
The girls' free fists continued to windmill as they wrenched each other's head back but one girl got lucky and landed a punch to her opponent's breast. The men watched as it flattened back almost to the rib cage, the girl screamed and twisted away, losing her hold. The other girl followed up with punches to the stomach while she still held her opponent’s hair. For a while she led her victim about, continuing the punishment until the battered girl was staggering blindly and then she delivered an uppercut which felled her instantly and had her writhing on the sand.
The victorious girl knelt down over her defeated foe's face and slowly parted her knees until her shaved crotch settled over the loser's gasping mouth, then she reached forwards and clawed her fingers into the slightly flattened breasts before her. Immediately the body arched and a muffled squeal of protest came from between the victor's legs as the bruised flesh was squeezed cruelly. Then the men watched as the pink tongue came from between the loser's lips and began to caress and explore the engorged labia above it.
And while the tongue swirled and lapped busily, the victor turned and held up her right arm towards the men who glanced at each other and then held out their own arms – with the age-old gesture of the thumb pointing down. They watched for a moment longer and then the blond, more heavily built of the two men threw a multi-lashed whip to the victor.
The victor stood up and retrieved the whip while the defeated girl licked her lips and glanced anxiously up at her masters.
“Twenty lashes,” the blond man said.
Pausing only to watch the first few of the of the whiplashes scythe down onto the prone girl, turning to his companion, he dismissed the girl at his side with a resounding smack to her rump.
Shrill cries and whip smacks echoed up over his comments as he turned away.
"It was a good fight, but we need to add something more before the audiences tire of it. We need more of a spectacle."
His companion, and number two in their joint enterprise, comfortably over six feet tall himself but of slenderer build, pulled his gaze reluctantly from the pit where the victor was now plying the whip enthusiastically across the body which squirmed and yelped on the sand before her. Withdrawing the hand which had been rummaging between the thighs of his attendant girl, he dismissed her also.
“You have something specific in mind?”
“We all know the fights have been a good money spinner. The punters pay a fortune to see single female combat to the blood. But we could widen the scope. Invent new contests for the slaves. And this is my main point, have more of them. We could put up a whole squad of our slaves against a squad of another owner’s – mass combat. And I’ve a few more ideas I’ll tell you about over dinner. But above all what we need is real arenas.”
"It’ll cost millions."
The bigger man laughed, "Christ! We've got millions. Not only us but the others as well. And if we start planning now, in a couple of years you and I will be deeper in clover than we ever dreamed we could be."
"Okay, I suppose you're right. We made a good killing with that last show and if we expand on the scale you're suggesting............well it could make our oil revenues look like monopoly money. I think we should call everyone together for a meeting to discuss it.”
"Right! Do it now and arrange the meeting in London. In the meantime I’m going to take a look at a little place that's caught my eye. After that I want to fly back and do some sniffing around in the dear old UK."
Down in the arena, the gladiators were led away on collars and leads, both destined for the showers and then grooming. Bruises, cuts and all, they would be required by their masters for further sport later on. And their masters were two of the super rich – the makers and breakers of governments and countries – they were two of The Owners.
Chapter 1
The chequerboard fields of the English countryside wheeled and spun dizzily beneath Tara as she plunged from the plane. Her ears were filled with the roar of the wind and a gaping pit seemed to open up in her stomach as she gave herself to the void. She screamed in excitement at the thrill of abandoning her body to the frail web of nylon slung on her back, at the sheer exhilaration of willingly stepping from the plane to see what happened next. It was nothing like the practices in the hangar at the airfield far below. It was the best thrill yet. Her suit drummed and hammered at her in the tornado of her falling and she spread herself on the air to make the descent last as long as she could before having to open the parachute. White water rafting, bungee jumping, snow boarding; she'd tried them all, loving to pit herself and her body against whatever the world could throw at her. But this was the best.
It was almost as though the thump of the parachute opening which jerked her sharply as it braked the career of her free-fall, was pulling her back to earth and she sighed in disappointment, as safely now, she swung gently down. But she would be back, oh yes. Just as soon as she landed, she would book for the next
course, and the next, going higher and higher each time. Prolonging that exquisite feeling of complete abandonment she had experienced while she rejoiced in her fitness and strength as she plunged and soared in a world inhabited only by those who shared the secret. She felt she had joined a sort of brotherhood, people united by their willingness to fling themselves into empty space and risk everything for the sheer thrill of that very risk.
She managed the landing with no problem, her strong thighs giving under her, absorbing the shock as she rolled and then came back up to start unbuckling her harness.
In the changing room Tara used the primitive shower. She waited till the other two women had gone back into the changing room proper before she succumbed to the excitement that had been building in her ever since she had landed. It was a deep visceral need, blatantly sexual, centred right in her groin. She had no idea why, but after she successfully completed every challenge she set herself, she was left with an aching void between her legs. And nothing would do but that she fill it with whatever came to hand. She desperately needed a rock- hard penis plunged in to the hilt and reaming her to the very neck of her womb, but she seemed fated never to find what she needed. In despair she had watched time and again as her less attractive friends had walked off with men she fancied. But at five feet nine inches in her stockinged feet, a mane of honey blonde hair, 36D breasts which needed a bra only to steady them rather than support their proud curves, and her long legs......Her legs! She had almost come to hate them. How many times had she seen male eyes travel slowly up from the slender ankles to the graceful curves of her calves then up again to the smooth-skinned and long thighs, the prominent buttocks and trim waist, only to watch them conclude that she couldn't possibly be for them, and turn away. She had decided sourly that the bulge in their trousers was in inverse proportion to their courage.
She had resorted to self-help and masturbated freely and without guilt. Now she spread her legs as the warm water cascaded over the curves of her body and reached down to start rubbing at her frantically erect clitoris, splitting her engorged labia with her fingers and feeling how the inner lips had unfurled and filled. She bucked her hips forward to meet her own thrusts and groaned out loud in delight as she heard the other women vacate the changing room and leave her safely alone. As always at these times she came quickly, the orgasm not being satisfactory, merely adequate until she got home and could settle down to using one of her biggest dildos.
She stepped out of the shower and went into the changing room to towel down and dress. She was giving her crotch more attention than it strictly needed, the towel rubbing hard between her open legs when the door crashed open and a man entered.
Tara whirled to face him, instinctively holding the towel in front of her. Terrified, she nonetheless took in the fact that the man was big, about six feet four, and broad shouldered to match. She reckoned he was in his mid-forties, his face weather-beaten and bordered with a neatly trimmed beard.
Quite unconcerned he strode to the centre of the room and surveyed her as she cowered behind the small towel. His gaze was steady and appreciative and his stance; wide legged, fists on hips seemed to suggest he owned the room rather than being an intruder.
"Did you enjoy it then?" he asked with an unmistakable Irish burr in his accent.
"What?" She was appalled at the frightened squeak which emerged from her lips.
"The jump, girl! Did you like it?"
"Yes! I....look this is the ladies'!"
"Good," he nodded thoughtfully, totally ignoring her stuttered protest. "Knew you would of course. I've been watching you."
Suddenly Tara was aware of having seen him a couple of times, out of the corner of her eye, just part of the background when she had come for training sessions.
"I'm taking you out to dinner tonight," he announced with absolute certainty. "I'll meet you out front." He turned on his heel and was gone, leaving Tara staring open mouthed at the door.
Who the hell....just who the bloody hell did he think he was!? Her thoughts roiled in fury as she dressed. Just marching in here and practically ordering me out on a date. The arrogant bastard!
She dragged a brush through her hair with unnecessary force in front of the mirror, but stopped short when she recalled her earlier thoughts about her problems with men. Whatever else he was, this man wasn't frightened of her beauty. But his arrogance! Well, she decided, two could play at that game.
Tara marched out of the changing room, safely dressed in jeans, sweatshirt and leather jacket. But very aware of the tingling warmth in the pit of her stomach.
He was waiting for her in the shabby foyer of the old aerodrome, standing again four square in the middle of the floor, exuding utter self-confidence which hot-wired Tara's anger, curiosity and arousal all at the same time. She set her jaw and strode up to him.
"Right, you arrogant shit, whoever you are. I'll let you take me out tonight, but we'll go via my flat. I need to change."
He merely grinned at her and met her angry glare.
"I've got a feeling you'd look beautiful in whatever you chose to put on.....or take off," he said.
Tara's jaw nearly dropped at his calmly lascivious rejoinder, but she managed to snap it shut and strode out with a curt, "Follow me!"
In the car park she climbed into her open-topped MGF and surreptitiously watched the strange man ease into an impressive Mercedes coupe. Tara gunned the motor and pulled off, grimly determined to drive with all the aggression she could muster. She burned rubber out into the traffic, ran a set of lights at red, lane swapped and cornered the responsive little car to its limits. As ever a moist warmth spread up from her crotch as she drove, or did anything right to the edge. She rode the car as if it was a spirited horse, curbing it with the gears, spurring it with the accelerator. But all the time the Mercedes grille stayed in her rear view mirror. The man was at least as good as she was. It could prove an interesting night, she thought, and by the time she squealed to a halt outside her flat, she was aware that fresh knickers were definitely required.
Without a backward glance at the grey Merc, she walked in and up to her first floor flat. But as soon as she was in she looked down through the lace curtains at her bedroom window. He was leaning nonchalantly against the car, waiting. God! He was a big man. As she riffled hurriedly through her wardrobe she hoped that her dildos weren't going to be needed.
She discarded any long dresses, or trousers and settled on a short summer number in dark blue with spaghetti straps at the shoulders, a low cut, tight bodice and short flaring skirt. Under it she pulled up a flimsy thong and then slipped into high-heeled sandals with sexily thin ankle straps. Hastily she sprayed perfume down the front of her dress, then hitched up the skirt and sprayed a little around her fluttering sex lips, gasping as the cold spray hit the heated flesh and stung bitterly. A quick rasp with the hairbrush again and she was running back downstairs. Belatedly she realised that the flat was a complete tip, undies and old TV dinners were strewn everywhere. Tough! If they came back to her place, he damn well wasn't going to be looking at the decor, she decided.
But she never did return.
Inside the front door she paused to collect herself, smoothe down her dress, fluff up her hair and regain her cool. But she would see how cool he kept when faced with the amount of breast and thigh she was displaying. Then she walked out to meet this strange man and briefly she realised that she felt as she had earlier, just before she stepped out of the plane and threw herself into the unknown. There was the same feeling of abandonment to whatever fate held in store. Her heart pounded with excitement.
To her delight the man gave a soft whistle of appreciation as she strode towards him, hips swaying and silky smooth breastflesh rippling with each step. She felt the warm evening air caress her upper thighs under the scant covering and bring some welcome cool to her molten crotch. She allowed him to help her into the car and settled back sensuously into the leather upholstery, deliberately letting the skirt ride up as far
as it would.
The man grinned his infuriating grin again. But she could tell by the straining bulge in his trousers that she had scored.
"I'm taking you somewhere you'll like," he said quietly.
And drove her away.
Chapter 2
It was the most terrifying drive of her life. And she loved every second of it. The man wasn't just as good as she was, he was in a class of his own. He scythed through the early evening traffic with contemptuous ease, and then slipped out onto the motorway. Tara watched as the speedometer climbed steadily to 130 and held there.
"My name's Conor," the man announced, breaking his silence.
Tara found she had to lick her dry lips before telling him hers.
"Well Tara my beauty - I'm taking you to a little club I know. I think you'll like the floor show they have there."
He lapsed back into silence, and Tara had no desire to distract him with conversation. He was carving back through the slower lanes without reducing his own speed and then they were hurtling up a slip road towards a roundabout. Instinctively, Tara found her right foot jamming itself into the floor, trying to brake. There was no way they'd get round the roundabout at that speed, no way! She grabbed the dashboard and braced herself as the Merc heeled over and squealed rubber, fighting to make an impossible turn.
She opened her eyes. They were doing a mere eighty now, down a long tree-lined road. She breathed out in relief, and then rounded on him in fury. Alright, she loved driving fast but that had been pure craziness.
"You bloody maniac! Do you always drive like that?!"
Conor put his head back and guffawed. "Jeez no!" he said. "I go much faster when I'm sober!"
Tara gaped at him and couldn't think of what to say. She'd been on the end of plenty of half-drunk pickup attempts, it was often the only way the men could summon up the courage. But this man wasn't like that. He was joking.......surely.