by Sean O'Kane
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This edition published 2010
The right of Sean O’Kane to be identified as the author of this book has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 and 78 of the Copyright and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.
ISBN 978-1-907475-34-4
LAST SLAVE STANDING
BY
SEAN O’KANE
PROLOGUE
Conor Brien laughed in sheer exhilarated delight as the chariot accelerated down the home straight. Beside him the driver shouted and swung his whip high above his head to bring it slicing down across the sweating backs of the two pony slaves directly in front. Beyond them were four more slaves running alongside each other, tethered to a wide crossbar and pounding along the floor of the brand new track. Conor swung his long driving whip across their straining backs and rippling buttocks as the whole rig jolted and shook with its own speed across the ground. A warm wind played in his face as he turned slightly, hanging on to the handrail for dear life but with adrenalin flooding his veins, to look at the competing rig. The naked thighs of the slaves pulling it flashed up and down as they pounded alongside. He took a slash at them with his whip but their driver was keeping them out of range. Mark Cavanagh, Conor’s number two in command of both his arena and his business empire, and acting as whipman in the second chariot, laughed in his turn and flicked his own whip at the straining front row of slaves, making contact this time. They threw their heads back as the whipcord stung them but surged forwards and Conor turned his attention back to his own team. He threw the whip repeatedly in roundhouse strikes, aiming to go over the slaves’ shoulders and tickle up the tightly strapped breasts. His aim was true and in its turn his rig surged onwards and now the turn at the far end of the newly constructed circus was looming. The four men braced themselves in the two flying chariots; Conor ready to lean out to his right and balance the rig as it skidded round the tight turn. Beside him the driver yelled and jerked at the right hand reins wrapped round his waist. The front four slaves’ heads snapped round and the chariot veered to the right. Now Conor got off two slashes at his opponent’s slaves, around their bits they squealed as the cord bit at their flying legs, the sounds resonating and reverberating around the empty terraces. Mark tried the same tactic and then the chariots were alongside each other. The air was filled with rapid fire smacks and hisses from the whips, the twelve straining slaves squealed and shrieked around their bits as they struggled with their foes and with the whips, their backs shining in the sun and sporting fine networks of welts. Sweat and saliva flew in a fine spray as the battle for space to turn in heated up and the end of the centre boarding came ever closer. All four men were yelling incoherent encouragements to their teams as Conor’s driver dragged on the reins again, trying to force his team round and slam Mark’s into the boarding. The outside two slaves of each of the front ranks had armoured sheaths on their forearms and the closest two were flailing at each other desperately. Then suddenly both chariots cleared the boarding and just as his driver was about to jerk the reins hard right again and try to stop Mark’s team from driving them far too wide one of the front runners lost her footing. She went down in a cloud of dust and with a despairing scream, immediately the slave running beside her was brought down and the front crossbar dug into the sand and spun the rig about its own axis, the driver was dragged forwards over the handrail and the chariot smashed helplessly into Mark’s team and the slaves went down in a tangled and rolling heap. Conor himself was thrown clear over the front handrail but landed safely on soft female flesh which squirmed and wriggled under him as he lay panting and dazed for a moment. Then he pushed himself up to a sitting position, using the delightful cushion of a buttock under one hand and the breast of a groaning slave under the other.
Beside him Mark too was sitting up, grinning happily, one hand playing between the legs of a sprawling slave, stroking the plump labia which were bisected by the thin strap of her harness.
“Good as far as it went, me bucko,” Conor said, standing up and dusting himself off. “But we still need to work on the surfacing. It’s got to be firmer.”
“We could give them spikes to run in,” Mark suggested, reluctantly taking his hand away from the girl and standing up to join his boss.
Both men looked down at the squirming mass of tangled femininity, shackled by their wrists to the crossbars of the chariots, they had had no choice but to collapse into the maelstrom of thrashing limbs as the chariots crashed. The two drivers were gradually sorting through the twisted traces and hauling up each slave as she was freed. There appeared to be no more damage than a few scratches and scrapes to the superbly toned and tanned bodies, naked apart from bridles, bits, tit straps and crotch harnesses.
“Nah,” Conor said eventually. “There’d be too much damage in a collision and you know what it’s like nowadays, the costs of having them laid up are fierce, what with the vet bills and all.”
Mark nodded his agreement and called across to one of the drivers.
“Gerd! Spread some more gravel, roller it in and then run two more teams. Fresh ones. I want to see how it holds up at full speed. You up for another race, Conor?”
“No, I’ve got some calls to make. But if the surface holds good, we’ll have some fun later. I need to call Fitzgerald. It’s time I called in that favour I did him last year.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Snake’s about ready I reckon, so it’s high time we went for the big one,” Mark said and turned back to sorting through the wreckage.
Conor walked back down the length of the circus. With the advent of the six slave chariots and their new design the speeds they were capable of had forced the owners of the modern arenas to begin to adopt the design of the long, narrow circuses the Romans had used to race their chariots in, the arenas being too short for the rigs to achieve their full speed and provide the spectacle they were capable of.
But even as he left the circus and the echoing whip cracks and bit-muffled squeals behind him, his thoughts turned from pleasure to business. Snake, the most dedicated masochist any of the men on Conor’s island estate had ever seen was nearly ready to play her part in the spectacle he had been planning for over a year now……..
She had taken to the arenas with an almost feral ferocity. In some ways, he supposed, it was understandable, before she had been trained for the arenas she had been kept as a partly wild animal on his island. In almost her first appearance in his colours she had seen off the great Ayesha and since then she had gone on to achieve an unbroken run of victories in studded whip duelling, whip duelling, boxing and wrestling that had the world of the arenas once again beating a path to his door, as they had once when he had owned the great Blondie.
Even now he could scarcely bear to think of how she had been snatched away from him. But the time was approaching when he might be able to do something about that; and Snake was vital to his plans. But then, so
were some other people.
Chapter 1
From the outside, the house just looked very, very expensive and for the most part that’s what it was, the kind of house a wealthy hotelier would own in a very expensive part of London. However Sir John Fitzgerald had made some interesting additions to the basement. Instead of a vinyl cover for the swimming pool, he had had a special plywood cover made in sections. It was sturdy enough to take the weight of the select gatherings he hosted there, as well as tough enough to withstand the weight of a body falling on it. Currently that was what it was coping with. A roped off ring occupied the centre of the space above the pool and around it an avid audience was watching three naked women wrestling. It was clear that two of the women were trying to operate as a team but the third was far too good for them. She was a tall, black-haired beauty, well proportioned and long legged. Sir John watched her with a sort of predatory intent as he had over five thousand pounds bet on her to beat the other two inside ten minutes. At the moment the big stopwatch on the wall stood at eight minutes.
The large, airy room echoed to the shouts of encouragement from the audience, all of whom had money riding on the outcome. All three women were dishevelled and panting in the heat – Sir John had found it advisable to ensure the heavy, double drapes were drawn across the windows onto the atrium – the two who formed the duo were both scratched on their faces and across their breasts. In the heat of the battle, most of the rules had gone out of the window, to the delight of the onlookers and as many punches and raking of clawed fingers had been traded as proper throws. All in all it was a great night’s entertainment and as long as his slave, Ayesha, won in the next two minutes it would be perfect.
As he watched, his tall, black-haired slave, caught one opponent in a headlock and as her ally approached, she dropkicked her, one foot catching her between the breasts, the other on her chin. She went down and was out cold immediately so Ayesha set about finishing off the other one.
Her two opponents had been good enough amateurs, but she was a product of the Bakhtar arena and was a hardened veteran of their training methods. Sir John knew that and began to relax. Ayesha would watch the clock and provide a good show before finishing her opponent off. As he watched she released the headlock, applied an armlock and then threw the woman against the ropes, the crowd cheered as her large breasts wobbled, but then she was staggering forwards and Ayesha simply bent down, let the other woman half trip over her back and then stood up. With a despairing wail, the woman somersaulted high in the air and then landed heavily, making the floor bounce and causing shock waves to ripple through her amply fleshed body. Sir John looked up and caught her master’s look of fury. The wretch would need all her flesh, he thought, she was going to take a thrashing for having failed him.
The whips were beginning to fall across the backs of the vanquished slaves as Sir John collected his winnings, Ayesha kneeling obediently at his feet when his private secretary informed him that there was a call for him. He took it in his study, having clicked his fingers to indicate that Ayesha should crawl after him and serve as a footstool while he talked. As it turned out, she herself was the subject of the call.
“Yes, I’ve got her right here, Conor,” Sir John said, moving one foot so that it could rub the side of one of Ayesha’s full breasts as it hung beneath her chest. “Well today’s Saturday, so if you could give me a fortnight to say my farewells to the slut, I’ll deliver her then and make the other arrangements. You know I’m grateful for the help you gave me in purchasing her, I won’t let you down on my side of the bargain.”
He put the phone down and stared thoughtfully at his slave as she knelt, impassive as always, awaiting his bidding. Suddenly he took his feet off her back and sat forwards, gripping her right breast hard and then squeezing still harder. Ayesha’s eyes clenched shut, she gritted her teeth and her breath hissed from her lips but she made no move to escape.
“You know that Conor Brien helped me buy you when your first owner got bored with you?”
Ayesha nodded, tears oozed from her closed eyes but whether it was from pain at her breast or from mention of her beloved first owner, Sir John neither knew nor cared, but her tears always pleased him and he smiled now as he leaned closer.
“You screwed my wife and planned to ruin me, you bitch! Even though you worked for me! Well it’s been a pleasure having you all to myself but now Conor needs you to be somewhere else. In two weeks’ time I’ll deliver you to where you’re needed my beauty. But if you thought I’d punished you for what you did to me, you ain’t seen nothing yet. You’ve got some real punishment coming your way!”
Back in the main room of the basement the two defeated wrestlers were on their knees before the male members of the gathering. Their masters plainly felt that the thirty or forty lashes they had taken bent over the ropes of the ring weren’t nearly enough to atone for their failings. Each man stood behind his slave with a strap and was bestowing yet more on his already striped property as she sucked on each cock presented to her mouth.
“Hollow your cheeks, bitch! Beg him for his spunk in your worthless gob!”
“Get it into your throat! And don’t you dare spill any when he comes!”
All the while the two men made the slaves’ tasks all the more difficult by the application of a steady rain of loud smacks but still they struggled to obey, hollowing cheeks obediently and swallowing quickly, then moving on to the next man.
“My friends!” Sir John said, leaving Ayesha kneeling beside one wall and striding into the centre of the gathering. “I’m sorry to curtail tonight’s fun but I’m afraid I have some urgent business to attend to and I must ask that we cut the party short.”
There were groans of disappointment from all sides and even the two defeated slaves looked crestfallen as they got to their feet – there was a lot of unsucked cock in the room. But in less than a quarter of an hour the room was empty and Sir John stood over Ayesha. She looked up at him calm and unafraid, her earlier tears now dried on her cheeks. He hated it when she wasn’t afraid of him, she had always seemed to be able to put herself somewhere else when he was punishing her and that robbed him of some of the pleasure he felt was his due.
But he had plenty of time in which to wipe that damned impassive look off the bitch’s beautiful face and he was going to do it.
“Bring the camera to the attic,” he told the secretary. “I want to film every minute of this. We’ll start with the Spike and work from there.”
Under the special sound proofing in the eaves and behind the double, leather padded door, Sir John had built a room dedicated to delivering the most blistering assaults of pain-laden pleasure a submissive woman could dream of. And before he was finished, Ayesha de la Tour was going to experience them all.
The Spike was simply a long pole with a butt plug mounted on the top. It reared up from the floor at a steep angle just in front of a cross beam, set in the wall, with shackles for wrist restraints mounted on it.
Sir John leaned against the padded leather of the inner door after he had closed it and watched Ayesha walk over to where the Spike waited for her. She walked like a model, putting a sway in every step so that her gracefully curved hips and the shapely buttocks atop the long thighs, held the onlooker’s eye and hot wired the male libido. Still she seemed unperturbed by the constant stream of threats he had treated her to as they had made their way up through the house.
“Better get it good and lubricated,” he told her as she stood facing the apparatus, and obediently she dropped to her knees and began to lick and kiss the blunt, pear shaped steel.
“You are despicable,” he told her. “A slut who licks where her own arse has been. The lowest of the low. You don’t even put up a fight.”
She carried on licking until the steel was running with saliva and on the command she stood and faced away from it. Deliberately it had been made too high for a girl to wriggle herself onto, so while Sir John began to select the range of whips he would start work with
, the secretary caught her round the hips and lifted her. While he took her weight, she reached down behind her and, as she had been trained to do, guided the plug with one hand while with the other she held her anus as open as she could. Sir John stopped to watch her as her hands fumbled behind her and then she stiffened for a second before gasping as she was lowered slightly and the blunt head of cold steel began its progress into her. She grimaced and her hands fluttered ineffectually around her backside as she was slowly lowered further and then her face relaxed slightly as her sphincters were at last able to close somewhat around the stalk. The two men then took her hands and pulled them apart and behind her to clip her restraints to the rings on the board behind her. That left her bent sharply backwards from the waist and by the time they had spread and shackled her ankles similarly, spread wide and behind her, she was bowed painfully out, away from the wall, mounted immovably on the Spike.
Ayesha carefully kept her expression neutral as she was mounted with her limbs spread and shackled behind her, right at the threshold of pain even before the beating began. The butt plug thrust her pelvis forwards and its deep intrusion was uncomfortable in that posture, even to a girl as used to buggery as she was. It also meant that the oncoming breast and cunt whipping would be utterly unavoidable; she would just have to stand and face every lash full on. But it was only right and proper. She had wronged Sir John and knew she deserved everything she received from him. But it was her first master, Peter Lang, the Prince of Bakhtar’s trainer who had revealed to her how wicked she had been and who had allowed her to redeem herself by serving him and it was still him she worshipped. Sir John was merely the instrument of her true master’s will being worked out on her body.