Last Slave Standing

by Sean O'Kane

  Raika got off a third lash that cracked across the slave’s brand at her hip as much as anything, so violent had Ayesha’s twisting become. Behind them the trap’s wheels grated and scraped on the tarmac. Raika struck again, this time she whipped the shaft across Ayesha’s belly, just above her belt. Her breath came out in an agonised wheeze and her eyes opened wide, but her legs stayed steady. Raika deliberately laid the crop across the fronts of both thighs and then lifted it away. This time there was no attempt to dodge the blow but a mad prancing and harness jingling dance of agony followed the crisp, slashing impact.

  “Now, then, girl,” Raika said breathlessly when calm had been restored a little. “I think we understand each other, eh?”

  Ayesha’s thighs carried rough edged tramlines hewn into the smooth flesh. Here and there the blood speckled darkly just below the skin.

  Raika took her seat again, breathing hard but smiling in triumph. She had known the big slave would try it on. All the experienced ones did. Even Blondie had tried it on with her when she first arrived. The new ones, like Rose and Legs were anxious to please and always ‘honest’ as Mr Carlo put it, but the old hands, they never exerted themselves until they had tested a driver’s or trainer’s mettle with the whip.

  The first bit of trotting had been slapdash and lazy, the slave had made hardly any effort to lift her knees the way she knew a driver would want. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  Raika slashed back and forth across the strong back before snapping the lash over one shoulder to scald a strap-tormented breast and Ayesha leaned into her work properly, almost sending her driver sprawling backwards with her sudden eagerness to attain the high stepping trot she knew was required.

  Raika took the trap almost the whole way round the perimeter of the estate, sometimes letting the pony slave walk, sometimes lashing her into a headlong gallop. It was late afternoon before the exhausted slave was trotted back up the path from the lake. By then her shoulders and quivering buttocks were a delicate lacework pattern of pink and red lines. Her tightly plaited hair was coming loose and every now and then spittle flew back over a shoulder. Her body ran with sweat and the occasional bit-muffled groan told Raika that it was playing havoc with the weals and under the straps where the studs had driven in, the salt would be reminding her of the depths of sacrifice that were expected of her.

  Back in the yard, while the slave stood, ribs heaving and legs shaking, Raika hummed a tune happily and busied herself putting away the trap and then wrenching the harness off Ayesha’s body. It was normal after an extended run for the tack to have embedded itself quite deeply. And it was for that reason that the bridle was the last piece of kit to be removed. The bit and tongue ring kept noise to a minimum. But at last she was able to swing the slave up under a winch and then soap her down before sending her through the showers and driers.

  She dropped into a deep sleep almost as soon as she had finished her evening feed and Raika was able to lean on the stall door and reflect on a good day’s work.

  Before her Ayehsa lay sprawled with the careless ease of sleep, her legs were flung apart and Raika could see the little craters in the flesh of the belly where the strap had run down from the belt, the labia were reddened and puffy from having been constricted and Raika knew that just a touch on the cruelly sensitised sexflesh within them would send the slave hurtling into orgasm. But that would have to wait, she had days of hard work and whipping to endure before she would have earned that pleasure. Her breasts rose and fell invitingly as she breathed deeply and their attraction was only increased by the rings of craters and small scabs around their roots. Raika felt a tingle at her groin as she contemplated their size and firmness…….maybe a bit of tit whipping would be good for her in the morning. She fidgeted a little, squeezing her thighs together as she considered whether or not that would be good training or just great fun for her. She knew how much trust had been placed in her and was almost delirious with gratitude and pride. Ayesha had certainly been one of the top performers on the circuit, and now she had been given into her sole charge. She made a mental note to give Mr Carlo and Mr Brian the best blow jobs they had ever had on their return. She felt real pride in herself these days and was absolutely clear in her mind that at CSL she had the first real home she had known in her adult life. The only thing that terrified her was that one day she might be sold again. But on that evening that seemed a remote possibility and she concentrated instead on the growing need between her legs.

  She had just made up her mind to go and sample the dildos and vibrators in the dungeon before going to bed when the stable door opened and Sir John Fitzgerald slipped inside. He closed the door quietly behind him and smiled at her as he approached. For some reason, Raika felt the acid of sick apprehension dissolve her brief contentment.

  “Trojan Horse,” he whispered, standing directly in front of her and as Raika’s world fell apart, all she could see was his smile; smug and supremely self-satisfied.

  She reeled back and came up short against the half door to the stall. Those words had come back to haunt her at last. She had thought that she had blocked them out months ago; made her memories of her previous owner into merely scenes from a bad dream. But now he had stretched out his hand to claim her.

  Through tear misting eyes she saw Sir John, looming above her.

  “You know that when he put you out to auction your master told you he wanted you to do a job for him, and if you did it he promised to do something for you, didn’t he?”

  She nodded miserably, recalling the huge black man plunging his massive tool into her while the big Irishman stood beside her. She recalled her master leaning down and promising her that if she continued to work for him despite being auctioned off, he would send her home with a rich bridegroom and she would live in honour for the rest of her life. It was her dream, to return to the hill country of northern India and to drive through her village in a powerful limousine, like the ones she was now used to seeing, with a handsome, rich young man beside her, and somehow her previous master had known what her dream had been.

  He had described Mr Carlo and Mr Brian to her and she had beguiled them into bidding for her and winning. But then she had been brought to England and had fallen in love with The Lodge, with the slaves in her charge, with the way she was trusted, the way the men used her at will but didn’t insult her. They even returned to their own beds after taking her if they woke her in the night, urgent for her mouth or her vagina. No one had ever been that considerate before. They gave her a smart uniform, she had a room of her own……….

  “Your master; your real master, is a man of his word, Raika. Just do a little job for him and he will make sure you are looked after…….” Sir John’s voice was soft and seductive but she couldn’t betray her home; not even for the promise of a return to her birthplace and a life of respectability. Wordlessly she shook her head, bracing herself for the retribution that would surely follow her refusal.

  But none came.

  Instead she felt his hand on her arm and he was leading her across to the windowless dungeon that occupied the whole of one end of the stable block.

  “Let me show you something, Raika,” he said. “There is something that your master wants you to see. He needs you, Raika and to those who help him he is very generous. You think the men who own you now are honourable and kind, don’t you?”

  She nodded and he led her inside, flicking on the lights and closing the heavy, padded door behind them.

  “Let me show you what they really are. Then you can decide who you truly serve.”

  Raika wiped her eyes awkwardly and looked around. There was nothing unusual in the room, only the normal disciplinary equipment. She turned to look at Sir John. He was taking a whip down from one of the racks.

  “I….I don’t understand……..”

  Sir John’s face hardened suddenly and he uncoiled the length of thick hide. “You, Raika. I’m going to show you to yourself,” he said. “Now strip!”
r />   Chapter 7

  It was the second day of the show and Brian was finding it the hardest show yet. Even with the help of the grooms, keeping ten slaves fit for nearly every event was wearing. Currently he and Carlo were positioned on either side of the two lines of slaves toiling along their second length of the arena pulling a telegraph pole behind them. On his side Brian was flogging Ox, Trouble and two of Salazar’s slaves. Carlo was taking care of Rose, Legs and two others. Beside them the other guards swung their whips in unison as Hank, standing on top of the log called the time.

  “Heave! Heave!” On each call fifteen heavy floggers smacked across the sweating bodies before the men and the column moved steadily onwards. At the moment they had about half a metre lead. The women were leaning so far forwards as to almost be parallel to the ground, their breasts swung to and fro beneath their heaving ribcages, their buttocks hollowed and their thighs strained as they toiled. The rhythm of the call was ponderous but allowed each man to move from one slave to another so that each took one lash in four. Even so, on this second leg there was scarcely an inch of unmarked flesh. Here and there along the double line of thirty slaves a head would throw back as a particularly spiteful lash wrapped a breast and bit at a nipple.

  Apart from the measured, heavy smacks of the whips and the calls of the trainers, the air was thick with the frenzied cries of the crowd. Huge amounts of money were wagered on each event and this was a close contest. And besides the competitive frenzy, watching so many whips at play on so much naked flesh was driving people into an orgiastic frenzy as well. Up above the stands the huge video screens showed loving close ups of rippling buttocks and breasts swinging so wildly that on the bigger titted specimens they were colliding. Brian saw Hank glance across at the opposition and he risked one as well. Their driver was calling a slightly faster rhythm and the slaves were responding. Their lines were almost alongside.

  “Double time!” Hank yelled. This was a ruse they had rehearsed in the run up to the show but never with full whipping. But it was now or never.

  Hank doubled the speed of his calls and the men worked their way up and down their allotted parts of the lines smacking in a lash to the back and immediately following it with an uppercut to the breasts. The noise in the arena went from merely deafening to painful in seconds as the slaves squealed and shrieked while the crowd roared its approval but from somewhere the slaves found the strength to accelerate their progress through the heavy ground. It had rained that morning and the floor of the arena was not its usual sandy, firm consistency. After having been wrestled and boxed on, had squads of twenty girls from each stable fighting with whips, staves and nets all at the same time and then had mass log pulling staged, what the slaves were attempting was akin to pulling the huge log through a mud wrestling ring.

  But with the application of extra whipping, the Salazar team forged just slightly ahead.

  Brian’s arm ached as the finishing line approached with agonising slowness but he gritted his teeth and stuck to his task, fanning the leather tails out across the slaves’ shoulders and then slicing them up into the soft, swinging vulnerability of the breasts.

  The opposition tried the same tactic but their line of struggling slaves was not as durable as the Salazar one and by the time the fronts of both logs had crossed the line, the Salazar stable was declared the winner by three lengths. A close result when the line consisted of fifteen lengths; a length being defined as the length of a slave’s body.

  The guards shook hands and congratulated each other on a well-driven pull. Between them the lines of slaves collapsed onto knees and elbows, their wrists still attached to the rope by their restraints. Brian knew he didn’t have much time to enjoy the triumph. The chariot racing would be starting soon and he was needed at the circus to help with harnessing. But now that the stress of the final dash was wearing off, he realised his cock was pushing urgently at the front of his shorts. Before him was a feast of carnal delights, thirty flogged raw slaves knelt in front of him and between their welted buttocks and strong thighs, a fascinating range of whip-aroused cunts was on offer. There were neat, plump ones, long ones, ones with inner lips blossoming up from between the outer ones, ones with liver-coloured inner lips, ones with outer lips that looked as though they had had lipstick applied around the vaginal hole.

  Deciding he had time for a quick one, Brian pushed his shorts down and knelt behind one of the Salazar slaves who had an unusually broad expanse of arse and a cunt that was blatantly weeping with arousal. He slid into her easily but she was so far gone as to only be able to groan softly as she felt the penetration. As he set about seeking his release he saw that most of his companions were doing likewise and the cameras were missing none of the action. Beside him one the cameramen was closing right up on one of Salazar’s guards plunging in and out of Ox while grinning and waving to the crowd, before panning towards him. Brian leaned forward and helped himself to two handfuls of soft, malleable breastflesh, swinging beneath the anonymous slave’s chest. The recent beating she had taken there made her rear up nicely for the camera and the man behind it gave him a broad grin and the thumbs up.

  The extra dose of pain obviously refreshed the slave and Brian was impressed at how well she gripped him when he spurted his load deep into her and then climbed to his feet, giving her breasts one last squeeze and her nipples a hard twist.

  As he left the arena the lines of slaves were tottering wearily to their feet

  and were being shepherded back to the tunnel after being freed from the logs. The second pull would be on the following morning and would almost certainly require completely fresh whip fodder. The prospect was pleasing and he was whistling as he headed for the circus, behind him those of the spectators who wanted to watch the racing began to follow him, others made their way to the pens for more boxing and wrestling.

  When he arrived at the circus he found that Juan and some of the others were in the finishing stages of harnessing. The butt plugs and dildos were already in and the studded strapping keeping them in was tightened. The tit straps were fastened and Blondie was just having her bridle buckled on as he walked up. He got straight to work and fed her bit through her tongue ring and then screwed in the pin that attached it to the bridle on the far side. Then he clipped on the karabiners that fastened the reins to the bridle at the same place before feeding her right one down and through two loops on the back of her belt then through a further one on the shaft of the chariot, the spare length he left to trail for the moment and went back to her head. Her left rein was a short strap which fastened to the bridle of the slave immediately to her left. The most efficient way of harnessing and steering had turned out to be joining the front four, bridle to bridle and only having long reins at the extreme left and right. These two were fed back along the shaft of the chariot and the driver wrapped them around his waist. He only needed to haul on one rein to swing the front four that way. The two ‘grunts’ who provided power halfway along the shaft didn’t need steering, they just needed to keep pushing. The final advantage offered by this arrangement was that all four backs were kept clear for the whipman to work on; ensuring that the front rank raced and fought as hard as they could. With a practised eye Brian settled the bridle finally, making sure that the big blinkers kept the blonde’s gaze restricted to what was directly in front of her. Her high collar discouraged neck movement and it had been found that by keeping the slaves largely ignorant of what they were being driven into, the performances became much better. Under certain scoring circumstances it was sometimes necessary for a driver to sacrifice his rig in order to maximise the team’s other rig’s score. In those circumstances he might choose to drive deliberately into one of the oppositions’ rigs and with heavy blinkers the slaves had no chance to brake or take avoiding action, thus ensuring a good, entertaining collision was achieved.

  Once all the slaves were harnessed and fastened to the chariots, Brian, Juan and the other two Salazar men checked the opposition’s rigs. They checke
d that the whips were the specified length and weight and that the tip of the long one was of regulation weight and the driver’s flogger had no more than twenty tails. They checked that the clips fastening the slaves to the rig did not contain any failsafe device, allowing the slave to break free of the rig in the event of a crash. The rules were that if any slaves went lame or were injured in any of the races, they could be replaced only from the ranks of the slaves who started. Usually that meant that the second chariot was sacrificed if necessary.

  The circus filled up rapidly and with his heart pounding with excitement, Brian was soon settling his grip on the front rail of the chariot and on his whip, glancing at Juan, bracing his feet, surveying the line of backs and buttocks presented for flogging and then a siren sounded from the compere’s box and they were off. For the first length it was simply a case of delivering a blizzard of lashes and demanding the slaves produced every ounce of pace they were capable of. Brian’s arm windmilled as he yelled and the long length of whipcord smacked back and forth across the straining backs. Naked thighs pumped, buttocks trembled, hair tossed and the chariot shook in every rivet as it charged across the sand. Neck and neck the four rigs approached the first turn. All four drivers held station for the first turn and as the teams sped back towards the starting line they broke lanes for the first time – as permitted in the rules. The Salazar rigs approached the second turn in second and fourth places, Brian and Juan lying in second. Brian eased back on the whipping and allowed Juan to ease round the turn, then on the start of the second lap, Juan let out a wild war whoop and steering out to the left he and Brian flogged their team into a spurt that brought them alongside the scarlet and blacks.