by Sean O'Kane
“She’ll be a bit the worse for wear of course,” he told his caller, “but I think you’ll enjoy what you want to do with her all the more for that.”
Conor laughed aloud at the reply and prodded harder with his shoe. The slave gave an audible gasp and the clitoris peg slipped off the slippery nub.
“Hang on just a moment now,” he told his caller and laid the receiver down while he replaced the peg, holding the hood back and settling the peg directly on its target. He wasn’t satisfied that her juicing up wouldn’t remove it once more but it didn’t really matter, it was all just a warm up for the whipping he would administer in a few minutes’ time.
“Now then,” he resumed. “You’re right about the price, it’s a real steal. And you know why? It’s because I’m prepared to subsidise it by almost a quarter. Now although I love you dearly my old mate, it’s not for love I’m doing it. She’s yours at that price in return for a small favour….” He listened for a moment, smiling and nodding. “That’s what I thought you’d say! Drop in at the end of the week then and she’ll be here. I’ll tell you what I need doing. Bye now, and be good!”
He put the phone down and sat deep in thought for a moment but then rose and addressed the slave tied to his desk. “Now, m’dear. Get ready to suck your master’s cock and give him some good screams while you’re at it!”
He set about removing the pegs from the breasts, working fast so that she couldn’t keep up with the sudden rushes of blood and yelped and writhed beneath him; especially when he removed the cunt pegs. Then he touched the clit peg and she held herself steady, waiting for the bolt of pain as he pulled it clear, making no attempt to open the jaws first. He tapped it, making it quiver and her produce nervous, breathy gasps. He tapped it harder, then harder still until she was yelping and only then did he pull it clear. Her head came up, her lips pursed in an O of pain and then fell back again. Conor walked to a cupboard on one wall and selected a riding crop, then swishing it before her upturned eyes he went back to stand over her head, then he opened his flies and slipped his massively thick shaft between lips that struggled to contain him. He pushed in until she was trying to scream in panic around him and only then did he consent to withdraw a little. Once he was far enough out for her tongue to start work he began to smack the crop down on her stomach, breasts and crotch, knowing that the skin where the blood was returning would be increasingly sensitive. Her body twisted and arched superbly, the wide hips rose and swayed seductively and the crop’s keeper sprayed her liquid as it flicked away from her. He sank deeper into her throat and enjoyed the tightening round his helm. The slave felt him invade her farther and froze with her hips raised, inviting the crop to strike. Conor obliged, pleased with the girl’s submissiveness which reminded him of Snake’s dedicated masochism. At the thought of what he had done to Snake he felt himself begin to pump into the girl’s throat and gave her several hard whacks to signal the fact that he expected a smooth acceptance of his spunk. To his surprise he got it, despite her hips bucking up to meet the crop and her moans around his cock, somehow she managed to swallow competently and when he withdrew she didn’t spill a drop.
He left the girl where she was, she would do for further service later. In the meantime he wanted to check that everything was ready for the arriving stable. The business that would go on after the last exhausted slave had been crated up and shipped home was shaping up nicely and anyway he wanted to see Snake.
Conor strolled across the lawns between the wings of the house, made his way out to join the road from the airfield and turned right to walk between the barracks which housed the squad, now divided into five platoons of ten with some more spares who would soon form a sixth platoon. With strength like that the events could become really spectacular.
He passed the slave pens with their elevated walkways for the onlookers; empty now as the slaves were rested prior to the show itself, above him the arena loomed, casting a shadow across the training ground. He whistled happily as he made his way through an arch and came into the main stableyard. Here the horses used in pursuit running were stabled as well as the solo fighters, and currently its star guest was Snake.
She stood in the centre of the yard, her legs apart and heavy chains anchoring her ankles to iron rings in the flagstones. Her arms were spread and her wrists fastened to a yoke; she still wore her chastity belt, although the steel was now filthy and dulled. Her hair was matted and she looked as feral as ever she had when they used to hunt her.
Conor tutted as he looked her over and Gerd came to join him in surveying the wretched figure. Her hair was filthy and her body covered in dried mud and dust so thickly that even her spectacular snake tattoo was almost obscured.
Conor moved closer and gingerly grasped some hair to pull her face up. Her eyes were wide and staring and her face had lost the chubbiness it had had, making her potentially beautiful under the grime.
“Wanna fuck? Or I’ll suck you if you want?” Her voice held a grim chuckle which betrayed the fact that she was perfectly well aware of how bad she looked.
“Only a couple of days now, Snake, and you’ll get all you want. Got a nice surprise for you too!” Conor thought about teasing a nipple but decided against it when he looked closely. The whole of both areolas were scratched and raw as were the nipples themselves.
“Stupid bitch just rubs ‘em against anything she can. That’s why we’ve yoked her. We’ll hose her down in a minute and clean her then keep her out here where she can’t rub. She’ll have to go into the arena yoked too. If we free her hands before she sees -”
“Shut up!” Conor’s voice echoed round the yard.
“Sorry, Conor,” Gerd said meekly.
“What? What you bastard? What else are you going to do with me, you fucking….” Snake’s voice cracked into a semi-hysterical sob and Conor stepped forwards again, grabbing her face with his hand.
“Just wait for a few more days and do what the men say, Snake. I guarantee you’ll be on your knees thanking me when it’s all over. When have I ever let you down?”
Snake looked up at him for a moment. “You’re the cruellest master a slave ever had… …You won’t let me down.”
Conor stepped back, smiling. “Then be a good girl.” He turned away. “Keep her out here and clean her up for Chrissake!”
The days following their arrival passed in a feverish blur of activity. Brian had never fully appreciated just how much went into staging the arena shows. The slaves had first of all to be exercised carefully to loosen limbs stiffened by long confinement, then, once they were all running freely, had recovered their appetites and settled into the long open plan room in which they were stabled, selections had to be made for the various events.
Brian and Peter Lang, with his deputy Paolo, pondered long into the evenings with lists of events and slave numbers and compared notes. Eventually it was decided that Cherry should be slotted into the dressage team – she fitted in well with the rest of the team in terms of appearance and had picked up the display routines almost immediately. Jet was a banker for pony racing and chariot work, but Ox, Tigre and Trouble were more problematic. Peter couldn’t decide whether to throw the Russian and the German straight into the first whip duels and melees or to keep them in reserve to strengthen the squad on the final day. And how best to use Tigre’s natural aggression? Eventually Brian solved the problem by reminding Lang how much he was paying for them.
“A good point, Brian,” he said with a laugh. “And besides, you didn’t haul them all the way over here to sit on the touchline. Okay, we throw Tigre into the whip contests immediately and then hold her in reserve for pursuit running. We use Ox and Trouble for log pulling, studded whips and wrestling – if they’re too damaged by the third day we’ll use a couple of our spares.”
“The honour of the CSL stable is upheld,” Brian said with mock pomposity and poured them another glass of whisky.
He was impressed by the high standard of presentation the Bakhtar stable worke
d to. Its slaves were well cared for, bright eyed and glossy haired. And of course they had Ayesha, probably the second most famous gladiator on the circuit.
Brian had known she was fighting in the Prince’s colours, having seen her at the Bakhtar arena. Prior to that he had been handling her for an undercover Customs and Excise operation he had been running. When she had disappeared his case had crumbled and via a circuitous route which had revealed the depths of deception she was capable of, he had resigned as a civil servant and become Carlo’s apprentice instead. On the first morning on Conor’s island he strolled into her stall after the morning feed and grooming session.
“Hello, Ayesha. Long time no see,” he’d said and reached out for a naked breast.
Even while her eyes registered some shock of recognition she was automatically pushing her chest forwards to offer him the breast.
“They’ve done a job on you haven’t they?” Her soft, dark eyes remained fixed on his and she made no move to respond as he gripped his hand deep into the softness of the breastmeat. Her eyes closed in pleasure and Brian refreshed his memory as to how beautiful she really was. The smooth semitic features framed by the thick cascade of silky black hair and below the broad shoulders she was about five foot six of pure sex. He ran his hand down her side and patted one buttock playfully. “I’ll enjoy myself with you before I leave here,” he promised. She bowed her head submissively as he left. His chance came sooner than he thought it would. The next morning Peter asked him to ride as whipman on one of the chariots.
“You need to be tall to reach well with the long whip. Go for a practice this afternoon.” It proved far harder than he had thought, the wooden wheels and lack of suspension meant the rigs vibrated and bucked like mad, making his teeth chatter as he hung on to the rail and the slaves galloped with amazing speed. But by the third lap he had got his balance and was able to add his whip to the driver’s and the rig accelerated. To his intense delight, it was Ayesha’s back he found himself welting. After ten circuits they put fresh slaves in harness and by the end of the day, Peter pronounced himself well pleased.
On the final preparation day he drove her in a race with Jet, driven by Paolo. She was a superb drive, he thought, a role model for Perdita. Her stride was long and smooth and her breasts and buttocks quivered and shook to just the right degree. Under the whip she covered the ground with deceptive ease and he was amazed by how quickly they left Jet behind – and she was reckoned to be one of the classiest performers around.
With them both on the same team, Brian reckoned the pony racing was in the bag. Meanwhile Raika and Amelia worked tirelessly, when they weren’t feeding, cleaning out or strawing down, they were polishing tack or grooming the slaves. Brian loved the way the diminutive Indian would confidently lead two of the gladiators around on their tongue leads. They towered over her but she nonchalantly took the leads over her shoulders and led them to where they needed to be, brooking no argument or skittishness. He had seen her once take a crop to Jet over the latter’s reluctance to eat what she had prepared for her breakfast. The tall and powerful slave had accepted six hard lashes with complete docility, held bent forwards only on her tongue leash. The other side of the coin was that she took a very obvious pride in her slaves’ appearance and they responded by preening under her skilled and sure fingered touch. Her innate sense of her own competence was a far more powerful part of her dominance than mere size could ever be. Proof of how highly her charges rated their little groom was provided by the number of times he saw one or other of the slaves kneel in front of her and nuzzle her skirt up so they could use their ringed tongues to best effect. Amelia used what experience she had, and learned from Raika, the two becoming firm friends quite apart from being lovers sharing a master.
The atmosphere in the big room where the visiting team’s solo fighters and the CSL slaves were stabled was excitable and quite frequently there would be a disturbance when one or other of the fifteen slaves kicked or bit a handler. There would be the echoing sounds of a scuffle, male voices raised and then the smacks of corrective lashes being applied. What made the slaves skittish were the constant noises of carpentry coming from the yard behind the stable. From long experience they knew that when their owners devoted time and energy to a project which involved construction, it would inevitably involve them and cause them to suffer in imaginative and ingenious ways. The resulting mixture of fear and excitement spreading amongst a whole stable of naked and chained slaves made for a heady miasma. The embargo on sex immediately prior to a show meant that the men were also on edge. The home stable’s grooms, household slaves, Amelia and Raika having to stand in for the normally available fighters. The Bakhtar stable did not have any female grooms at all. In the evenings Raika and Amelia would usually arrive upstairs in the small plain room the three of them shared, with sperm crusting their thighs and frequently their cheeks as well. Neither of them complained overly much however.
The day before the show got underway properly was given over to the display and the parade, there had been meetings between Conor Brien and Mark Cavanagh and Peter Lang, Paolo and Brian. In the afternoon Conor wanted there to be the traditional display of the two stables’ slaves. This allowed the punters to inspect the competitors and study form before laying their bets. Usually there was the dressage in the evening but this time Conor and the Prince of Bakhtar had devised something special. They wanted a parade in the arena which would echo the Roman games in the arrogance of its cruelty and in its flaunting of wealth. Details however were hard to come by, all he knew about the Bakhtar plans was that a small ship had docked a week before and lorries were almost constantly trundling from the port up to the estate and unloading strange looking contraptions on the far side of the arena; an area where he seldom went as Conor specifically didn’t want any of the slaves getting advance warning of what was in store.
Consumed with curiosity and badgered ceaselessly by Raika and Amelia he could only buckle down to making sure the CSL slaves were displayed looking their absolute best.
The display was to take place on the training ground. The Blues slaves’ would be displayed tethered to posts set into the hard-packed earth and extending in a line alongside the pens. The Bakhtar slaves were to be spread out on the long racks they normally used and which Brian and Amelia had seen in Bakhtar itself. It was because they had met whilst assessing the quality of the slaves in Bakhtar that Brian requested the CSL contingent be exhibited alongside them this time round. The Prince agreed happily to this arrangement and the evening before the big day, the men were hard at work digging holes for the posts and assembling the long steel racks. The clangs and thumps reverberated around the estate and inside the barracks and stables a tense silence reigned.
The slaves were allowed to rise slightly later than normal on the day of the display. It was going to be a testing one for them even before a single contest had taken place. Brian and the two girls took their time over showering, scrubbing, trimming, coiffing and finally oiling their slaves. Eventually the six stood in a line, looking the epitome of desirable slaveflesh but still lacking the final touches. Round their necks went high metal filigree collars, replacing their workaday leather ones. The fronts were worked into long decorations that hung down their chests towards their breasts and jewels were worked in amongst the complicated steel patterns. Amelia and Raika cooed like excited doves as they applied these and then the matching armbands. After that it was time for the breasts themselves and Raika’s calm no-nonsense approach saw to it that each slave was pierced correctly and quickly. They all thrust out their chests proudly to receive the decorations and the task was accomplished with only a few bitten lips and stamped feet.
In the full heat of the afternoon the training ground was transformed into a spectacular market cum showplace. The blue team’s slaves were stood to attention at the long line of posts, one on each side of each post, wrists clipped together on the far side of the wood. They wore bronze decorations at neck, breast and crotch and
were hooded. Between them and the pens the long racks of the Bakhtar stable had been set up. Each girl was strapped at wrists, ankles, thighs and upper arms to vertical steel bars welded to long horizontal ones. At one end of the long line of spreadeagled and hooded femininity, the six CSL slaves were mounted.
For the next few hours Brian, Amelia and Raika were kept busy discussing the finer points of slave training and handling and the particular talents of the slaves they had brought with them. A waist high rail ran round the rack so that the bodies could be touched and skin tone and musculature assessed but no closer approach was allowed. Brian was amused to watch how the women who were there to watch the slaves took especial pleasure in stimulating them without offering them any chance of climax. The men would lean over the rail and pinch thigh skin or buttock flesh to test it, or grab a handful of calf muscle and declaim knowledgeably about physiology. The women were much more spiteful and reached in between the spread thighs to finger and tease the cunt, or pinch the clitoris or nipples. Some of the discussions Brian had with men involved using either their women or Amelia or Raika as comparisons and several times the girls were expected to unkot their shirts and present their breasts for squeezing and hefting; all in the name of assessing the slaveflesh, naturally. But Brian didn’t mind and by the time the sun was setting and the slaves had to be herded into the arena changing rooms, guests had booked all five slaves fully for the following night in the arena’s cellars and there were only a few spaces left for the second night.
Once the audience had rifted away to take their seats, the slaves had to be hurriedly taken down, watered and allowed to stretch, then splitting into the two contingents they were shepherded into the changing rooms on the opposite sides of the entrance tunnel. Once Brian and the girls had taken off the display tack and replaced the normal leather restraints, the Bakhtar guards shooed them off to the owners’ box to watch. Only they knew what was in store and hadn’t time to train newcomers.