by Sean O'Kane
Raika’s and Amelia’s eyes sparkled with excitement as they saw the plush seats and realised they had the best seats in the house as both owners were involved in the parade. They were able to sit right at the front of the box directly over where the slaves would enter. The long discussions about female discipline and the repeated groping of the displayed bodies had given Brian a fair hard-on and he ordered Amelia to administer a slow wrist job while they waited for the parade. Raika was to swallow his ejaculate tidily.
While the girls were busy he sat back and looked around. It was nearly full dark and the floodlights bathed the whole arena in harsh light and deep shadows. From the roof above the terraces hung the usual giant video screens. As nothing was yet happening out on the sands of the arena floor, the cameras were amusing themselves by swooping in on various couplings and threesomes in the crowd. Ironic cheers went up as, in close up, they captured a woman failing to swallow a man’s sperm as he ejaculated into her mouth and it dribbled milkily down her chin. Being in the owners’ box, it was inevitable that one camera would spot them and indeed one did zero in on them. Brian laughed and waved at it as Amelia’s hand and Raika’s avid face were focused in on as they framed his straining cock. The exhibitionist thrill was just too much and he began to pump, Amelia still holding him tight to maximise the pleasure of the spunk spurting through the constriction. On the screen, Raika’s face and her cupid’s bow lips descended to thunderous applause as they took the massive, polished dome of his helm inside them and her cheeks hollowed as she sucked and swallowed his come. Then they all sat back and waved to the crowd, giggling and laughing happily.
After only a few more minutes the compere spoke and the show got underway.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he boomed into the night. “Your hosts, Mr Conor Brien and His Highness Prince Hassan of Bakhtar, cordially invite you to a feast of carnal contest and decadent cruelty!” He paused to let the cheers subside. “And to start us off the owners want you to enjoy a look at their entire stables! To open the proceedings then, please give it up for Conor Brien and the Blue team!”
From under the owner’s box there came a rumbling as the wooden doors to the entrance tunnel were pulled open, simultaneously the echoing cracks of the whips became audible and there was more rumbling, then slowly an amazed murmuring began to ripple through the parts of the crowd which had a partial view into the tunnel. Gradually the muttering grew to become sustained applause. Brian and the girls stood up to get a better look beneath them.
Suddenly, out from the tunnel burst first one, then two and finally three of the new six-slave chariots. Above the brilliantly illuminated stadium a fusillade of fireworks burst upwards and the crowd began to go wild as finally the slaves made their appearance.
Brian immediately noted that these were the modified rigs they had practised on over the previous days. Since the three pairs of slaves pulling a chariot with a long centre shaft had been introduced at the Bakhtar arena, other stables had worked on improving the design and now the rigs had even longer shafts. This meant that the driver who had the reins wrapped round his waist in a race, could deliver a lot more whip to the first pair, while his whip man wielded the long four-in-hand carriage whip over the backs of the front four. For the parade the drivers held the reins in their hands and they formed up line abreast, slowly trotting up the arena, their breasts strapped and bouncing under the whips that were playing on them purely for decorative effect.
From underneath them there came a renewed fusillade of whip strikes, the sound of men’s voices urging their slaves on and now an unusual sound joined them. It was the sound, Brian realised, of slaves groaning in massed effort under their masters’ lashes. Then he looked up at one of the video screens which showed a view directly along the entrance tunnel and as one the crowd stood to watch in amazement.
Slowly two long lines of straining slaves emerged onto the sand. They were hauling on heavy ropes which ran the length of their lines. Beside them came the guards, dressed as Roman legionaries and wielding long stock whips. Sometimes they cracked these in the air above the slaves’ heads, sometimes they delivered full blooded slashes which caused the recipient’s head to snap back in pain. Brian realised the truth of Carlo’s words at the Salazar estate. The show hadn’t even started in earnest and already the whips were being laid on with joyful abandon; the squads were going to get put through the mangle from now on.
The two struggling lines slowly emerged fully into the floodlit arena and behind them came the huge cart they were pulling. It consisted of four, eight foot diameter solid wooden wheels. A naked slave was tied, spreadeagled to each and they were revolving slowly as the cart moved. The flat top of the cart consisted of rough-hewn logs halved and lashed together. Brian realised that everything had been done to make it as heavy and ungainly as possible. Ahead of it the slaves’ bodies gleamed as they leaned till they were almost parallel to the ground and the lights picked up sprays of sweat and oil as the whips slashed at them.
A great cheer broke out as the monstrous cart was finally fully revealed. As a sort of standard, there was a pole set in the top and it supported the stable’s ‘flag’. Brian had never seen a tattoo like it. The naked but hooded slave hung by her arms from a crossbar, her feet rested on a smaller bar. Her crotch, stomach and breasts bore tattooed snakes. For some reason she seemed to be wearing a steel chastity belt. In the exact centre of the cart’s top was a platform resting on the backs of eight slaves as they knelt on all fours. On this stood Conor Brien in a white toga, smiling and waving to the adoring crowd. From time to time he slashed with a long plaited whip at the back of the stable’s flag, causing her to arch her back and writhe.
Brian suddenly realised that, as the lines of naked slaves toiled along the arena, the girls on either side of him, were digging their hands into his forearms in excitement. Raika grimaced with delicious fear at each thunderous crack of the stock whips.
As the cavalcade slowly made the turn round the far end of the arena, the crowd’s cheering and clapping was suddenly reinvigorated. The Bakhtar stable was about to emerge. As before the chariots led the way and this time Brian was able to recognise Jet running lead on the first one, but strangely Ayesha seemed to be absent, while Tigre and Cherry ran in the second rank of the one behind.
“His Highness Prince Hassan of Bakhtar proudly presents a tribute to his country’s piratical past!” The compere’s voice suddenly boomed out once more.
Again the sound of whips at work floated up from the entrance tunnel and then a silence fell on the crowd as they watched what unfolded before them.
A ship sailed out from the tunnel and raised sail.
Amelia and Raika gave excited little shrieks as they realised what they were looking at.
The prow of the ship nosed out and three pinioned ranks of slaves rose into the air as the mast to which they were attached was raised by guards hauling on ropes from out in front of the ship. The sail consisted of a rank of six slaves at the bottom, a rank of five above them and a final rank of four at the top. Their feet were tied to spars and their hands to the spar above them. But it was the way an impression of billowing had been achieved which had the crowd finally bursting into whistles and roars of approval. Each slave was impaled on a butt plug pole which speared up at an angle from the spar she was standing on. This had the effect of stretching each body into a graceful arc.
The vessel’s figurehead was none other than Ayesha. She was mounted on a dildo pole which angled up and out from the bow, her feet were tied behind it so her weight was taken fully by her cunt. Her arms were spread and pulled back and out and her hair had been woven into a plait and was tied to the ship behind her so that her head was held up. Brian thought he had never seen a woman look so like she was really flying. Down in the bowels of the ship, in the place of galley slaves a close approximation had been made. The ship moved by means of four big wheels on each side, only the very bottoms of which protruded from the hull. These were being turned by
teams of slaves pulling and pushing at handles mounted on the outer rims of big cog wheels inboard and in turn these turned smaller cogs which turned the axles. Down the centre of the ship ran a walkway and along this the overseers walked, working their whips on the bent backs of the slaves. Ox and Trouble were among them. Fortunately they had been placed side by side so Trouble was working docilely. At the stern the Prince stood, waving and smiling like Conor, although he was dressed as a dashing corsair, in sea boots, a silver cloak over mail and a turban with a purple plume in it.
Almost unconsciously, Brian’s hands moved down to cup the buttocks of the girls beside him. Amelia’s were just nicely interesting to the fingers as she still sported a fair crop of tramlines. Raika’s were smooth and unsullied and seemed to beg for some marks. She would get them soon, he thought. The agonisingly slow parade went on below them, the teams of naked women sweated and strained under the whips and on the terraces a frantic orgy was in full swing to the accompaniment of the smack of leather on flesh and the groans of the slaves.
Brian’s right hand foraged a little deeper between Raika’s buttocks and found the warm moisture between her labia. She squirmed and moved closer to him but he realised the ranks of the paraded slaves were nearing the tunnel once more and it was time they returned to the changing rooms to take charge of the CSL contingent.
“Later,” he said – as much to himself as to anyone. “Let’s get back to work.”
An hour or so afterwards he surveyed the stalls with their exhausted occupants. Ox and Trouble had gone straight to sleep once they had been settled on their beds, they were scored quite harshly already across their backs. Cherry, Tigre and Jet were unmarked but had settled almost as quickly. They knew that they hadn’t really started yet.
He had sent the girls up to bed ahead of him and now he and Paolo were taking a last look around before handing over to a night watchman. Suddenly there was a furtive movement outside in the yard and the door to the stables creaked open a fraction and a figure slipped inside.
“Over here,” Paolo whispered. The figure approached and then behind it the door opened to admit three more. To Brian’s astonishment he saw Paolo hold out his hand and receive a folded wad of notes, then another and then two more.
“Take your pick,” he whispered. “Fucking only, mind. No whips.”
Brian watched as the men made their way over to the stalls.
“Does Peter know about this?” he asked. “I mean, I know they’re on hire for the next two nights, but surely not tonight as well? Hey!” The last word was almost shouted as he saw a figure move towards Tigre’s stall. “Not that one!”
Paolo laughed. “I don’t know if he knows or not but we all do it. They’re slaves, Brian. They’re for fucking. That’s all they exist for!”
“Not mine,” Brian said. “They’ve got work to do in the morning and they’re going to do it to the best of their abilities. Official dungeon sessions with the trainer’s knowledge is fine. But not this!” He couldn’t put his finger on why he felt so strongly. After all he was perfectly happy for the slaves to be fucked, beaten, enjoyed in any way at all. But he just didn’t like this furtive, backhanded way of profiting from slaveflesh. He strode over to the end of the line of stalls where the CSL slaves were kept and stood in front of them. From further up the line he could hear sleepy groans as one or other of the Bakhtar girls was woken and was being helplessly aroused by fumbling hands in the dark.
Paolo shrugged and pocketed his money. In silence the two handlers waited until the men had finished, the rustling of straw and moans of pleasure punctuating the couplings. Then the men emerged and left without any further communication. Brian watched as Paolo went into the stalls of the girls who had been used and he could hear him checking their shackles. He waited until the night watchman showed up and waited an hour or so after that before he made his way upstairs.
Chapter 17
The first day went well for the visiting team. The dressage was held in the morning and the routines that Peter had worked out more than matched the complexities of Gerd’s blue plumed ponies’ formations. Cherry distinguished herself by the ease with which she slipped into the routines, the figure of eight especially and the Prince himself made a point of congratulating Brian on the slave’s ability to adapt and he also complimented Amelia and Raika’s presentation. But Brian had little time to bask in Cherry’s triumph. He had to dash back to the stadium to take part in the first chariot races. He had to change into shorts and a leather waistcoat with leather arm guards. He knew the women in the crowds liked to see the guards’ bodies but the whip play during a race could get pretty frantic - hence the waistcoat and arm guard. On the front rail of each chariot, there were holsters for two spares of the long driving whips. It was not uncommon for lashes to become entangled in the chaos of overtaking manoeuvres and it was often better to let the whip go than to risk being dragged out of the chariot.
Brian found he was far more nervous than he had thought he would be as he made his way into the darkness of the entrance tunnel and took his place beside his driver who was waiting beside the chariot. The crews from the blue team were likewise lounging by their rigs and waiting for their teams to be harnessed up and shortly the doors to the dressing rooms opened and the harnessed girls were led in. Brian took charge of fastening Ayesha and Jet to the front crossbar. Ayesha’s left wrist and Jet’s right were shackled, leaving them one armoured forearm on the outside to fight with. The chariot runners’ blinkers had developed into a separate item from the standard pony blinkers. They came much farther forward from the slave’s face and blocked her vision, even if she turned her head as much as reins and bit would allow. Experience had taught the trainers that by focusing the slave’s vision much more narrowly they were more docile when driven into situations of potential hazard. That meant a driver could wrench his team’s heads around and throw them into battle with another team without giving the slaves any time to worry about it. Combined with the two whips from the chariot itself this had resulted in much more entertaining and high-speed scraps, collisions and crashes.
Brian and his driver worked their way along the team making sure that the steering rein was connected to the bit of the rearmost slave on each side and then worked forwards ensuring that a shorter rein connected the slaves’ bits together. This had been found to be the most effective way of wrenching all three heads round for swift manoeuvring. The stone tunnel echoed to the shuffling of naked feet and nervous champing on bits. There was some frisking as the irritants on the butt plugs began to kick in, followed by occasional fleshy smacks as the men either calmed their teams or expressed their own tension by slapping a tempting buttock or strapped tit.
At last however the doors were flung wide and the drivers held their teams on tight reins while their eyes accustomed to the sudden glare. The compere’s voice boomed something that Brian couldn’t decipher over the cheering of the crowd, anxious for the first of the day’s sports to begin. Brian’s driver carefully steered his team over to the extreme left, where they had been drawn. It was why they had harnessed Jet on the right, to take the brunt of the fighting and Ayesha, the faster runner out on the left. Brian surveyed his targets, the front four female backs. Two of them already bore fading red stripes from being whipped through the parade, some beads of sweat were already meandering down across them. Brian wiped his whip hand on his shorts, settled his grip and looked to his right. Beside him one of the blue drivers and his whipman grinned back fiercely. Brian did the same. All the men would enjoy the coming minutes whatever happened, but it was always good to win.
“Are you ready?” the compere’s voice thundered. The slaves dug their feet into the dust as best they could, arms tensed on crossbars before them. Brian let the lash of his whip fall free.
“Set!” Brian’s driver checked the reins were settled around his waist.
Behind them the starting pistol cracked and they were away. The noise was deafening as the crowd erupted and the whip
s sang and snapped all around them. The wheels thundered in the dust and the slaves’ feet pounded. Brian’s vision almost blurred at the jolting but hanging onto the chariot’s front rail with one hand he swung in regular and fast lashes over Jet’s and Ayesha’s shoulders, the whipcord thudding into the strapped tits.
As they approached the first turn, Brian could see they were ahead of two of the inside rigs and keeping pace with the inside one. But they weren’t yet far enough ahead to pull across at the turn without a fight. The driver yelled and slashed even harder at the rear pair of slaves then wrenched the right hand rein cruelly hard. Jet was sideways on when the rig next to them tried to drive them into the fence by colliding and shoving but Brian managed to get a warning lash onto her right shoulder, making her turn her head just that little bit more and see the danger. Her right forearm came out and slashed at the oncoming slave’s midriff - she folded forward and Brian managed to get several slashes of the whip onto the opposing team’s backs, making their driver haul them round. The first turn negotiated they thundered down the next straight, still just leading their nearest rival and at the approach to the second turn Brian swivelled just slightly and slashed down and backwards, catching one of their leading pair hard and fast around the knees, the long lash curling, easily pinning the flying limbs together. She came down immediately, ploughing headfirst into the dust and tripping the girl behind her who came down too. The rig was unbalanced and still moving fast, the chariot itself tipped and spilled its men. Sending them sprawling into the dust too amid a chaos of thrashing, naked legs. Brian’s driver laughed wildly and redoubled the fury of his whip play as they smoothly made the turn and raced down the next length, moving into the third lane and sandwiching the blues’ other rig. It took only half the length of the next straight for Brian’s rig to overhaul it and in a flurry of battling slaves, with whips snapping and cutting the three teams came together, Conor’s team were caught from both flanks and the Prince’s slaves wanted to make sure they inflicted as much damage as they could to shorten the odds on the remaining races. The blues battled bravely as fists and whips assailed them from both sides but inevitably they went down at last and the teams regrouped back at the entrance tunnel. The Blues looked the worse for wear and by lunchtime, after three more races, the Prince’s team was leading handsomely, having taken two of the following three races.