by Sean O'Kane
The afternoon was taken up by the first of the whip contests and melees, followed by the paired log pulling races. Tigre did well out on the sands and dispatched four opponents, leaving them with just enough energy to lick her out as she sat triumphantly on their faces. She was heavily defeated however in the two whip melees between groups of twenty squad slaves. The crowd sentenced her to thirty lashes for having been the first slave down. In accordance with the new arrangements, the punishments all took place last thing in the evening.
As it turned out, Tigre was the only CSL representative put to the whip in the evening. Ox and Trouble had acquitted themselves well, although the Blues had made up a lot of ground. Peter was well pleased with the CSL contingent and Brian was able to relax at the back of the owners’ box as the punishment session was served up as an appetiser before the crowd made its way back to the hotels at the coast - or if they were lucky enough - to the house and extra slave usage after dinner.
The losing chariot teams were flogged simultaneously, all twelve tied to posts that ran down the centre of the arena. Some lucky members of the audience had their ticket numbers called and came down to help deliver the sentences. Both Conor Brien and the Prince watched in quiet satisfaction as their slaves took the floggings well and fucked enthusiastically afterwards for the greedy cameras.
Tigre’s flogging was more inventive. She and some others were put in the Cage - the open topped one sometimes used for final duels at the ends of shows. The crane was brought into the arena and hauled the apparatus high up into the night sky and swung it carefully around in front of the terraces so that they got good close up views of the spreadeagled forms and the sprays of sweat arcing off their bodies under the lashes. The cameras concentrated on the group sex scenes taking place below.
Back in the stables, there was barely time to hose the exhausted slaves down and feed them before those who had been booked for use were summoned. Brian oversaw Raika and Amelia as they brushed out Tigre’s and Jet’s hair, clipped on their tongue leads and took them up to the house and an evening of inventive torment at the hands of Conor’s special guests. His main concern was Ayesha.
He had been amazed that she didn’t appear to have been booked and was left in her stall when the others were taken away. He put Ox and Trouble together to let them
Brian waited until the long room was quiet, then he moved Ox into Trouble’s stall and left the two to indulge in their favourite sixty-nine position. Having their hands bound behind their backs made them all the more feverish with their tongues and as he moved along the open fronted stalls he could hear the rustle of straw the muffled grunts of effort and pleasure. Most of the slaves whose presence hadn’t been requested by the guests were taking full advantage of the chance to rest. But when Brian reached Ayesha’s stall she was prowling to the limits of her ankle chain. The stalls here were open fronted, the floors sloping up towards the back wall, in front was the gutter that served as a toilet for the slaves. Ayesha stopped when she saw Brian and she lowered her eyes as he stepped across the gutter and leaned casually against one wall of her stall.
“Come here!” he ordered quietly and she approached timidly. As he had been in Bakhtar, he was genuinely shocked at how complete the transformation in her was. The old Ayesha was all self-possession and coolly manipulative femme fatale. The beautiful naked slave who stood before him now, was unconditionally offering him everything she had. He held his hand out at crotch level and she obediently opened her legs and moved forward to allow him access to the cunt he had dreamed of entering when she had been an informant in his case against Sir John Fitzgerald. He jabbed his fingers into her roughly and stirred her vagina into thickly moist activity.
He worked her ruthlessly until she was squelching and her breasts were heaving as her breathing deepened. Then he left her with no warning and went to the tack table which ran along the opposite wall and took up two studded tit straps. She could see them as he returned but stood her ground and even thrust her chest out to offer her soft flesh for torment. Brian took immense pleasure in slowly tightening each strap, making her whimper and fidget then suddenly pulling for the final hole and engaging the buckle. She kept her eyes lowered throughout however, even when he sank his fingers deep into the congested and constricted flesh.
“Now I’m going to whip them,” he whispered and was rewarded by the softest of whimpers.
He selected an especially whippy crop and made her squat with her legs well apart so he could flick at her cunt with it while he waited for her breasts to sensitise to an appropriate level.
They were darkening nicely when he laid the first lash on. Instantly there was a pink line across the mottled and drum tight skin. Ayesha couldn’t restrain a strangled yelp and an agonised rise onto her toes. He lashed her again before she could assimilate the pain of the first and the third followed before she could turn away and huddle her throbbing tits against the side of the stall. He lashed her backside where she still bore traces of the chariot’s driving whip. By the end of a three day show, a gladiator was more welt and bruise than girl anyway so he couldn’t see Peter objecting to a bit of extra rations. He laid on six heavy cuts, the delicious, broad hemispheres trembling under the assault. At last she couldn’t take it any more and had to turn, baring her breasts for more punishment. Brian drew the crop back and stopped. Suddenly he realised that he was punishing the girl she used to be, not the slave she now was. She might have been despicable before but now she was an obedient submissive and in some ways had gained in stature. At least she was now honest. Carlo’s words came back to him; ‘a slave talks with her body’. Brian reached out and felt between her legs again. As he parted her lips he felt the hot juices flood out over his fingers. What couldn’t speak couldn’t lie.
He aimed one exquisitely agonising slash across her nipples which nearly made her collapse and then, gripping her hair he led her over to the tack table and thrust her up against it, digging the edge into the fronts of her thighs. He paused long enough for her to see what was coming and then pushed her down onto her pounding and throbbing tits. Leaning heavily on her back so that she was crying out even before his cock was inside her, he fucked her from behind until she was howling.
It was as good a fuck as she had given him on the cross back in Bakhtar and she was on the crest of her third peak and trembling and sobbing at its intensity when he finally came and collapsed over her back, panting himself and feeling her gasp under him, her tormented breasts forgotten for a moment. After a few seconds he stood her up and released the straps, then he shackled her back in her stall again, leaving her to enjoy the feel of his cooling sperm oozing down her thighs.
Paolo came in and smiled at Brian when he saw the state Ayesha was in.
“Having a quick freebie? Why not, I was thinking the same myself,” he said cheerfully.
“I’m surprised she’s not been booked for the evening,” Brian said.
“Nah, the boss is going easy on her. He’s got something special planned for her on the last day. Hush, hush. Even I don’t know what it is.”
Chapter 18
Brian spent the morning of the second day helping the Bakhtar stable with the squad log pulling. Mid morning after the solo gladiators had warmed the crowds up by toiling in pairs up and down the length of the arena pulling slowly increased weights of wood behind them while their guards spurred them on with whips - and some judiciously administered cock at the pauses between laps - the entire squads were to be involved for the first time in mass log hauling.
The dressing rooms were in more than their usual chaos as over fifty naked females had to be oiled and fitted with special wrist restraints that would allow them to be irrevocably attached to the heavy rope that waited for them. But eventually the men managed to hustle their charges out into the echoing twilight of the tunnel. There they shoved the crowded slaves into the lines they needed and then used the karabiners on each restraint to attach each girl’s wrists to the steel rings set in the rope, on eith
er her left or right shoulder, depending on whether she was pulling from left or right.
The air was loud with male curses and meaty slaps as the slaves were organised. Panting in the oppressive heat there was just time for the two teams of men to exchange smiles and hopes for a good contest before the doors rumbled open and light flooded in. For a few seconds they waited while everyone accustomed their eyes to the glare and then with a command from each team leader the men applied the whips and the long lines of naked slaves leaned into their work, hauling the huge tree trunks behind them. Brian found himself in charge of an oriental looking slave directly in front of him, a blonde behind her and a Nordic looking one ahead. Each man had about three slaves to his whip. In the tunnel Brian had had a chance to slash a couple of strokes at a few randomly chosen slaves in order to assess the weight and the bite of the whip. He was impressed. The eight inch, penis shaped handle supported a thick bundle of fairly heavy, square cut leather tails. Their weight was just right to allow the slavedriver a comfortable swing, inflicting a good stinging stroke with minimum effort. He reckoned a healthy slave should be able to take heavy flogging and shrug off the welts in less than a day. Now, as the gleaming bodies threw themselves against the deadweight of the long log dragging in the dirt behind them, he joined his voice and his whip to the chorus of yells, snaps and thuds around him. Slowly, their feet slipping in the dust sometimes, the slaves dragged their loads into the sun and the eager crowd stood to greet the whip fest about to take place for their delectation. The two lines veered apart as the team leaders guided the slaves at the fronts of the lines to the starting places. There was a short pause while the crowd settled and the compere invited them to observe the ranks of well trained femininity paraded for their pleasure. Brian felt his cock stir at the thought of the decadent cruelty of the spectacle he was involved in. Before him the slaves tried to dig their feet in as best they could to get a good initial surge. He encouraged a few of the ones nearest him with slaps on their quivering rumps, and a quick fumble between their straining thighs provided his fingers with liquid evidence that despite the fear on every face, each slave was helplessly trained to enjoy her debasement under the relentless use of the whip on her body.
“Take the strain!”
The slaves tensed and Brian, like the other men on either side of him, raised their whips.
Crack!
The starting pistol sounded and the arena came alive. The slavedrivers yelled and cursed, their whips smacked down in furiously paced salvos and the slaves, groaning and yelping began to stagger forwards. The crowd’s noise became almost something physical and Brian found his whip arm swinging in a faster rhythm than he could ever remember it having done before.
Slowly the pace increased from a stagger to almost a normal walking pace. The team leader began to call in a definite rhythm.
“Heave! Heave! Heave!” At each call the whips fell and the slaves began to time their efforts to their flogging. By halfway along the arena the log was being hauled in a jerking but effective progress with the slaves taking no more whip than they could cope with. Brian found he had to wipe the sweat from his brow frequently as he worked on his three slaves. He was delivering full blooded throws to the three backs in front of him and as the oil and sweat flew up from the flesh, so a network of dusky pink lines was revealed. He glanced over his shoulder and realised that the Bakhtar team had got into its pace and rhythm before the opposition and as the end of the first leg approached, they had a lead of about four slaves. At the turn - where each tree trunk had to be turned about and hauled back along the arena - the men had to haul the line of slaves sharply around and try to keep the momentum going. Brian found it best to apply the whip to the backs of the thighs, this seemed to spur the girls on to pumping their legs harder and regaining their pace.
By the end of the second leg, the Bakhtar team was half the length of the slave line ahead, all they had to do was hold their lead for the final leg. The slaves were now pouring sweat, their hair hung in solid wet rats tails, beads dropped form their swinging breasts, the whips swung in arcs of glistening spray and Brian realised that slavedriving was harder work than he had imagined, his arm actually ached from lashing his slaves onwards. But most importantly he had an urgent, throbbing, erection on. Being so close to the sight and sound of a line of some fifty slaves being constantly flogged as they strained and struggled for the crowd’s pleasure had resulted in a hard on that pressed against his thighs, so thick was the root of his cock. He was going to have to sink it somewhere or other in a slave fairly soon. He wasn’t the only one, the rhythm of the shouts from the team leader and the beat of the lashes was slowly accelerating. But so was the opposition. The Bakhtar team was tiring and even the whips could no longer spur them. The Blues were closing and the crowd’s cheering became almost painful to the ears as the men laboured with their whips, lashing and yelling their slaves on. Brian changed his strategy as he saw others around him doing. He started flaying the buttocks and letting the tails of the whip snap down between the thighs and dig into the sweat slicked cunt flesh. Heads reared up and down the line and squeals of anguish rang out but the pace picked up just enough and the Bakhtar team staggered home by two slave-lengths.
With their hands helplessly shackled to the rope, the girls collapsed onto knees and elbows, leaving their arses nicely raised. Brian - and every other man on the arena floor - fumbled open the zip on his shorts and sank to his knees behind the nearest slave and began fucking her urgently while he admired the overlapping ridges and welts on the slender back and wide shoulders. He slid into her on a cushion of sweat and juice and found her interior so wet that he could barely feel her. He reached forwards and took a tit in each hand then squeezed hard. Her head flew back and she squealed, immediately he felt her tunnel clench around him. He looked up once he was at his ease and saw the giant video screens revelling in the scenes of mass slave usage. On every one hard pistons of male flesh and blood thrust imperiously into helplessly open female passages. Anuses were stretched to their limits around the vein threaded shafts hammering in to the hilt. Cunts gaped pinkly, oozing thick secretions in between fucks and some slaves, their hands freed for the rope, knelt up and opened their mouths to receive their masters’ pleasure. There was so much flesh on offer and such a head of unrequited lust built up over the race that Brian found he was hard again almost immediately after he had emptied himself.
It was nearly an hour before the exhausted and bedraggled squads were whipped back to the dressing rooms. Brian was glad of a short break for a frugal lunch before he had to start tacking up slaves for boxing and wrestling in the pens during the afternoon session. Tigre was scheduled for pursuit running and didn’t need any. In pursuit running the naked slave merely had to avoid a horse-mounted rider’s whip for as many circuits of the arena as she could make. Cherry was scheduled to go as well. In the dressing rooms, Ox and Trouble were buckled into their studded boxing corsets and thongs. Jet was rested until the pony racing in the evening.
Brian spent the afternoon patrolling the walkways which ran around and above the slave pens. The crowd, shaded by brightly coloured parasols, leaned on the rails and laid bets or chatted happily about the quality of the bouts taking place below. Ox won her boxing bout and then two wrestling bouts. Trouble lost her boxing contest but managed to stay up long enough before the uppercuts between the legs brought her down, to attract a fairly light punishment tally. She managed to win one and lose one in the wrestling. Tigre made six circuits and Cherry five in the pursuit running, so by the time Jet had come in second to Ayesha in the cross country pony racing, Brian was well pleased with the CSL performance and so was Prince Hassan. He congratulated Brian and the two girls in a quick visit to the stable block in the evening. Raika was just dabbing at the cuts on Trouble’s back after she had been taken down from her twenty lashes punishment flogging.
“Will they be available for the final melee tomorrow?” he asked as the slave twitched and groaned under the di
sinfectant’s sting.
“Can’t see why not,” Brian replied. “She’s taken worse in training before now.”
“Good, then we don’t need to put any of our spares in, do we Peter? We’ll field a full contingent and whet the crowd’s appetite for the finale….”
Peter Lang and the Prince moved away towards Ayesha’s stall as they spoke and lingered a while there.
Ayesha woke on the morniong of the final day of the show deeply puzzled and unhappy. She had been left out of nearly every event except for the pony racing, some of the log pulling and the chariots. She stood miserably in her stall as other slaves were led out for the studded whip duels during the morning and she regarded the limping and half-carried slaves that returned with nothing but envy. She knew how much her master liked to watch her taking the wicked studs across her back and breasts. Why was he denying himself that pleasure?
In the distance she heard the roar that greeted the onset of the final melee. Every able bodied slave was out in the arena and yet still she was left in her stall.
On the final afternoon, Raika and Amelia, breathed out in exhausted relief as the last of the slaves and guards filed out of the dressing room and into the tunnel. Their jobs were nearly done and soon they could pack up and go home. For three days they had almost ceaselessly groomed, cleaned, fed, watered and patched up their slaves. Now they could watch the final acts of the show from the owner’s box, probably get well and truly fucked by whichever men were there and then begin to relax.