Do it, she whispered, fuck yourself with your whole fist.
Her fingers uncrossed and fluttered wetly against her sex tunnel walls. When she felt her own excited juices flowing over her fingers, she gave her wrist a vigorous shove. She had done it. For the first time ever she was fist fucking her own sex. Her arm pumped fast and furiously so much so that it ached but the feeling was unbelievable. Every pore tingled and stung from the tip of her toes to her neck.
This is glorious, she sobbed, ramming her feet and shoulders against the groaning planks of the tub.
Suddenly as her climax approached every muscle in her body grew hard and went into wild uncontrollable spasms. There was no controlling her body now. Her shoulder blades protruded from her back scraping themselves raw on the timber, her legs stiffened, her thighs and calves went as hard as iron. Quickly she reached for her breast and sucked on the nipple heightening her arousal past the point of no return. If one of the guards had driven a spear into her belly, Africanus would not have felt it. Her wrist pumped so fast it blurred, and then she gave vent to a long wailing shriek, so loud and shrill that one of the slaves passing by the bath house stopped dead in her tracks. She thought someone had been murdered but no sound followed for Africanus had come and now lay exhausted in the tub, her arms and legs floated like pieces of drift wood, without purpose, without feeling. She opened her eyes and saw through the steam a dim figure staring down at her.
“If you’ve finished, I’d like to massage you now,” a tired voice announced.
“How long have you been there?” Africanus asked the middle aged woman leaning over the tub.
“Long enough to see your arm half way up your cunt,” she replied crudely. “Now get out of that tub and brace yourself for a beating.”
“Oh what have I done now?” Africanus sighed, swinging her leg over the rim.
“Done?” the woman asked, surprised at the question. “You haven’t done anything. It’s all part of the treatment. A good birching makes the blood flow, cleans the dirt out of the pores.”
She didn’t tell Africanus that she ought to have been birched during intervals in and out of the bath, and then only lightly. She came from behind the tub wielding a sheaf of birch twigs and marched to where Africanus was standing.
“Stand up straight and cup your breasts,” she told her. “Legs together and don’t move.”
The woman walked slowly around Africanus, making no sound except for heavy breathing, punctuated with favourable comments regarding her body.
“You have good breasts,” she observed, stroking each one with the tips of her fingers. She brushed her thumbs lightly over the nipples, noticing with satisfaction how quickly they responded. “I suppose many men have sucked on these succulent buds.”
“No they haven’t,” Africanus replied, startled at the suggestion.
“What about your cunt? How many men have had the pleasure of that sweet mound, I wonder?”
None of your business, Africanus thought, wondering where all this was leading.
The woman walked softly behind her and ran her fingers along the welts, then through the buttock crease murmuring her admiration for such a strong arse. Then for several moments she patted and smoothed the cheeks.
“What did it feel like, having Proteus’ cock up your arse? You must’ve found it delightful. Eh?”
Africanus shuddered at the remembrance of his huge organ brutally riding her bottom.
“It was fucking awful,” she swore.
There was disappointment in the woman’s voice when she whispered, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Africanus stared directly at the wall trying to avert her mind from this strange woman now fondling and poking her back and shoulders. She was so close she could feel her breath on the back of her neck and instantly her skin goose bumped.
“What about women?” the woman asked. “Do you like women?”
I don’t like you for a start, she thought. You give me the creeps.
“No, I don’t like women,” she said out loud, wishing the woman would either beat her or leave her in peace.
“Perhaps that’s because you’ve never had the pleasure of enjoying another woman’s flesh,” the woman persisted. “Have you never wondered what it’s like to feel another woman’s breasts or lick her cunt?”
Africanus could feel her temper rising. Now she understood what the woman was really after and she wasn’t going to get it. Not with her at any rate.
“I think you need a good thrashing to soften you up a little,” the woman threatened, angry at the lack of response in the beautiful black woman standing so wonderfully naked.
She padded softly to Africanus’ rear and patted her bottom cheeks. “What about a few strokes on your thighs to begin with. Shall we say eight or would you prefer ten?”
Without waiting for a suggestion either way she cracked the twigs across the backs of Africanus’ naked thighs. The blow came from the full strength of her arm and when the twigs struck a fierce pain far greater than she imagined shot through her legs. She hit her again, aiming the sheaf so accurately that both thighs were struck at once, and went on beating her until the backs of her legs were numbed.
“What about your bare arse? Shall we say at least twenty on those magnificent moons?”
It was like being hit with a tree trunk. The whole sheaf smacked and splintered from the sheer force of the blow. Yet oddly, Africanus was beginning to feel aroused from the effect of the heat blazing through her bruised buttocks. But she wasn’t going to let the woman know that. Another lash landed on the side of her bottom where the buttocks formed into the delicious hollows that Quintus and Clodius had so admired. Inside her sex Africanus felt a tingling sensation. She knew her clitoris was being teased to arousal and to distract herself she concentrated on counting the blows now swinging under her cheeks. If only the bitch wouldn’t hit her there. Every woman alive has her sensitive regions and the underside of the buttocks was where Africanus was most sensitive. The woman noticed that her legs had suddenly gone stiff and she was visibly trembling.
“I can see you like having your arse whipped,” she grinned. “Especially here.”
And she concentrated on the sensitive skin, not lashing so hard but merely flicking the shattered twigs where she guessed they would have the most effect.
Sweat was breaking out all over Africanus’ skin and the sweet smell of lime leaves and soap hung pleasantly around her.
The woman’s hand alighted on her bottom fondling and squeezing the place that she had just teased. She moved closer pressing her body against Africanus’ back and rubbed her hard nipples into the naked sweating skin.
“I think a few strokes on your belly and tits will have you gasping for it,” she observed, sidling around Africanus.
She lashed the twigs over the plump mound of her belly smiling gleefully at the flat hollow sound they made. Then she concentrated on her breasts.
“Keep them lifted and don’t move,” she commanded.
A strange formation had altered her features, the eyelids were heavy with longing and her parted lips trembled constantly. It was all she could do to keep herself from dragging the black woman onto the marble massage slab and riding her there and then.
The twigs sailed over Africanus’ cupped breasts made more beautiful and larger for being held in her hands. The woman’s eyes widened at the sight of the quivering flesh and the areolae spreading ever wider.
“Press your tits together,” she rasped.
Africanus obeyed and compressed her globes until the nipples almost touched.
The woman, blushing in her desperation lashed both breasts so hard the twigs snapped and flew in all directions, but every time the nipples were struck by the sharp pointed twigs Africanus heaved a sigh of arousal. Between her legs she was wet, so wet it trickled dow
n the insides of her thighs. Her clitoris pulsated so much she could hardly breathe. Either the woman knew exactly how to arouse her, beating and tormenting her sensitive places, or it had happened naturally, a mounting orgasm brought on by a beating.
The woman could see the effect the twigs were having and cast the sheaf aside.
“I think you’ve had enough,” she whispered, taking Africanus’ hands from her breasts.
She kept their fingers locked and lowered her head, her lips sucking on the splendidly aroused teats.
“You taste so sweet,” the woman breathed. “I think now it’s time for your massage. Follow me.”
Almost in an orgiastic trance, Africanus followed her into the massage room and laid herself flat upon a huge marble slab.
“It seems you are all the better for a good beating,” the woman said softly. “See how relaxed you are.”
That couldn’t be denied. All the tension had evaporated. Her tensed muscles now felt soft and light.
“Are you going to do what I think you’re going to do?” she asked, no longer despising the woman but finding her oddly attractive in the way that one is mesmerized by a cobra.
“That all depends on what you think I’m going to do,” she said huskily.
“I think you want to kiss me.”
A rasping laugh echoed around the marble walls. “I’m going to do much more than that,” she whispered. “Now let me feel your cunt.”
Without any resistance, Africanus allowed the woman to part her legs, spreading them over the slab. A renewed surge of pleasure filled her trembling belly and bottom as the woman’s hand slipped between her thighs.
“I saw what you were doing in that tub,” the woman said, running her fingers through the thick pubic curls. “No need to be ashamed. It’s what we all do, but sometimes it is more satisfying if another woman does it for you. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Her voice was soft and throaty and when she spoke she looked directly into Africanus’ eyes. She realized that the woman was going to fist fuck her whether she wanted it or not, and after having her bottom thrashed to arousal was not entirely surprised to find the idea equally arousing.
“I’ve never been fucked by another woman,” she admitted, unable to control the slow gyration of her hips.
Whatever the woman was doing between her legs was having an instant effect. Without conscious effort, as if the woman’s fingers had taken control of her senses, Africanus’ hips and pelvis began squirming over the slab. Involuntarily, she reached for her breasts and cupped them, inviting the masseuse to suck on her nipples. But she ignored the invitation and went on worming her fingers into the soaking slit, moving them faster until the sex lips became so soft and pliable that her hand slipped in to the wrist.
Africanus arched her back high off the slab willing the woman’s hand to go deeper and faster. In desperation she pumped her hips against the driving fist whirling inside her, forcing herself towards an orgasm that would leave her breathless and satiated. Keeping her wrist turning, the woman moved further along the slab and leaned over crushing her open mouth onto Africanus’ lips. Their hot tongues met flicking and diving deep into their throats. Africanus reached over her sweating belly and grabbed the woman’s wrist pushing it harder against her sex. In a welter of thrashing legs and arms Africanus rose to her climax.
Suddenly the woman pulled back. “Not yet!” she shrieked. “Not so soon!”
But Africanus was past the point of no return. Her body jerked and twisted from the hot rhythmic spasms darting from her breasts and belly. Her nipples tingled so much they hurt, but it was nothing compared to her trembling clitoris now so sensitive she squealed and shrieked at the slightest touch. She had had men inside her, the guards often took the slave women shackled to the pole, coming behind them, kicking their ankles wide and fucking them from behind while their hands remained tightly manacled, but it was nothing compared to what was happening inside her now.
Her bottom bounced on and off the slab, cries of ecstasy reverberated around the marble chamber and in an instant she climaxed with a long drawn out howl. Trembling with anger, the woman took away her soaking fist and looked savagely at Africanus’ exhausted face.
“You came too soon,” she hissed, furious at being denied her own climax.
Usually watching a panting girl in the throes of orgasm was enough to bring her off, but this one had come too quickly and now she felt cheated.
“I think you need another thrashing,” she grated.
“I think she needs nothing of the sort.”
Both Africanus and the masseuse looked round at the man coming into the massage chamber.
“You have disobeyed my orders,” Quintus said, glancing at the woman and then at Africanus.
It didn’t take much imagination to realize what had just taken place. He could plainly see the look of sexual gratification on the black girl’s face and the tell tale pool of juice between her legs. The air in the chamber was still thick with the aroma of sex and sweat.
“You were instructed to scrub her and bring her directly to me,” he said to the woman, anger evident in his tone. “I’ve been waiting for an hour and when I come looking for her, what do I find? Instead of being freshly scrubbed, she’s been fucked by you.”
“I’m sorry, master,” the masseuse trembled. “I just can’t help myself.”
“In that case, your sexual cravings need curtailing. Go to the whipping post and prepare yourself for a flogging, and,” he grinned, looking at Africanus, “you shall have the honour of delivering it.”
Africanus swung her legs off the slab, her face distorted in disbelief.
“But I’ve never flogged anyone in my life.”
Lost in thought, Quintus stroked his chin. He looked first at the black girl then at the masseuse and back to the black girl again.
“You get out!” he barked at the woman. He waited until she went sobbing out of the chamber and seated himself on the slab. Africanus stood in front of him. Suddenly aware of her nakedness, she placed her hands over her sex and kept her head bowed.
Quintus surveyed her beauty, admiring her robust limbs and hips. A smile spread across his face and he patted the empty space beside him indicating that she should be seated. Africanus lowered her bottom to the slab and looked at the floor wondering what was coming next, whether he would have her there and then, or merely content himself with mauling her naked body, but he just sat still marshalling his thoughts.
“You have been sold,” he told her flatly. “And I am your new master. Your days here are over and from now on you will begin your training as a gladiatrix. Do you know what a gladiatrix does for a living?” Africanus shook her head. “She kills in the arena, like a gladiator.” He gave her a few seconds to think about that. “Your training will be long and hard, but the rewards are endless. Fail and you will be sold back to Clodius and spend the rest of your miserable life turning that wheel. Now go to the tub and scrub away the filth left by that bitch and report to the whipping post. I shall watch closely to see how you perform.”
He got up and went, leaving Africanus’ mind in turmoil. A gladiatrix! But she had never killed anyone, let alone doing it for a living. Then suddenly it fell into place. Having her unjustly flogged then bum fucked were tests to see how she held up. To see how much punishment she could take. Well, if flogging was to their taste she could give them a feast. She went swiftly to the tub and scooped up a handful of water, rubbing it hard between her legs. She knew of men taken from quarries and mines to train as gladiators. The training was hard but to those who succeeded came great rewards; some had even been given their freedom, or had managed to buy it. One thing was for certain, it was her way out of this place, a chance to govern her own fate. No more turning that wheel in endless drudgery but a new life of fame and fortune, providing she wasn’t killed. But that would b
e down to her. Going out of the chamber, she knew that her new master would be watching her and might even change his mind if she failed to meet his expectations.
“I’ll flog the bitch raw,” she muttered aloud, and made her way to the whipping post.
The masseuse was hanging by the wrists. Her body, pale and slender looked a lot less daunting than when Africanus had first encountered her in the baths. For a woman in her early forties she was in surprisingly good shape, the hips were slim and the buttocks pert and tight, her legs shapely if perhaps a little too thin. Africanus knew at once that she wouldn’t stand up to a severe flogging. She guessed that maybe ten strokes would finish her.
Under the awning sat her new master obviously pleased with his new purchase. The contrast between the hanging woman and the magnificently naked black girl dispelled any doubts he might have harboured. Flogging the masseuse would be a good test to see if she could stand the sight of blood and more importantly inflict the wounds that brought it. So far she had passed all the tests he’d set her, now he wanted to see if she could wield the whip without emotion. Killing was a cold blooded business and there was no room for either compassion or weakness.
“Give her twenty strokes,” Quintus commanded. “Lay them on hard and fast.”
The whip that Africanus had been given dangled limply in her hand. Looking at the bare back and buttocks of the older woman, the lack of flesh with which to sustain the blows left her hesitating. In no time at all the leather tails would cut her to the bone. Somehow, despite her earlier sexual assaults and beating, Africanus thought the wretch didn’t deserve such a cruel flogging.
The Arena of Torment Page 3