Something sharp dug into her buttocks and she tried to lift her bottom but his cock kept her impaled, forcing her harder to the floor. Whatever it was stabbing her buttocks only heightened the pleasure of her orgasm, and she came with a warbling groan, kicking wildly at the waggon railings, drumming her heels on the bars. The driver emptied into her, flooding her sex with hot streams of juice. He managed, even as he came to snatch a quick glance at the passing carriage. Whoever was inside took a furtive look at the amorous couple now uncoupling behind the bars, then closed the curtain and continued on his way.
“You’re the best fuck I’ve had in a long while,” the driver told her, hauling her upright.
He had the decency to cover her breasts before shackling her back into position. He let her drink a bellyful of lemon water and let himself out of the cart, locked the door and went back to his seat, joyfully whipping up the ox and adjusting his tunic as the wheels rumbled over the cobbles.
The sun had almost set when they arrived at the gladiatorial training school. An unnatural silence hung over the roofs and buildings, and in the semi darkness Africanus saw the cart pass under a low arch and into a courtyard surrounded by a high wall. The driver unlocked the door and swiftly unshackled his passenger. Africanus sighed aloud at being released, especially from that weight and the collar around her neck. Her bottom still hurt from the splinter that had pierced her skin. Still, she thought, as a shadowy figure advanced carrying a torch, a good hot bath will put things aright. She could hardly wait for the morrow to arrive when she would begin her training. Wielding a sword was going to be fun.
“Come with me,” the figure said, turning on its heels.
A door opened and Africanus stumbled in the dim light along a bare stone corridor, lined with studded doors. The figure keyed a lock and the door creaked open.
“Your cell,” the figure informed, and Africanus went in.
“What about a bath?” she shouted after the figure. “I’m all covered in dust.”
But the figure could not have heard, because the door was locked behind it. A lamp had been left burning on a small cabinet and when her eyes became accustomed to the light she saw a crude bed covered with straw. On the cabinet were half a loaf of bread and a pitcher of water. A pot for night use stood under the bed. An awful sinking feeling went through her stomach. But too tired to think about it, she lay on the straw and fell fast asleep dreaming of the driver and his rampant cock.
The cell door crashed open and Africanus looked up with a start. She was squatting over the pot emptying her bladder.
“You stink like a ferret,” the man in the doorway said, wrinkling his nose. “You had better get yourself cleaned before the lanista sees you.”
He waited until she had finished before leading her out of the cell, watching her with a leer as her water drummed into the pot. As they were leaving a girl slave came in and collected it. Urine was a valuable commodity and was used by fullers, its acidic properties were ideal for cleaning clothes.
“If you don’t measure up,” the man said, “that’s where you’ll be sold.”
All the way along the passage he described how slaves spent their lives calf deep in urine tramping with their bare feet on the dirty clothes sent to be cleaned.
“Thanks,” Africanus muttered, entering the bath house.
A girl slave told her to stand over a stone sink, whilst another threw a bucket of cold water over her smelling skin. Seizing scrubbing brushes they went to work with a fury, rubbing the stiff bristles over her buttocks and legs, not stopping until all the dust and sweat had been removed and her skin again shone like polished ebony. They gave her a towel to wash her own private parts. Instead of wearing the tunic, she was given a clean white cloth which one of the girl slaves wrapped around her hips. It was short, barely covering her buttocks. If she bent over for all the use it was, she might as well been wearing nothing. Bare breasted, she walked into the courtyard and her first day as a gladiatrix.
The lanista, the gladiatorial trainer, was a former gladiator, now in his late forties, but still remarkably strong and well built. “I am Drucus, your trainer,” he told her.
His manner was not unkind, but in his eyes Africanus instantly recognized cold, calculating strength, not a man to cross at any price.
He came up to her and slapped her buttocks and he seemed to be satisfied at their firmness. He slapped her thighs and hips and back. His strong hands manipulated her shoulders and biceps. He slapped her belly and said it was too soft, but that was nothing to worry about; a month of training would get rid of any excess fat. Her breasts stung when his palm slapped each one in turn. Large and well shaped, he told her, nothing to worry about there either.
“She’s in good shape,” he complimented, squeezing her breast. “But there is a lot of hard work ahead of her before she’s ready for combat.”
He was addressing Quintus who had come into the courtyard. “You’ll need to keep a sharp eye on her,” he said testily. “She fucks at the slightest opportunity.”
The lanista grinned lasciviously. “If she fights as well as she fucks I’m sure she’ll do well. But it wouldn’t go amiss to have her paired with another woman. They fight differently from men, and it wouldn’t be fair to match her against a trained gladiator.”
“I can fight as well as any man,” Africanus said boldly.
“Put her to the test,” Quintus ordered. “And we’ll see if her boasting rings true. Fetch Circo.”
The gladiator was fair haired, a prisoner of war from Britannia, solid muscle from head to toe. His biceps and chest rippled with strength. He wore a pair of leather breeches and at the sight of the near naked black woman his cock bulged.
“This is no time for licentious thoughts,” Quintus grunted. “Give them the rudis.”
A rudis was a wooden sword used in training. Not until a gladiator was judged a skilled combatant was he given a gladius, a real sword.
“Keep up your guard,” Drucus advised, handing her the rudis. “Move fast and never turn your back. Good luck my black beauty.”
Already he was warming to the girl. A month of hard physical training would do wonders. He wondered if Quintus was speaking the truth when he said she fucked at the slightest opportunity. She looked the sort who liked her cock. There was no doubt in his mind that she could fuck like a stoat if needs must, and with an arse that could crack walnuts, she’d make a magnificent ride.
Africanus and Circo stood facing each other and raised their rudis, crossing them and waiting for Drucus to give the order to begin. He held a long wooden shaft between them, and when it was swiftly raised Circo displayed his consummate skill. He moved so fast it was bewildering, the wooden blade went everywhere at once, in one second it slashed at head height, and in the next cut across her belly. He moved as lightly as a girl, smacking the blade against her rump, then on the backs of her thighs. Her breasts wobbled and slapped when the blade hit both globes in quick succession. A hard thrust poked into her navel and she buckled over only to receive another singeing blow across her shoulder blades. They had only been fighting for less than a minute and Africanus was reeling from blow after blow. Circo could hardly believe what he was seeing in front of him, a tall, magnificent black woman with a body he would readily kill for, leaping in all directions, breasts swinging like huge melons, an arse that wobbled and danced every time he struck it. Normally, matched against such a novice, he would have disarmed her in seconds. But he was in no hurry. No hurry at all.
“Aaagh!” Africanus groaned, as the rudis smacked on her flank.
She turned sideways and another blow whistled into her bottom. It was surprising just how much it hurt, a short wooden sword coming at full speed from a man twice her strength. Try as she might, she just wasn’t up to his skill, let alone the speed at which he moved. She ought to have been disarmed minutes ago, but she still held
on to her rudis, doing her best to parry each cutting blow. He was playing with her, she knew that. She also knew her strength was failing fast. Her movements were slower and her judgment poor. He was hitting her more frequently, especially across her bottom. He seemed to have a fondness for beating her buttocks. The short skirt was no protection against the rudis and was quickly ripped from her hips. He sent the blade edge into her naked crease and she let out a long howl like a wounded she wolf. Dancing on one foot, she lifted her left thigh and saw the blade swing fast under her legs. It cut clean and deep into her slit so hard her body lifted from the ground. Drucus winced and would have stopped the contest there and then, but Quintus refused him.
“Let her fight ‘til she’s unconscious,” he said. “Perhaps then she’ll realize that female gladiators are not made in a single day.”
“But she has good qualities,” Drucus admitted.
Quintus nodded assent. She had taken a beating but was still on her feet, even though her buttocks were swelling from the constant bruising and welting thrusts.
The final stroke came when Circo caught her across the shoulder blades sending her tumbling head over heels. She lay spreadeagled on the ground, panting like a race horse, her legs wide open. Although it was against the rules of combat, Circo couldn’t resist sending the flat of the blade winging into her sex. She grunted and rolled over, sand sticking to her sweating skin.
“You may return to your duties,” Quintus said drily, and Circo marched off hoping it wasn’t the last bout he’d have with her.
“I think you’re right, she needs another woman to fight against,” Quintus admitted reluctantly.
She had put up a good fight, but was no match for a man.
“Now you see what lies ahead of you,” Quintus told her as he stood over her, wondering if she ever would be fit for the arena. “Drucus will work on your body strength for at least a month, by then I’ll have another woman for you to fight, and we shall decide which type of gladiatrix suits you best. After you have washed and had your bruises salved you will take the loyal oath to me and your trainer. From now on you belong to both of us, body and soul.” He turned to go, but something went through his mind and he turned on his heels. “Who gave you permission to fuck with the driver? You were supposed to rest on your journey.”
“It was the heat,” she replied softly, rubbing her aching bottom, and not wishing to betray the man. “It makes me horny.”
“In that case I think you need cooling,” he said. “This isn’t a brothel and you won’t be sharing your bed with anyone, unless I give you permission to do so. Is that clear?”
“Yes, master,” she whispered, feeling like a cheap whore, and wondering how he could have known she fucked the driver.
“Have her taken to the frigidarium and cool her passion, then beat her,” he said gruffly and stalked off, thinking that hiring a professional gladiatrix was going to cost yet more money. He hoped Africanus would be worth the extra expense. If she wasn’t, he’d sell her to the fullers. See how she liked wading knee deep in piss for the rest of her miserable life.
The frigidarium was just one of a series of baths ranging from hot to tepid to freezing. Usually the bathers passed from hot to cold, giving the body time to adjust to the varying temperatures. Africanus wasn’t given the opportunity to languish in either the hot or tepid, but was hurled head first into the near freezing water of the frigidarium.
At least, she thought, ducking her shoulders under the water, if my arse is frozen, I shan’t feel the whip lashing into me. After a few minutes of immersion her body became immune to the coldness, and she leaned against the edge of the bath, arms outstretched along the rim, legs floating on the surface. It wasn’t like the tub at Clodius’ establishment, but a real bath constructed of stone and marble, large enough to hold twenty or more people. She closed her eyes thinking of the bout she’d just fought. Circo had beaten the shit out of her, almost literally for once or twice she came close to emptying her bowels when he smacked the rudis on her rump. She had a lot to learn; that much was certain, but there was no doubt in her mind that under Drucus’ tutelage she would learn fast, but she was certain that there was much more to being a gladiatrix than merely slaying the opponent. In the fullness of time she would learn all there was to know, but for the present all she needed was to soothe away the ache in the freezing water.
She lay still admiring the frescos decorating the walls. Numerous scenes depicting gladiatorial combat had been executed with startling realism. She studied each painted figure, some were heavily armed, others less so, some were bare headed and others wore huge, wide brimmed helmets. There was one that was particularly frightening; a full faced helmet with mere slits for the eyes to see through and shaped like a wolf’s head. The depicted gladiator carried a sinister sword bent at the middle. It didn’t take much imagination to picture the sort of fearful damage it could inflict. She was studying a gladiator wielding a trident when a girl slave came hurrying into the frigidarium.
“You must get out now,” she said urgently. “The mistress wants you. Put on your skirt and come with me. Quickly now.”
Mistress, she wondered. What would the mistress want with me? Whoever the mistress happened to be.
She clambered out of the water shivering and, hugging her freezing breasts, ran around the water’s edge and into a small, sun filled courtyard. In no time at all the sun warmed her skin and suddenly she felt happy with life. All around the perimeter grew exotic plants with brightly coloured flowers and broad spreading leaves. The flags underfoot were chequered squares of red and white marble, and in the centre a small pond was filled with goldfish and lilies. She never imagined that people could live in such splendour.
“So you are Quintus’ latest acquisition,” a feminine voice echoed under the portico.
Africanus saw a woman beautifully dressed in a purple robe with gold trimmings. Her hair was curled and piled high on top of her head. It was difficult to guess her age. She could have been anywhere between five and twenty, and forty. Her face was broad with splendid dark, roving eyes, full, wide, painted lips and high cheek bones. She walked tall and erect, taking long, purposeful strides. Her hips seemed to dance with every step. In her right hand she carried a cane, long and supple with which she swished the air as she walked.
“I am the lady Octavia,” she introduced. “Your new master’s wife and I have the pleasure of delivering the punishment. It will make a pleasant change beating a full grown woman instead of these chits of girls my husband seems to employ. I suppose you are the one who fucked with the driver.”
“Yes, mistress,” Africanus replied dutifully. “I am she.”
She was beginning to think that playful dalliance with the driver was causing her a great deal of trouble and had given the impression that she was little better than a common tart.
The lady Octavia came across the coloured squares and putting the end of the cane under Africanus’ skirt, lifted it off her hips.
“I can see you’ve been in combat,” she said, angling her head on one side, closely scrutinizing the marks left by Circo’s rudis. “Lucky for you it wasn’t a gladius, or you would’ve been cut to shreds.”
“Yes, mistress,” Africanus replied, breathing in the lady’s scented perfume.
“You know why you are being beaten?”
Africanus nodded dumbly, but she didn’t know it wasn’t only because she fucked the driver, but because Quintus had underestimated how costly it would be to train her, and he was taking out his anger by allowing his own wife to give her a thrashing. She had a penchant for beating her slaves and making her a present of the black gladiatrix would assuage her anger when he told her he had to take out yet another loan.
“You have splendid buttocks,” lady Octavia remarked, placing her soft hand on Africanus’ bottom. “And so firm. I wonder how the Gods blessed you with such a bea
utiful body. It would be a shame to add further blemishes to such smooth skin, so I’ll let you off with only ten strokes.”
“You’re very kind, mistress,” she whispered, feeling the hand travel up her back.
“And these breasts,” lady Octavia continued, drawing nearer. “Why, they put my young slaves quite in the shade. Your nipples are bigger than some of my slave’s tits.”
It was an exaggeration, but the point was well made.
“I do have large tits, mistress,” Africanus agreed, looking down at the finely manicured nails pinching her nipples.
“I’ll cane you now and one of my slaves can salve you directly afterwards and perhaps a little later on you can provide me with some entertainment. Bend over and touch your toes. But first, would you prefer a gag? The cane can be very painful on naked skin, particularly when it is stretched, and crying out is seen as a sign of weakness.”
“I would prefer a gag,” Africanus said, not wishing to give the wrong impression to anyone who might be listening, especially Drucus whom she wanted most to impress.
“Very well, I will allow you that. Take off your skirt.”
Africanus slipped it from her hips and, following her mistress’ instructions, wound it into a tight rope. She put the middle of it in her mouth and knotted the ends behind her head, then bent her bare bottom to the cane.
Lady Octavia took a step to the left of her and touched the cane lightly on her bottom, gauging where the first lash would fall. It came with a savage whistle, striking across both cheeks and with such force it dug deep into her flesh. A muffled grunt escaped Africanus’ lips and she toppled forward bumping her head on a pillar.
“Keep still and show more self control,” lady Octavia advised, smiling widely at the welt already forming on the glistening skin.
The second, third and forth strokes landed above the first with perfect precision, the same distance apart, working upwards towards the base of her spine. The fifth and six strokes came in graceful, yet fast uppercuts, slicing under the cheeks and into the crease where thighs joined to buttocks. Lady Octavia saw the instant effect that produced, but kept silent at the sight of the erect nipples and quivering thighs. It would be worth remembering for later. The remainder of the lashes fell in diagonal strokes, criss crossing over the cheeks, making Africanus grunt and snort at every stroke.
The Arena of Torment Page 5