The Arena of Torment

by Geoffrey Allen

  He asked her name and she lied and told him it was Satia. It sounded nice and had a ring to it.

  Satia the whore. Satia the best fuck in Marcellum. And she couldn’t help smiling at his ugly face when he came for the second time that hour. He got off her and shook out his tunic. She noticed the coin on the floor and something else lying under the bed that hadn’t been there when she first looked. He slapped her arse and left, promising that he’d have her again too. Nydia crawled under the bed sweeping away cockroaches and spiders that had made their home in the dust and dirt and brought out a leather purse.

  She closed the door and tipped out a pile of coins, counted them and went wide eyed. More then twenty sestertii! And that wasn’t counting the four she’d already earned, plus the one the young sailor had tossed on the floor. Not bad for an hour’s work bouncing on her bum. Well, if the old fool couldn’t take better care of his money that was his look out.She got dressed and went along the corridor and met the old sailor coming along the corridor. Unlike her he had been in more brothels than she had ever dreamed of. He had also been robbed in his time and knew a thief when he saw one. Without a word he tore the dress from her shoulders and found his purse hidden in its folds. The slap that landed on her face sent her flying along the corridor.

  “You thieving little whore!” he barked.

  “I was going to give it back,” she shrieked. “Honest I was.”

  “Don’t lie. You lifted that. I can see it written all over your face.”

  He went downstairs leaving her under the care of the brothel minder who, sensing a reward, grabbed Nydia’s arms and held them fast.

  “That’s her,” the old sailor declared to the brothel mistress. “Thieving bitch lifted my purse. I caught her red handed.”

  The brothel mistress eyed her malevolently. In her establishment whores came and went, but it was taken for granted that they parted with a percentage of their earnings for using the brothel facilities. This one, it seemed had not only tried to bilk her of her rent, but also robbed her clients into the bargain. It wasn’t good for business getting a reputation like that.

  “You come with me,” she grated, hauling Nydia to her feet and dragging her naked to the cellar.

  In no time, Nydia was tied hand and foot while a brothel minder went off to summon one of the town protectors whose job was to take thieves and other undesirables into custody. The prisons were full of thieves and murderesses and runaway slaves, just like the ones that Africanus had battled with in her first public combat. Now with fresh combats about to be staged at the Colosseum this little lot would fetch a tidy price when they were sold to the sponsor as sword fodder, or paraded naked and defenceless for the wild, half starved beasts.

  Octavia and Plutarc had a room on the top floor and were oblivious to the commotion going on below. Just another brothel room fight that occurred everyday in a hole like this, and hardly worth a thought. She wasn’t interested in animal sex at the moment, but eager to get down to the real reason for being there, although it was hard resisting his superb rippling chest and that blue chinned stubble, not to mention the powerful arms folded across his chest.

  She told him exactly when her husband was making the journey to Cantiacorum and the route he would take, the number of guards accompanying him and whether he would be armed or not. Plutarc listened carefully. He knew the road well and had already worked out where, when and how Quintus would simply vanish. Now there was only the matter of his fee, which was considerable, given the risks involved. Quintus owned a gladiatorial training school and might even take along a couple of trained gladiators. It would take at least three men to one to overcome them and of course, they all had to be paid.

  “A thousand sestertii!” she exclaimed, going pale.

  “I would’ve thought it a very reasonable price considering what you expect to get in return.” She was still gaping at him and he continued talking in a flat emotionless tone. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. In my line of business I have to be one step ahead of my customers. I know that after he’s gone you’ll inherit the whole lot, or why else would you want him out of your life?”

  There wasn’t much she could say to that. The artful bastard had stolen a lead and she wasn’t quite as clever as she thought.

  “All right, I agree,” she said ruefully. “But where do I get that kind of money?”

  “That’s your problem,” he said dryly. “Bring the money to me at the Temple of Venus the day before he sets out and, by the way, what exactly do you want done?”

  She’d thought about that and for once her conscience had got the better of her. He hadn’t been a bad husband and she didn’t want him killed, and besides if things did go wrong there was always the chance she might be implicated in his murder, then she would be in the arena as sword fodder.

  “Can you just make him disappear?” she asked softly.

  He thought that might be the case. He told her the galleys needed slaves and it wouldn’t be too difficult to get him on board, no questions asked. Once he was at sea it was unlikely he’d ever return, but he could falsify the death by leaving another body in his place dressed in his clothes. After the jackals and wolves had feasted on it no one would be any the wiser.

  “You’re very thorough,” she complimented him, genuinely admiring his professionalism, and thinking the same fate could befall Glaucus when the time arrived.

  “Now, are we going to have a little fun, or are you just going to sit there with all that love juice oozing from your cunt?”

  “What did you have in mind?” she smirked, aroused at his cool calculated mind and the sight of his bulging cock.

  “What do think if I send my belt across your arse, but you have got to try and stop me?”

  “What’s the penalty if I fail?” she smiled.

  “You get a hard fucking and,” he hesitated, “I might reduce my price a little.”

  She was up at once, stripping off her robe and baring her naked bottom. He stripped off his tunic and lashed his belt at her buttocks, but she was too quick and leaped over the boards. The sexual thrill of having to avoid the belt winging into her bare body had her heart racing. She knew he was eager to fuck with her as she with him, but being chased around the room and lashed into the bargain added spice to the banquet. He lashed at her with the end of the belt, catching her painful blows now and then across her naked rump and thighs. Watching her body bending and arching, her breasts bouncing from her chest made him more desperate. Every time the belt whistled against her naked skin he heard her catch her breath and saw a hot flush spread across her face. She was gasping for it, he could see that, but was enjoying being chased and whipped with the certainty she was going to be well fucked afterwards. Her bottom was turning red from the constant lashes he sent smacking against her soft flesh, but still she managed to avoid the blows he was aiming under her legs. If he could land a hard lash on her sex that would be enough to have her begging for it. But she stopped breathless and leaned against the wall, panting and gasping.

  “I’ve had enough,” she said, brushing the tumbling hair from her flushed face. “Let’s just fuck.”

  “Not until you get on your knees and beg me,” he returned, thrusting an inviting cock at her sweating sex.

  “Please fuck me,” she trembled. “My cunt’s wet for you.”

  “Do you think I should whip you before you get on your back?”

  “I think I need whipping.”

  “Hard?”

  “As hard as you can, on my bottom, my thighs, anywhere you want, but please fuck me afterwards.”

  “Only if you don’t make a sound while I whip you. One peep from your mouth and I’ll flog you unconscious and leave you unfucked.”

  “I won’t make a sound,” she promised.

  “Then bend over and touch your toes. And remember, if you want my cock you
don’t cry out, no matter how much the belt hurts.”

  She shook her head and thrust out her willing bottom; waiting. He shuffled behind her and she heard him draw closer. Knowing she was going to be whipped and there was no escaping added to the thrill, but it was not seeing him, or knowing where he was going to strike that had the sex juice trickling down her thigh.

  “Keep your legs together,” he ordered. “And squeeze your cheeks. They’re all the better for being tight. Now, up on your toes, and remember what I’ve said. One little peep out of you and you won’t get my cock.”

  “Yes, master,” she replied, without knowing why she suddenly came out with that.

  She went up on her toes and he saw the whole length of her legs stiffen and tense. There was no doubt of it, for an older woman she had a magnificent pair of legs, long, straight and perfectly symmetrical. Her buttocks had clenched tight and he watched the buttock halves harden into the crease. Her back was bent in a splendid arc and under her chest her breasts quivered in anticipation. He could see how much her nipples had sprouted from her areolae. Her whole body was just begging for a lashing that would have her sex craving for his cock.

  He stood at one side of her bent body and flicked the end of his belt over her bum cheeks. She caught her breath expecting a lash that would send her tumbling over the floor. When it didn’t come she looked behind her to see what had stopped him. He was coiling the belt in his fist and tested its mettle by smacking it where she least thought it would fall. She gritted her teeth and hissed when it cracked over her shoulder blades. She rocked forward but managed to keep up on her toes swaying precariously, her fingertips just touching the floor.

  “Hmm, very good,” he complimented, surprised she hadn’t fallen or screamed. The woman had more resilience than he thought possible.

  The next lash winged into her flanks and she fell forward banging her head on the cabinet and uttering a groan of pain.

  “I’ll let that pass,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “A grunt is not a scream.”

  “Thank you, master,” she replied, bracing herself.

  He sent the leather strap whistling into her taut arse cheeks and heard her heave. But still no cry of pain came from her lips. She was so desperate for his cock that she would endure any amount of whipping to have him inside her dripping sex. He could see her dark tuft glistening at the apex of her thighs and lashed across the back, not once but six times in quick succession, leaving fearful throbbing red lines. She was sobbing, but whether from pain or sheer sexual longing was difficult to tell.

  “Break, you stubborn bitch!” he rasped, winging the belt on the backs of her thighs.

  Her knees buckled and she collapsed into the cabinet and, nodding his admiration, he tossed the belt over her belly.

  “You deserve your reward,” he admitted, and carried her to the bed.

  Her put his arms under her knees and bent her legs over her head until her toes touched the wall. Her sex lay gaping and wet and he plunged right into her, fucking her without pausing for breath.

  “You’ve got guts,” he said honestly. “I don’t know of any woman who could take a belting like that and not beg for mercy.”

  “I wanted your cock,” she grinned, but not admitting the pain was killing.

  “You would’ve got it anyway. I couldn’t let you go without fucking you.”

  “Who else have you fucked in here?” she inquired curiously.

  “Most of them,” he said. “Apart from the woman who empties the pots. She’s not bad looking but she’s not actually a whore. She just works here.”

  “Would you fuck her given the chance?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose so, if she were willing.”

  “Would you fuck her now?”

  She got up and bawled along the passage for the pot woman.

  “Are you serious, you really want me to fuck her?”

  She said nothing until the pot woman came into the room carrying a large wooden bucket. She was in her early forties with slim sinewy legs and a firm waist. Her skin was tanned a dark brown from so much exposure to the sun when she carried the buckets through the sun baked streets to the fullers. She was quite good looking in a timeless sort of way with long hair tied in a tail. She wore nothing more elaborate than a short woollen shift and an old threadbare tunic, and carried a sort of neglected and wild look that appealed to some men. She also had good breasts, firm and round and tight buttocks.

  She put down the bucket and reached under the bed for the pot.

  “But it’s empty,” she said confused.

  “Look at this man,” Octavia said darkly. “Do you think him handsome?”

  “Oh, yes, mistress,” she replied. “Any woman would want him.”

  “In that case, would you fuck with him?”

  The pot woman looked amazed at the suggestion. No one really bothered her with sex, even though with a bit of face paint she would have looked very pretty.

  “That would be nice,” she said simply.

  “Take off that shift and tunic and straddle his cock.”

  The pot woman looked first at the high class whore, then at the rugged, handsome man she’d obviously been fucking only minutes before.

  “Do as the lady tells you,” Plutarc said sternly.

  The pot woman wriggled the woollen shift over her hips and took off her tunic. She stood naked revealing a muscular and wiry body, surprisingly athletic and shapely. Plutarc lay on his back, his erection touching his navel. The pot woman swung a shapely thigh over his middle and squatted over his cock.

  “You’re not taking a piss,” the high class whore told her. “I said, ‘straddle him’, unless you want a beating, or your head in that bucket of urine.”

  The pot woman looked for sympathy at the man stretched on the floor, but finding none, aimed his cock into her cunt. Her knees bent and Octavia silently admired her thighs and calves and tightly formed buttocks. Her hand wriggled the shaft into her widely gaping sex lips and she dropped onto his middle.

  “Now ride him,” the high class whore ordered. “Ride him hard. I want to see you come.”

  The pot woman rested her hands on her slender hips and worked her arse with fast jerks. Her pert breasts quivered on her chest and Plutarc reached up and grabbed them both.

  “Squeeze them and make her eyes water.”

  Plutarc wasn’t used to being ordered around by any woman let alone by a whore, but there was something in the timbre of her voice that demanded obedience. He squeezed the pot woman’s tits until he saw tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

  “Good. Now slap her.”

  Plutarc hesitated, unsure whether to go through with this strange ordeal. The pot woman was fully engulfed on his rod and seemed to be enjoying having it inside her, and he had to concede, she fucked well. But he obeyed his high class piece and slapped the pot woman on the flanks. She jolted and let out a muffled grunt, but managed a curious half smile.

  “Not hard enough. I want to hear her scream.”

  He wondered whether it was too much scheming, plotting to get rid of her husband and seize his goods that had driven her off her head. He looked briefly into her fiery eyes and slapped the pot woman’s thighs. Then he slapped her face and breasts. He could feel her flesh tingling after the scream that reverberated through the open door. The pot woman’s eyelids started to droop and her lips parted in short jerky pants.

  “The dirty bitch is coming,” Octavia announced.

  The pot woman might be a lowly citizen but there was nothing dirty about her. Her long hair had been regularly brushed and was fine and flowing. Her face flushed as her orgasm mounted and for a brief moment in the lamp light she looked beautiful. The string tying her hair loosened and she reached up and tossed it about her shoulders. Then she was really stunning, her hair flying
all around her. Not for a long time had any man fucked so hard and long.Octavia saw the admiration in Plutarc’s eyes and snatched up the belt, lashing it over her wiry back.

  “Ride him faster, you scum!” she raged.

  The woman’s face turned pale with terror and Plutarc thought that Octavia had gone out of her mind.

  “Easy, girl,” he chided. “The poor cow’s doing her best.”

  “Her best isn’t good enough. So ride faster, you filth,” she barked.

  The woman squirmed and wriggled like a ferret, shrieking with pain as Octavia’s arm rose and fell, her mouth shouting obscenities with every stroke. She whipped until the pot woman climaxed and slumped over Plutarc’s broad and perspiring chest.

  “Get off him, you miserable wretch,” Octavia snapped and sent her foot flying into the woman’s belly.

  She gurgled and rolled off clutching her stomach. Octavia would have renewed her lashing but Plutarc stopped her and snatched away his belt and sent her headlong over the bed.

  “Put on your things and get out,” he said softly to the abused woman, and reached into his purse and passed her a silver coin.

  “Thank you, master,” she sobbed and took up her bucket and left.

  “Why did you do that?” he asked. “The wretch did you no harm.”

  Octavia made no reply but dragged him on top of her, throwing her long legs around him.

  “Now fuck me again. And fuck me hard.”

  It was late before she left the House of Olives, walking home slowly through the darkened streets, her legs slightly bowed at the knees and her cunt throbbing. She made up her mind to sell Nydia and a couple of other girl slaves to raise the money she needed to pay for her husband’s removal, but the little vixen was nowhere to be found and, as the dawn broke, the ludus became a frantic hive of activity.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, when Quintus entered her bed chamber.

  He looked at his wife’s ravaged face, her bleary eyes and unkempt hair.