THE PRIZE

by Sean O'Kane

  "A couple of them aren't feeding properly and a few more are pining. But that'll sort itself out once I'm back," he said, pulling his thoughts back to the present.

  The Prince smiled over at his trainer. Peter took his slaves too seriously, he thought. But the upshot of his conscientious concern was that he not only had a squad of arena slaves who gave great entertainment, they also won a respectable number of shows and as a bonus helped swell his already overflowing coffers.

  "They miss their master, don't they?" he said. "Extraordinary creatures that they are. They worship you the way my household slaves worship me. The more we put them through, the better they like it."

  "Of course. And that brings me to the new one. How long will I have to work on her before we see if she can win the wager for me?"

  "Eight weeks sound okay?"

  "Fine," Peter put his papers down on the table and stood up to stretch. The chair shifted a little and gave a muffled moan as his weight left it.

  Of all the rooms in the palace concerned with the slaves who were kept there, this one gave the Prince the most pleasure. Even his precious and beautifully equipped dungeons had to cede pride of place to the Evening Office. It was furnished in slaves and they even provided the lighting.

  Four of the heavily tattooed slaves stood at the corners of the room, they were strapped to poles behind them so tightly that virtually no movement apart from gentle breathing was possible. From their crotches, squeezing between their bound thighs, protruded small lamps which were angled up at their spectacular torsos, the rods which supported the lamps came off long, slender, steel butt plugs which further encouraged immobility. The slaves' heads were completely encased in hoods which also supported the main light bulbs and shades which came down to the shoulders. Thus a shadowless light was thrown on the decorated flesh and so well trained were the slaves that the breasts could be fondled and explored to the full extent of guests' curiosity without the slaves making the slightest movement or noise.

  The chair Peter had been sitting on was formed from a naked girl who had been laid down on her back, her arms had been pulled down and tied to a ring under her bottom. Her torso had then been bent up and her legs dragged down over her gagged and hooded face. They were tightly bound together and from knees to ankles they were supported by a horizontal frame to provide rigidity for the person who could sit on the bend at the back of the knees and lean against her thighs. It was one of the most comfortable designs in the room. To make sure the chair was kept absolutely stationary, from where her hands were bound to the floor a wooden rod ran diagonally up to between the girl's legs. From its end protruded a thick wooden dildo on a lockable pivot and this was plunged to the hilt in the upturned cunt. By standing, Peter had altered its angle inside her, but that was no excuse. He tutted and picked up a riding crop from the low table beside him, then he delivered five telling slashes with it to the straining thighs and taut buttocks. The chair bore its punishment in stoical silence and Peter replaced the crop on the table. Three slaves supported the glass top, they were bound similarly to the chair slave, their hands all bound to the floor under the centre of the table, their torsos bent up and over their faces. The glass top held three sets of downward pointing double dildos and these impaled the slaves' anuses and cunts, making it stable. The weight of the glass flattened the buttocks prettily, into pale, sucker-like pads. Again the slaves were gagged and hooded.

  From where he reclined on the sofa, the Prince could see that lashing the chair slave had aroused his trainer.

  "Talking of the new one, you might as well use her. Once we get up country tomorrow and she goes into full training, you won't get so many opportunities," he counselled.

  Peter acknowledged the truth of this and walked over to where Ayesha was bound. She alone of the slaves in the room was not functioning as furniture. She was laid out purely for sex by having been put in a severe hogtie and laid on her back on a wide bench. Her magnificent breasts had had their nipples clamped and from the clamps, slender chains ran up to pulleys suspended from a bar which ran above her. Weights were hung from the chains on the other side of the pulleys and her breasts were being steadily pulled into oddly elongated cones with enormously engorged and discoloured nipples at their peaks. She was completely hooded, only holes in the leather at her nose allowing any access to the outside world. Her position was a testing one for a girl unused to the demands of slavery but as the hood carried a penis gag inside it, she couldn't even groan audibly. On her stomach lay a jumble of weights and here at least she could react to a stimulus. The prince watched as Peter picked up one of the long, cone shapes. The slave's breathing stopped for a moment as she felt the weight removed, in her darkness she would be waiting for what she knew must come next - but when would it come? She had been positioned so that her painfully arched body could offer its sex at the end of the bench and Peter took up his place there as he picked up a second weight and began to stroke her breasts with them. The hooded head immediately began to thrash from side to side and a faint whine of protest could be heard. Peter lodged his tool at her entrance and pushed forward at the same time as he hung the weights on the chains and increased the strain on the nipples and breasts. The slave contrived to raise her head slightly before sinking back in defeat.

  "She's plenty juicy," Peter commented. "That's good progress in so short a time. She's already beginning to associate pain with pleasure." The truth of his observations was confirmed by her body convulsing in blatant orgasm before Peter had climaxed. But then she had four weights on each nipple which meant that she had been fucked four times that evening.

  As he watched his trainer enjoying the new girl, the Prince slid forward on the sofa and availed himself of one of its cleverer features.

  The frame was simply constructed of wood covered in black leather. The cushions were formed from two slaves. Their hands were tied behind their backs and they were laid face up, making their torsos more pneumatic and comfortable to sit on. Their thighs formed the back cushions and their heads, again hooded, hung off the front. The hoods had velcro straps to hold them against the frame of the sofa but the slaves' mouths were left free. Inevitably, where the slaves' legs bent up to form the back cushions, the frame of the sofa carried two dildos which impaled them deeply. This meant that as a master made himself comfortable on them, his weight would certainly play havoc with their penetrated vaginas. Personally, the Prince found sitting well back the most comfortable position as the slave's pelvis made a good firm seat.

  Now he squirmed forward and heard the slave grunt as his weight squeezed her vagina around the dildo, she would pay for that later. He reached down between his legs and grabbed two handfuls of soft breastflesh and squeezed them together then pushed his cock between the two masses, feeling the silky smooth skin caress the sides of his hardening shaft. The tormented writhings of the breast-stretched slave that Peter was screwing were making him urgently erect and after only a few thrusts he abandoned the tit fuck, reached down to the slave's hood and undid the velcro straps, then he hauled on them, pulling her head up and refastened the straps to the frame, either side of her shoulders. This meant that she didn't have to worry about keeping her head up while she fellated her master. The Prince slid forward until he was sitting comfortably on her breasts, then he bent his shaft down and the anonymous mouth below the hood went to work. .

  As the Prince reached out sideways for a drink, he felt the slave's tongue begin to swirl and lap at him while she sucked hungrily. The drinks tray was on a bar tied between the knees of a slave attached to the side of the sofa. She was upside down, facing away from the Prince and in a frame which took her weight on her shoulders. Her arms were in a sheath to keep them straight up her back and her legs were wrenched wide apart with the shins tied back tight against the thighs. Her labia were ringed and these had been used to stretch and tie them to the thighs some inches below her crotch. With his drink the Prince took an olive and dipped it briefly into the cunt before savouring it o
n his tongue while below him the cushion slave slurped deliciously at his cock. The olive retained its stone and when he had extracted all the pleasure he could from it he took the stone out of his mouth and pushed it down into the drink-dispensing slave's anus, then swirled his fingers in her warm and moist cunt while Peter finished ramming himself into the faintly groaning Ayesha who was only just beginning to have some idea of what her future held. Only then did he relax and reward the slave who was industriously tonguing him by allowing himself to spurt into her mouth.

  Lost in her darkness and ablaze with mingled torment and ecstasy, Ayesha felt herself slipping away. She had lost count of the days since her abduction. They had kept her in a plain little cell, chained to her bed and for most of the time she had worn this wretched hood. Either Mohammed or Mahmut would enter, pin her hands behind her back and then slip the hateful thing over her head, pinching her nose until she had to open her mouth and then stuffing that with the built-in penis gag before buckling the whole contrivance tightly at the back of her neck, leaving her blind and deaf, only able to taste the acrid plastic of the shaft filling her mouth. She was left for hours at a time, sometimes tied in painful positions as well but eventually someone would come and use her. However she was restrained it always left her body available and what was really disturbing was that she was coming to want it. After the suffocating darkness and silence, the touch of fingers, even anonymous fingers groping her most intimate places was human contact of a sort. Even the pain of the breast and nipple stretching she was currently undergoing meant that at least there was someone else present. The repeated fucks were even better, even if they did lead to more pain. Someone actually inside her banished the long isolation and the hood made her focus on the feelings of pain and pleasure more intensely than anything she had ever experienced before. But as she lay and felt the sperm from the last fuck dribble down between her buttocks and begin to congeal and the bitter stretching of her nipples continued, Ayesha realised she could hardly remember even Karen's face. But somehow she had to hang on to some memories of who she had been before she had been transformed into a dumb, anonymous frame for a vagina and two breasts. She had to hang on because there was still hope; her handler at HM Customs and Excise knew where she had been going. He needed her information - he would come looking for her. He had to.

  Chapter 8

  Karen was desperate. Days had become weeks and still there was no news from Ayesha. It was as if the sky had simply swallowed her plane but there had been no reports of any crash. Ayesha had just not come back. At last she had made discreet enquiries at the airport the plane had taken off from but could glean nothing of any use. What made it worse was that there was no one she could confide in. Telling her husband about her concerns was of course out of the question. He had no idea that she even knew Ayesha, let alone that she was sleeping with her and conniving with her to swindle him to boot. She could not rid herself of the odd suspicion that he might have had something to do with her disappearance. But why he would want her out of the way defeated her. After all Ayesha had always said that he could never keep his hands off her. Nevertheless he didn't seem to act like someone who had lost a valuable employee and part-time mistress.

  The final straw was that as the weeks went by she became more and more frustrated. Her husband screwed her occasionally but was just not interested in her enough to give her what she needed, and what she needed was Ayesha's domination to achieve the kind of orgasm which really satisfied her.

  She paid frequent visits to Ayesha's flat, rummaging through every scrap of paper she could find, trying in vain to break into her laptop; all to no avail. In the end she went just to sit and hope that some day she would see her again.

  In that mood of resigned sadness and sheer sexual desperation she went one autumn afternoon and found the door to the flat partly open. Suddenly furious that anyone would invade her lover's territory and ignoring the possibility of burglars, Karen stormed in. A smartly dressed man of about her own age was bending over the table in the lounge and sorting through the mail. He straightened up as she entered and looked her calmly in the eye.

  "Who are you?" he asked.

  "I could ask you the same!" she retorted hotly.

  He reached into the back pocket of his smartly-pressed trousers and produced an ID card which he held out for her inspection. It announced the bearer to be Brian Holden, an employee of Her Majesty's Customs and Excise.

  "I don't understand. What's Ayesha got to do with you?" she asked.

  "Nothing, except that we’re after her boss. She was informing us about the jobs she was doing and what she thought he was up to. I was assigned to liaise with her."

  "But she worked for my.........I mean.......you're after John!?" Karen felt her face go ashen and her legs wobble as the information sank in.

  The man came forward and helped her into a seat.

  "Maybe you'd better tell me where you fit into all this," he suggested. Karen sought for words and then burst out laughing.

  "I think you'd better fix us both a drink. I fit into this very snugly indeed, believe me!"

  Cradling a weak whisky and water she told her story and it was the man's turn to go pale.

  "Let me get this straight. You and Ayesha de la Tour were having an affair, you were both swindling Sir John - your own husband - but Ayesha hadn't got around to telling you about her involvement with us and that we were closing in on him." He paused and shook his head. "You're a nice bunch of people," he concluded.

  "Think what you like but believe me I only know the hotel business. What else he gets up to is his own business. Now, where's Ayesha?"

  The man was now sitting opposite her and looking at her speculatively. "So you're Karen Fitzgerald. There was no photo in the file and we've no reason to be on your trail. His illegal operations seem to be undertaken when he's away from home and there's no sign of you being involved."

  "So where's Ayesha?"

  "I've no idea. I was hoping you might know. You were.......close to her, after all."

  Karen shifted uncomfortably under his steady gaze. "All I know is she was flying out to the Middle East and was due back weeks ago."

  "But is that all you know?"

  "Yes! What is this, a bloody interrogation?"

  "I could make it one," the man sat forward suddenly and pinned her with his dark brown eyes. Karen shrank back, aware for the first time that she was alone with a man who looked to be physically very strong and who was in a position to make her life very uncomfortable.

  "I searched the bedroom," he said. "I did it weeks ago of course. Today was just to see if there was anything new in the post, or if I'd missed anything."

  Karen's mouth went dry and her heart pounded.

  "Would you like me to interrogate you? I bet there's more a depraved tart like you could tell me!"

  "How dare you!" Karen tried to sound firm and arrogantly furious; instead her voice came out as a pathetic warble.

  "You're very attractive, you know. And so's Ayesha of course," the man sat back and smiled a slow dangerous smile.” A man in my position could enjoy interrogating women like you."

  Karen swallowed nervously and became aware of her pulse racing. There was something devastatingly attractive about this man. It wasn't just physical, although he was good looking, it was the power he wielded. Karen had always been attracted to power, it was why she had married Sir John, but then she had found out that all he wanted was a bit of arm candy and in revenge had set out to use him for all she could get. The casual way Ayesha used her body to gain power over people had also been a powerful aphrodisiac.

  Suddenly it seemed like years ago that she had been in this very flat and had been as excited as she was now. A hot ache seemed to have settled around her loins.

  Slowly she stood up and took off her jacket.

  Then she held her arms out in front of her. "Do your duty officer," she said and was rewarded by the sight of a straining bulge in the front of the man's trousers
as he stood up and seemed to tower over her.

  Brian Holden poured himself another whisky from Ayesha de la Tour's drinks cabinet and reflected on the last couple of hours. They had probably been the most exciting of his life and suddenly so much became clear to him. It was no wonder he had never married, although he knew enough women had tried to get him to the altar, this was what he had been waiting for. He had heard of SM of course but the reality had exceeded his wildest dreams. And it felt good.

  He hadn't handcuffed her straightaway, he had simply taken one arm and twisted it up behind her back, quite gently but enough to get her onto her toes and then he had marched her into the bedroom where he had made her strip. She had made no protest at all, shirt, bra, skirt, knickers and then she had simply stood and waited for the next order. For a second he had been nearly fatally weak, unsure of how best to proceed. But just in time he had ordered her onto the bed, not sure how exactly he wanted her. But she had solved that problem by lying down on her stomach, her gorgeous breasts squashing out under her and putting her arms through the bars of the bed head. He recognised the blatant desire to be handcuffed and had obliged, using Ayesha's restraints. Then he had looked down at the woman's body before him and felt the blood coursing through his veins in a surge of excitement so powerful he thought it would take his head off. The graceful line of her back and the slender waist led to the flare of the hips and the mounds of the buttocks and then the long thighs and the shapely legs. It was all laid out for him. It was a country, a landscape of flesh and blood and it was all his to rule.