by Sean O'Kane
For three bitter days she was left quite alone except for visits by guards with food. She ate from their hands quite obediently, hoping they would report favourably to the trainer. Then for four days in a row the inquisition resumed. Ayesha orgasmed repeatedly and the cell rang constantly to her nearly demented cries of ecstasy while the whips snapped and the questions were shouted and she stumbled out incoherent answers.
She was left for two days then and masturbated almost constantly. She was desperate to be fucked - preferably by her trainer but any of the guards would do - and she just couldn’t understand why none of them would see to her. The relief slaves seemed to get her share and she resented them deeply. In her desperation to escape the dark and the hood, she had begged the trainer to whip her and fuck her. If only he would do the second as well as he had done the first.
When her trainer entered the cell the next time it was to inform her that it was the last day of her catechism and led her to the stocks. She was so delighted to see him that she went eagerly and when he showed her that they were breast stocks, with her own hands she lifted and settled the soft and vulnerable orbs in the spiked lower cups before clasping her fingers behind her head as he lowered the upper board.
“Are you ready now to serve me in any way I require?” he asked as the upper board hovered a few centimetres above the curves of smooth breastflesh.
“Yes, Sir,” Ayesha whispered, her breath catching a little in her throat as she contemplated the spikes lining the insides of the cups, about to drive her breasts down onto the other sets.
“I want to whip your tits while these little beauties hold them still,” he said.
She made no reply other than to shift her feet a little to ready herself and then he slammed the board down. She let her breath out in a long sigh as she felt the stinging begin. The holes were tight on breasts as full as hers and the spikes dug well in as the trainer snapped the clip home on one end of the board. He came round to clip her wrists to her collar at the back of her neck and then went to stand in front of her with a riding crop in his hand.
He snapped the leather keeper down onto both nipples, one after the other and made her dance up onto her toes. He did it again and she couldn’t help but try and pull back. A throat rasping groan escaped her as soon as she tried it though. She was tethered by her breasts.
“It will be a long day,” her trainer said, smiling as he saw realisation dawn. “The constriction means that they will turn some interesting colours as time goes on. Of course we’ll have to rest them occasionally, and you just won’t believe how much it hurts to put them back!” He ran the crop lightly across the defenceless curves. “And of course they will become so sensitive by the end of the session!” He lifted the crop away and brought it down hard. The cell rang to the first scream of the day as the second guard entered with the relief slaves.
“Now, when you arrived in London you were already an experienced whore, cheat, thief and liar.....”
“Yes, Sir.Aaaargh!” Standing behind her the guard had begun to flog her back. “I.....I got a job....aaargh! No. Please!” In front of her the trainer began to flick at her pounding breasts with the crop while the stock whip cracked across her back. For what seemed like hours under the two-pronged assault, Ayesha stammered and screamed her way through a litany of double dealing until she reached Karen and Sir John.
Chapter 13
The Prince was at his desk in the Music Room when the phone rang. He was having two of the exquisitely tattooed slaves whipped as they hung by their wrists face to face, their moans of pain interspersed by their groans of pleasure as they kissed. Another slave was sitting on the desk, her legs spread wide apart for him. She was breathing hard and looking down at her crotch with wide eyed excitement, her labia had been pulled out and down and were pinned to the leather desk top by two shining steel needles. He was rubbing her clitoris into even harder erection, preparatory to further piercing.
Tutting he put the needle down and reached for the receiver.
“Ah, Peter! How are things coming along with our lovely bet?”
He listened intently as the trainer repeated what Ayesha had just told him. “I thought you should know immediately. He’ll have to be warned,” Peter concluded.
In front of the Prince the slave wriggled invitingly but he waved Mahmut over irritably and gestured at the needles, he pulled them out and the slave sighed in disappointment.
“Thank you Peter. I’ll inform him straightaway of course. And cook up something special for that bitch!” the Prince said.
Ayesha was striped from shoulders to knees by the time Peter returned to her cell. He had left the guard to continue the flogging and gone straight to the phone; the guard had done well and not let up in the rhythm at all. The two relief slaves were moaning in frustration at having to watch such a thorough thrashing without being able to masturbate and Ayesha herself was barely able to keep her feet under her. At a gesture from him the guard stopped and Ayesha looked up at him as he stood in front of her. Despite her exhaustion from the prolonged flogging, he saw the smug look of triumph on her face as she straightened up in readiness for the full force of her coming punishment. She knew that she would have his undivided attention for quite some time yet and that was what was important for her now. He had her tamed, devoted to him. Now all he needed was to bind her to him. Usually it just took a thorough breast whipping but this one had earned herself something much more severe. She was undoubtedly the most corrupt and manipulative woman he had ever encountered. Enslaving her was an act of public service.
He surveyed the darkened orbs trapped in the stocks and flexed the crop slowly in front of her fascinated yet terrified gaze.
“Bring me the longest breast needles we have,” he told the guard.
Ayesha smiled, fierce and reckless. For the first time Peter saw some real potential for the arena in her, she welcomed the challenge of the coming suffering as a good fighting slave should.
He made her wait until it was late at night before he took her down, suctioning the sweat-soaked weight of her breasts out of the stocks and half-carrying her back to her straw. As soon as he let her down she opened her legs wide, looking up at him with lust and pain glazed eyes.
“I’m not taking the needles out until after I’ve fucked you.”
“No, Sir. Thank you, Sir. I deserve it.”
She was licking her lips in anxious anticipation as he lowered himself onto her and settled between her wide flung thighs, then he took his weight off his elbows and let his chest push down against the fullness of her breasts through which were threaded twenty needles.
From somewhere she found the energy to groan gratefully as he rammed his cock into her and began to thrust back and forth, dragging at her breasts as he did so and propelling her to orgasms so shattering that their memory would bind her to him irrevocably.
Sir John’s moods swung wildly between rage, humiliation and shame as he contemplated the sheer depth of Karen’s and Ayesha’s treachery. But slowly he began to calm down enough to realise that he had to act fast to avoid big trouble. He would have to cancel the movements of several valuable cargoes until the heat died down and he would have to make sure that Karen was put somewhere she could do him no further damage. He just couldn’t understand how his normally shrewd judgement had let him down so badly, he had been convinced that she was just a harmless bimbo. A beautiful girl who would ask no more than to be given a bit of work to make her feel modern, enough luxury to pamper herself with and regular fucks. He contemplated taking the riding crop to her but reluctantly decided that in his present mood he would only get himself into more trouble. A good thrashing was what she deserved though..........his mood lightened suddenly. He might not be able to make her suffer as she ought but he knew someone who could. He reached for the phone again.
“You were not considered worth betting any money on so it was purely a sportsman’s bet that I could make you into a slave who would serve her master in his bed, his du
ngeon or his arena. I have won the bet.”
Ayesha knelt before her trainer, she watched his lips form the words and wished only to be allowed to kiss them. She just couldn’t get over how supremely proud she felt that this man of power - a man who could condemn her to deserved suffering - would nevertheless give her the chance to redeem herself. Each time he gave her an order and allowed her to obey it, she felt her heart would burst with gratitude.
“Yes, Sir,” she breathed. She was naked and had been brought from the catechism cell to her trainer’s own room. She knelt with her buttocks on her heels, her hands neatly behind her, her thighs well apart and her breasts pushed well forward. All the traces of her final ordeal had faded and her olive skin was back to its smooth perfection. In his presence her nipples had hardened and she was mentally begging him to notice how desperately she wanted to serve him.
“Normally the arena slaves are the property of His Highness, but you are different. You will belong to me, I will own and train you but you will fight with the Prince’s squad. Understand?”
Ayesha couldn’t believe her luck. The man who knew her wickedness better than anyone in the world was going to allow her to be owned by him. She sat up even straighter and thrust her chest out even more proudly.
“You fuck enthusiastically - but then you’ve had a lot of experience, you whore!”
Ayesha trembled deliciously at the word. Yes, she had been that, a worthless wicked whore. But she had been given a chance to be what she now knew all women should be. Impetuously she bent forwards and licked at her master’s toes.
“You were not ordered to do that!” he snapped. “I should have you hung out on the battlements and flogged to the blood!”
“Yes.......Sir,” she whispered between licks.
Irritably he kicked her away and she went back to her previous pose.
“But as the Prince is coming to judge how well I have you trained, I suppose you had better keep your hide intact. You show some talent in the dungeon and under the whip but you have yet to serve in the arena.”
Ayesha kept quite still, hanging on his every word.
“It is not enough to provide entertainment by simply being pounded over and over again like you were the other week. You must learn to put up some kind of fight and this afternoon you will take your place out on the training ground and you will do considerably better than you did last time. If you don’t I might put you back into the Dark and not bother taking you out again.”
She looked at him in utter horror but could see nothing except calm intent and complete honesty. She swallowed fearfully and determined that whatever it cost she would fight to the last of her strength. He stood up in front of her and she raised her eyes adoringly.
“But in the meantime, while you’re down there.......”
She smiled in delight and knelt up to unzip his flies and worship him with all her heart.
She was led out onto the training ground with the taste of him still fresh on her tongue, she had a new collar with her name engraved on a small plaque under the D ring at the front, she was ridiculously proud of it and walked at the end of her leash with complete self-confidence. Her master wanted her to do something; so that thing would be done.
The squad were cooling off after the latest series of bouts and were as usual sitting in the shade of the walkway and taking water from the chipped cups that were passed around. Ayesha’s owner bent and took up a whip before handing it to her and then turning to the squad.
“Right! I want one of you sluts to teach this one another lesson!”
There was an instant forest of raised hands and eager pleas to be allowed to pound her all over again. Ayesha waited calmly while a selection was made, a tall slender black girl with her hair in corn rows. Her teeth gleamed brightly as she smiled in anticipation and sidled towards Ayesha.
This time she knew what was coming and was quite unafraid, instead of worrying about the pain of the coming lash she was looking for weaknesses..........and saw one.
Over-confident, the girl telegraphed her opening move. She raised her arm high and half turned, opening herself to Ayesha, who was perfectly ready. Ducking slightly she stepped forwards, not bothering to shield herself from the incoming lash, just concentrating on the wide-legged stance of her opponent. As the lash smacked down onto her shoulder, she flicked her whip upwards - instinctively using a wristy movement to help the heavy lashes fly up with maximum force. A swing just wouldn’t have done the job. As it was the flicked leathers bit spitefully into the girl’s labia and her yell of triumph faded into a shocked gurgle as she doubled over. Ayesha raised her own whip and began to smack the leathers down across the sweat-bedewed, chocolate skin of the girl’s back. She got in seven or eight before, desperately, the girl swung backhandedly at the fronts of Ayesha’s thighs. Without giving it a single thought, she reached down with her free hand and tore the whip from her opponent’s grasp without missing a beat of the thrashing she was giving. She went on even while the girl was on all fours, she didn’t stop when her arms gave out and she pitched forwards, her head down and her backside up. Instead she moved to stand over the back of the girl’s head and looked at her trainer. He was standing in front of the line of shocked squad girls and smiling, making no move to either encourage or stop her. She looked down at the body before her. The glistening, dark-brown skin was showing definite signs of the thrashing, dark, mulberry coloured lines traced complicated patterns of pain across the flesh, she was heaving and panting for breath but had obeyed the gladiator’s first rule - don’t go down until you’ve given a good show. Without her whip all she had been able to do was stay up for as long as possible. Ayesha knew, she had been there. But she had no pity, she only had a job to do. Slowly she raised the whip and brought it down along the spine, burying the ends of the lashes, where the real bite was, between the buttocks. The girl’s head snapped back and she issued a yodelling scream before flattening herself to the ground before her conqueror.
There was the sound of one pair of hands clapping as a shocked silence engulfed the courtyard. It was her trainer, her master.
“Go on. You’ve earned it,” he told her.
Ayesha turned the girl over with her foot and then settled herself down over her face. The feel of a tongue and lips working at her sex was at once exquisitely pleasurable and a painful reminder of her treacherous past with Karen. But if her master said it was all right, then it was her duty to enjoy it, so she let her full weight down and sighed with contentment as the tongue searched its way up into her vagina.
The wrestling bout lasted longer. The black girl’s fate alerted the other slaves to the fact that something unusual was taking place. Ayesha was matched against another Arabic girl who sidled in cautiously, the contestants circled each other, arms out, fencing with each other, making and breaking grips, testing. But suddenly the more experienced girl went for a finger lock, trying to bend Ayesha’s hand backwards and bring her to her knees. Taken by surprise, Ayesha was forced down and the girl came close, reaching for a breast. Ayesha let her grab it, burying her fingers hard and deep, the nails scoring the skin. She waited until, with a grin of triumph the girl’s face came down towards hers. Then Ayesha stood up. Her head cracked into the girl’s face and she reeled away, both hands clasped across her nose which had begun to bleed. Ayesha had no science but what she did have was the experience of street fighting in several of the world’s roughest cities and of fighting off attempts at mugging and worse. She also had a burning desire to do exactly what her master wanted. In order for him to claim his prize she had to show she could serve him in his arena. She went after her hapless opponent with kicks and clumsy clubbing punches. It was not pretty but it worked. The girl’s nose was pouring and she couldn’t take her hands away from it. In the end Ayesha managed to wrench one of her arms out to the side and twist it so that she was forced down. She looked up at her owner and he nodded.
Peter Lang raised a hand to cover the smile he couldn’t restrain as h
e watched her. Ayesha was standing with hands braced on knees, her chest heaving, her eyes watchful - and eager. He had the feeling that he was witnessing the birth of a very special fighting slave. She didn’t know enough to fight with any real skill but she had real passion. It was as if all the energy she had previously put into being manipulative and corrupt had suddenly, through his ministrations found a new channel to flow through - devoted service to a master who could save her or condemn her as he chose.
He threw her a set of boxing straps and she caught them with a kind of thoughtless grace to the movement - as if she had been fighting naked for her master all her life.
He turned to the other slaves.
“Have I got a squad full of pussies who can’t beat a raw recruit? Shall I put her into the next show on her own and tell everyone my squad was too scared?”
One girl stood up and marched out instantly, Ayesha thought she might be Italian, she was dark and tossed her head proudly as she buckled on the straps. One of the guards stepped forwards with two sets of corsets and thongs but Peter waved him back.
“No, let ‘em slug it out,” he said smiling at the prospect.
Once again he watched Ayesha fling herself into the fray, shrugging off her opponent’s blows but putting so much effort into her own that she yelled as she swung her weighted fists in roundhouse swings that slowly wore the more experienced slave down. In the end he called a draw as it was plain neither girl would go down until enough damage had been done to warrant two or three days’ rest. The two combatants staggered drunkenly, leaning against each other only sporadically managing a swing. Their bodies ran with sweat and sprays of it went up with each punch, the straps had left angry bruises and scrapes on their ribs, breasts and stomachs.