THE PRIZE

by Sean O'Kane

Ayesha renewed her acquaintance with the subtler forms of pain a female slave could enjoy. Every clamp, peg and needle she suffered reminded her of how she had loved watching Karen suffer under them; how even the humble clothes peg could transform a kitchen into an erotic torture chamber. But in the dark, rock hewn chambers where the girls sighed, cried and groaned in pain and orgasm, the memory of Karen became a pale, ethereal thing beside the sharp, bright intensity of her experiences as the men worked on her breasts, her vulva, her buttocks and then screwed her almost into oblivion. The sweetest humiliation was when they were used by Hassan to train some of the newer guards. The girls would spend hours, sometimes wrist or ankle suspended for as long as possible or tied tightly against a frame or post while they were whipped - slowly. Hassan would stand beside the novice and criticise each lash with cane or whip.

  “No, no!” he would growl after a few strokes. “I told you to imagine you are punishing her in the arena for losing a contest. If you whip at that speed the crowd will blink and miss it! Make the slave suffer! Take it slowly and she’ll writhe and wriggle; make a good show. Hammer her like you would a nail and all you’ll get is an unconscious slave and a grumbling crowd. Now try it again!”

  The state of the slave’s body appeared to be irrelevant in these sessions and Ayesha got an especial kick out of being put to an X shaped cross, face out and used as a living instruction manual for breast beating on one occasion.

  “Let the weight of the flogger’s lashes do the work for you!” Hassan would intone, guiding his charge’s hand in a figure of eight sweep across her chest, her heavy breasts swinging and rippling in the aftermath. “If you do that, you won’t tire yourself and the slave will last much longer. Take some time every now and then to torment the nipples a bit. That makes them scream and they like that in the arenas. If you’re whipping her for your own pleasure or for a guest’s then concentrate more on making the tits swing prettily. But again, don’t be in a hurry, take as much time as you or your audience want. She’s not going anywhere!” This last was addressed to the owner of the tits in question and was accompanied by an agonising tweak of the nipples.

  Anna, a blonde Estonian girl whose second stable this was, having been sold by her previous one, summed it all up one night at the end of a session.

  Ayesha was on her knees, gratefully fellating one of the more experienced guards who had subjected her to a long and skilful breast beating and piercing procedure when Hassan had begun to give a masterclass in caning using Anna’s arse. He hadn’t restrained her at all, just had her bend over a table. The strokes were delivered exquisitely slowly and while at one end Anna, gasped and cried, at the other her hips swayed, her back began to bow and hump, she flexed her thighs and the audience could see her slicked labia sliding past each other. Hassan laughed and joked with his pupils and colleagues as he slowly, slowly drove her up to the shattering peak of climax and they all saw her freeze on a jagged point of bright pain. Her breath hissed from between her teeth.

  “Where there is one climax,” Hassan laughed, “there will be others.”

  Mercilessly he drove her through orgasm after orgasm while her body gyrated, sweated and danced before the whole cellar. Sometimes he just flicked her, sometimes he gave her a full blooded lash and her wavering cries echoed round the dungeon. The slaves were as riveted as the guards, Ayesha no longer sucked on her guard’s cock, instead she stayed on her knees and with her head turned so she could watch Anna, she stroked the throbbing shaft with her cheek and caressed it with her hand now and again.

  At long last, Anna collapsed, her buttocks a fiery mass of rough ridges and cuts and everyone was suddenly propelled into urgent action. Hassan immediately began fucking the semi-conscious girl, Ayesha’s head was firmly gripped and turned, her mouth imperiously guided back to the shining helm and all around her men sank themselves into well-trained female bodies.

  Ayesha had helped Anna as the bedraggled group had limped back up the stairs.

  “This bloody stable is well worth fighting for,” she had said as she wiped the tears from her face. “They know how to whip you here. Last place, they just made us bleed every day, here they fuck you good as well. If a girl is fucked good, she fights good. And then she fucks even better!”

  Chapter 16

  Ayesha’s master didn’t return. Instead one morning, when they were led out expecting another day’s training, there were three trucks waiting for them. Wire mesh cages had been constructed to reach above the sides of their load platforms and Hassan stood in front of them.

  “Today we go up country to the arena and begin final practices for another show. Last one you did okay, but Mr Lang says he wants you to look up at the ramparts and do even better this time.”

  Ayesha looked up and saw that beside each whipping post there was now a sort of gibbet with a large cage slung from its arm. Beside her Miriam shuddered.

  The back panels of the trucks were dropped and doors of mesh opened in the cages so the girls could clamber aboard.

  “Two shows ago the trainer was very angry,” Miriam managed to whisper as they waited to board. “He picked six of us at random and put us in those cages for a week, the rest went into solitary. They let us out for food, water and beating then put us back. We froze by night and burned by day.”

  Ayesha was appalled at the cruelty and said so.

  “Don’t be fooled into thinking we’re anything other than their slaves. If we don’t please we’ll really suffer - and I don’t mean like in a dungeon.” She glanced up at the sinister shape of the cage. “No orgasms up there. And that was the worst thing. The arenas are the horniest places on God’s earth. No cock for a week afterwards hurts more than you can understand..........yet.”

  A knot of combined fear and excitement formed in Ayesha’s stomach. She was certain that her master must have gone straight to the arena. That was where she was going and either triumph or punishment awaited her. She, like many others looked up at the cages, swinging in the ceaseless wind as the trucks bumped out through the arched gateway and headed north, taking the Prince’s squad girls to their next show.

  It was a long and uncomfortable ride. They stopped occasionally for water but didn’t eat until it was dark. The guards picked ten of the girls to prepare the supper for all of them while the men lounged by the fire and the girls sat a bit farther off. The country was so remote and inhospitable there was no point in shackling them and Ayesha felt strangely agoraphobic after so long confined in the fort.

  They arrived in the middle of the following day. The trucks bumped over a rise and all the girls stood up suddenly, hanging onto the mesh, all trying to see forwards. Ayesha craned over them and gasped at what she saw spread out below them in a valley.

  There wasn’t just an arena. There was an entire town, brand new and shining white in the sun it lined the mouth of a river as it flowed into the sea in a deep bay. There was a harbour there with a few dhows at anchor but there were moorings for many more boats and a breakwater. One long road led away inland and towering over the local, flat roofed houses were modern blocks.

  “Hotels for the guests,” Miriam told her.

  Where the land was flat was a small airfield and what looked like some kind of circular race track complete with grandstands. And right at the far end of the road away on their left, where the mountains began to rear, stark and rocky and the road became a mere track, was the arena itself. Ayesha swallowed nervously as her eyes took in the squat bulk of the place. In a few days or weeks - she had no idea which - every seat would be taken and an audience of people from all over the world would be united in their enjoyment of watching naked girl gladiators fight, compete, toil and suffer for their entertainment. She would be made a part of the spectacle and her master was allowing her, no ordering her, to enjoy every second of her own degradation. Gratitude, excitement, fear and arousal all coursed through her, sending her heart rate soaring and making her tingle from her nipples to her groin.

  Next to her, Miriam
smiled a tight, tense smile. “Once you’re out on the sand, you know every cock in the place is hard for you. When you hear how they scream when you’re whipped and when you’re fucked...........” She shook her head, unable to find words. Instead Ayesha felt her hand stroke her right buttock and she recalled Miriam’s words about the arenas, “the horniest places on God’s earth,” and she couldn’t help but smile herself.

  “A two man chariot? What an interesting idea!”

  The men examined the lightweight vehicle as it stood on the sand floor of the arena.

  The Prince and Peter Lang accompanied by Omar Osman and his trainer Heinz, were discussing the forthcoming show. Peter’s deputy, a tall Italian by the name of Paolo who had been left in charge of the solo fighters, had overseen this development from his boss’s drawings and had tried it out only the previous day. He stood forward now to explain his findings.

  “As we all know previously we used two slaves to provide the main forward push and two - one at each end - of a single shaft to half push and half fight with opposing teams.”

  He turned to this new chariot and pointed out the three short shafts which now crossed the lengthened main one at right angles to it. “We have found that with six slaves pulling two men, the chariot corners much faster and is less likely to overturn. Furthermore on each side there are three slaves capable of fighting even while they are pushing, which will give much more entertainment.”

  Standing quietly in the tunnel which led into the arena were six of the stable’s solo fighters, the real stars of the arena world. They were quartered there permanently, each of them had her number tattooed at her left hip but in addition they bore, on their right, in graceful arabic characters the Prince’s full title - The Hawk of God.

  “Harness them up, Paolo,” he now suggested and waved to the guard to bring the girls out. They were naked apart from the customary collars, restraints and harness consisting of bridles, studded tit straps and thongs supporting dildos and butt plugs, each girl bore, on one forearm, a metal elbow length glove. They took their places and it became clear that all three girls on the left shafts had their left arms armoured and those of the right; their right arms. It meant that any team trying to overtake or make them crash, from either side, could be engaged and fought off. One guard went from girl to girl, fixing the wrist nearer the main shaft to the shaft she was going to use for pushing. Meanwhile the other one mounted the chariot and took up his whip.

  “You will notice,” the Prince explained, “that in order for the whip to adequately encourage the front runners, it has had to be made much longer.” The mounted guard demonstrated. The whip was a long flexible shaft with a ring at its end. From this hung a wicked length of whipcord with its end frayed. He flicked it expertly and it scythed out, slicing meatily into the side of one of the front runners’ breasts, making even that battle hardened gladiator gasp and twist.

  “The driver himself needs a different weapon,” Peter Lang took over. “He uses a short, flat bladed flogger to work on the two directly in front of him and steers the front two runners, you’ll note that they’re the only ones with reins. His partner concentrates purely on flogging the front two pairs and the opposition.”

  Osman laughed. “I like it! Double the whippping and three times the fighting power!”

  Seeing that the explanations were now complete and the driver was mounted and had the reins gathered, Peter waved them away. With a barrage of smacks from the short whip and crisp, hard cuts from the long one the chariot took off and immediately the men saw the improvement. With six slaves concentrating on powering the vehicle it accelerated much more quickly than the one man version and when it turned at the far end of the arena it hardly needed to slacken its pace at all. The two men just shifted their weight to the inside and the chariot followed its team with no fuss at all. As it swept back towards the spectators the men lashed their team on furiously, the long whip tracing intricate patterns in the air before cracking across the sweating backs of the girls. It hurtled towards the onlookers faster and faster, the wheels thundering on the sand. Then the driver hauled hard to his right on the reins, the front two slaves squealed as their bits and their heads were wrenched and then the chariot skidded past the onlookers, the wheels drifting sideways but the pace never slacking, dust clouds flew up and engulfed the small audience briefly but then the chariot was away on its second lap.

  “Magnificent!” Osman clapped his hands in delight.

  “And did you see how the chariot drifted!” Heinz exclaimed. “With a bit of practice a driver could use that to take the legs out from under an opposing team!”

  “Exactly,” Peter agreed. “Much more of a spectacle, I’m sure you’ll agree. I can let you have some of the longer whips for your men to practise with and of course the new design for the chariot.”

  As they spoke the rig completed its second lap and the driver brought it to a skidding halt beside them. The slaves pranced and reared as they they tried to stop as quickly as the driver was demanding, then stood panting and sweating while their weals were examined and then the men adjourned for dinner.

  The squad was housed in nothing more than a row of cages in a sort of stableblock built inside the arena. They had just a pallet to sleep on and steel bars to the front and sides of them. There was an almost tangible air of tension. The guards were more brusque and used their whips more often, they chatted and laughed amongst themselves less. Ayesha caught five hard lashes across her back for simply taking what one thought was too long on the toilet. What was even more noticeable was that not one man made use of any of the girls available to him. Over the coming days Ayesha was to gather from overheard conversations that the trainer always instituted a regime of strict sexual abstinence prior to a show. He felt it made the girls perform better in the arena, and for the men there were always the palace slaves to be enjoyed instead.

  The following morning Peter had Ayesha brought to him out on the arena floor. The other men hadn’t joined him yet and he wanted a word with her before the day’s business was attended to. He liked seeing the arena empty and silent, if you once experienced it, it made the riot of colour and noise the games produced all the more exciting. In his mind he pictured the spectacles which would be staged there in just a couple of weeks’ time. The smooth sand would be churned up and, in the final melee they which they would be discussing that day, would be scattered with a hundred naked females desperately battling their way to inevitable defeat at the hands of men. They would fight with twofold desperation, firstly as well trained slaves they would want to prolong matters and make the subsequent submission more exquisite, secondly they would not want to face their owner’s and trainer’s anger if they failed to put on a good show. And as they fought, the terraces would seethe with sexual frenzy as men and women cheered on the victors even while they coupled or groped each other. It was not uncommon to see women with their skirts bunched at their waists being fingered by men who seemed to be complete strangers while they in turn masturbated another man. In the evenings the terraces took a long while to clear as people who had been unwilling to look away for a second while the fights and competitions took place, satisfied the raging needs that had built up. The number of women in the crowds was increasing all the time but Peter had frequently seen men queueing up to screw them in the aftermath of a day’s games. The women themselves were often in the grip of a sort of frenzy and urged the men on, one after the other. Their breasts were bared for most of the time and he had even seen some raking their own with their nails during some of the most excitngly cruel action.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Paolo leading Ayesha out of the tunnel and onto the sand. She gazed around her, her expression a mixture of awe, fear and excitement. Even though she had only been kept naked and chained for a short time she had already developed the gladiator’s easy acceptance of her nudity. Her hands were clipped together behind her, her shoulders were back and her long, shapely thighs strode openly and confidently, her brea
sts swung as she walked and her hips swayed with unconscious grace. She didn’t seem to notice the lead running from her collar to Paolo’s hand as she stared round her. The only jarring note in her beauty was the slight redness at her crotch. When the squad was installed in the arena prior to a show he always had them shaved. No gladiator’s body should provide an adversary with any purchase. Ayesha finally saw him and dropped her gaze submissively as she was brought to stand before him.

  “The Prince will put you to your final test today. If you fail you will be free to go,” he told her and then caught her cheeks between finger and thumb, forcing her to look up and look him in the eye. “You will be free,” he repeated and inwardly exulted at the look of panic that flashed across her face. “But you know what’s out there don’t you Ayesha? The dark. The dark inside you.” He held her until he was certain she understood him.

  “Yes, Sir,” she whispered. “I won’t fail.”

  Peter knew that she wouldn’t. To fail him would be to lose him and she needed him to give her orders and allow her to obey them, only that way would she find some kind of redemption for her previous life.

  The silence was broken by the Prince and his guests striding through the tunnel, their voices echoing loudly until they stepped out onto the sand.

  “Put her on the frame,” Peter told his deputy and watched as she was led over to the triangular frame standing a few yards away. At its apex two supporting legs joined it and ran back and down to the ground. The front was just two poles making a sloping triangle with one crossbar running across at crotch height. From the centre of this, spearing up from a short projection was a wooden phallus.

  Peter watched as Paolo ordered Ayesha to impale herself on it. She was plainly dry and had some problems accommodating it, her labia dragging painfully up and in until she began a hurried frotting of her clitoris, her legs inelegantly bent outward at the knees in the most blatant of poses any woman could adopt. But quite suddenly she moistened and was able to get the wooden prong inside her and settle her legs, her feet by the two front legs of the frame. He went over to her.