by Sean O'Kane
Behind him, Brian heard Amelia’s cries attain a new pitch and he turned. A new man had arrived and was sitting where he himself had been, he had picked Amelia’s limp form up and put her in front of him, facing away from him. From Amelia’s face it was obvious that he was going for the back door and she didn’t want it. Brian shook his head and the man smiled apologetically, setting Amelia back on the bench, making a clumsy little bow and then walking away doing up his trousers.
Just because she wasn’t ready for buggery didn’t mean that she was spent just yet though. As soon as Brian resumed his seat beside her, she pulled her T shirt off over her head and then knelt in front of him. Once she had freed his cock and used her tongue to put the finishing touches to his erection she rubbed it between her breasts before putting it back in her mouth and sucking him to his climax. She was grinning broadly as she resumed her seat, smoothing her short skirt back down and retrieving her T shirt, but not putting it back on.
Down on the arena floor the duels had finished and the losers were being put to the crowd’s mercy. One of the guards was pointing to one of a line of four defeated fighters and the announcer was asking if the crowd would settle for twenty lashes punishment.
All round the arena thumbs went out pointing down. Amelia’s joined them.
“I was too busy getting screwed to know how she fought, but I want to see her get well whipped!” she said lightly. Not until the tariff had reached thirty did she get the thumbs up. And so it went on until the full amount had been sanctioned by the crowd. In theory, the better a girl fought, the less she could expect for losing, but having been energised by the first orgy of the day the crowd was in no mood to be merciful.
Another innovation was then unveiled. In past shows the losers had been put to whipping posts dropped into holes in the middle of the arena floor. This time however, two of the horses used for pursuit running drew a large cart out from one of the tunnels, on the flat bed were four tall posts. The losers were made to mount the cart, their wrists raised and tied to them and then, as the whipping began, it was driven very slowly around the perimeter. Amelia was leaning over the railing, drinking in the stark eroticism of the girls’ cries and wrigglings, when the cart passed directly in front of her, she had yet another man embedded in her and was enthusiastically grinding herself against him.
The next event was a whip melee between about twenty squad girls from each stable which was watched in subdued quiet as everyone recovered and then they trooped out for lunch, the women attempting to retrieve items of clothing, straighten stained and spotted skirts, brush hair and return to normality. Amelia put her T shirt back on reluctantly. She claimed that having her breasts out in public had been another fantasy fulfilled.
After lunch in a crowded cafe, where spirits had only revived from post sexual lethargy after a bottle of wine, the crowds had returned to watch the contests in the pens.
At the Bakhtar arena these were concrete-lined holes dug in the grounds of the compound. The concrete rose to about four feet above ground level and slit trenches ran down to allow fighters to enter and leave - or be carried out.
Under large awnings they watched the oiled bodies of the slaves out in the sun, wrestling and boxing. They laid bets on each and gave the thumbs up or down in accordance with how much they had won or lost. Amelia loved the studded boxing corsets and thongs and her excitement didn’t go unnoticed. She jigged up and down so much as the brutal contests unfolded that Brian was able to give his permission to a whole gaggle of men who obviously walked about looking for that reaction. They all took her from behind as she leaned over the parapet and by the time they returned to the arena for the log pulling her skirt was soaked through.
“Did you see that one nearly come when she was punched in the tits?” she exclaimed as the slave in question began the long journey to orgasm under the whip as a consequence of giving in as Amelia described. Brian was watching the slave closely.
“Hardly surprising when you think of all those little studs in the cups of the corset,” he reminded her almost absently. She laughed. “The best bit was when she got the second uppercut between the legs, did you see her face?! God, I wonder what that feels like! And to have all those people cheering when you go down....!”
They left the slave to her thrashing and wandered back to the arena, Amelia complaining about her skirt until Brian threatened to put her over his knee.
He was unsettled. The girl they had been discussing was Ayesha - no question about it. She was still spectacularly beautiful and unbearably erotic under the lash. How did the stables take someone as dominant and manipulative as Ayesha de la Tour had been and turn her into such a passionate slave who gloried in the humiliations heaped on her? He had to find out and that was why he was here. He couldn’t let this girl, enchanting as Amelia might be, get in his way. But she might just be able to help though. An idea occurred to him and he forced a smile back onto his face; he would have to consider it further.
During the log pulling they witnessed the first slaves being fucked in the arena and Amelia gave her first blow job to a stranger while Brian came in the mouth of a German woman. The log pulling consisted of teams of two or four slaves who had a steel pole threaded through the rings on the backs of their collars and their arms were then spread out and tied to it. A chain ran down from the pole and this was wrapped round and locked onto a heavy log. The teams, under their guards’ whips pulled it the length of the arena where another, slightly smaller log was added then they raced back and a third log was added for the last leg. In between legs the guards encouraged their slaves in different ways. Some stables had them bend forwards and screwed them where they stood. Some had them fellate and allowed them to swallow, some forbade swallowing and still others favoured shafting and whipping simultaneously. There were also differences that connoisseurs of the arenas argued about in the bars afterwards; was it more effective to use stock whips, dressage whips, floggers or crops and more importantly, whereabouts on the slave did you apply them? The Prince’s stable chose stock whips and used them on the straining backs and thighs of the girls. The visitors used short straps and varied their targets, flicking at breasts and cunts as well as backs. They won.
The races were close though and everyone was hoarse by the time the last exhausted team had staggered over the finish line. Brian realised he had one of Amelia’s breasts in a vice-like grip and had scored it quite deeply with his nails as he had been yelling the Prince’s team on as their opponents had slowly overtaken them. Amelia, hands locked on the bar, bared to the waist again, looked down vaguely at the damage and giggled. Behind her a man sighed in pleasure and pulled out of her. Brian watched her face contort as he did so.
She pulled herself upright unsteadily and fell against him. “Anal cherry gone....and I hardly felt it!”
Back at the hotel, having more or less carried her Brian put her in the shower, opened her legs, gave her the shower head and turned it on. Five minutes later he looked in and she was still slumped against the wall with her legs apart and cold water playing on her cunt.
“It burns and it feels about the size of a sodding cathedral,” she whispered hoarsely.
“Good day?” he asked innocently.
“Best ever!” She looked up and smiled sleepily. “Did I get to fuck you?”
“Who knows?” he replied. “There were so many I fucked it’s difficult to remember.”
He stepped into the shower with her.
By the third and final day, Amelia was learning to handle the constant demands for her body and not let them distract her from what was going on in the arena. Rather than fellate, she wanked - unless it was Brian - she only took cock from behind and had no objection to taking it in her arse as long as the cock was well lubricated. As for clothes she found it best to do what most other women seemed to do. After the first hour she stripped completely and that way she had clothes to wear afterwards.
Chapter 21
“Come on, ladies! Next shift of
guests comes in five minutes!” The dungeon echoed to groans as Isadene, always one of the most polite guards, finished releasing Ayesha and five of her companions from where the last customers had restrained them. It was the evening of the second day and the strain was beginning to show. The evening sessions with the guests were now only half an hour but to girls whose whole bodies stung and burned, whose every muscle had been tested practically to destruct point, even three half hour dungeon sessions without whips was hard going. But there was no choice, it was what their masters wanted and so Ayesha sat up, rubbing at her wrists and ankles. Isadene handed her a towel and she began to dab at the spots on her breasts where the last couple had pierced pinches of flesh while she was tied on her back. Gritting her teeth she pulled the two needles out of her nipples and dabbed again, Only then did she dry the damp patch between her legs on the leather of the bench top and finally she mopped at her crotch before throwing the cloth into a bin and getting stiffly to her feet.
Another girl was standing with her legs inelegantly spread and was dabbing between them. She grinned over at Ayesha. “At least I got ‘em where it really counts!”
“At least you got more than a strap-on!” she agreed ruefully. A pair of lesbians had been her last guests and strap-ons had never been her thing - even after the stimulation of needle play - but now she understood fully that anyone who used her was doing so at her master’s behest and she moistened and came helplessly. She looked down at her breasts as she waited patiently. They were in a state but a very erotic state nonetheless. They were welted from nipple to base and round the circumferences of the bases were dozens of tiny bruises from the studded tack. In addition to those were the bruises scattered all over from two boxing encounters. Tomorrow morning there would be studded whip duels and there was still this one more session in the dungeon tonight, it was impossible that faced with tits like hers, in their current state, the guests would leave without adding to the wounds. All she could hope was that she would get a man this time.
As it turned out she did. The guests, a man and his wife put her back on the bench and Ayesha put on a good show of howling and wriggling out of pure gratitude as they were content to clamp the nipples then feed chains up over pulleys suspended from an overhead beam and then hang more and more weights off them while they cropped the stretched breasts. The sting of the crop and the ache in her elongated nipples were a welcome change from the multiple darts of sharp pain caused by piercing. Eventually the couple put the crops down with no warning and the woman hoisted up her skirts, lowered the headrest of the bench and straddled Ayesha’s face. She was immediately aware that she had had a busy day on the terraces. Her thighs were crusted with dried sperm and the long, prominent inner lips were pungent with the stuff. Ayesha, with her customary rush of gratitude for the humiliation her master was heaping on her, stuck her tongue out and got to work, the acrid scent of the woman and the astringent taste of her emission mixing with the day’s harvest of sperm, plus the feel of soft labial tissue against her face, filling her senses. In any case the man suddenly thrust himself between her own legs and she settled down to giving them both what her master would want; value for money. Around her the noises in the dungeon quietened. Where before it had rung to the sounds of torment and then tormented ecstasy, it was now filled with softer sounds; groans of pleasure, strained grunts of effort, the occasional viscous slurp of a cunt and then the repeated and accelerating slap of flesh against flesh. Ayesha drove her face up into the vulva above her, gasping and screaming into it as the cock inside her drove her to one last orgasm, almost mindless with exhaustion.
It was mainly the extra, spiteful stabs of pain from her nipples as Isadene unclamped them that revived her. She had just lain panting and spent while the guests had left but now she wearily hauled herself upright, one leg dangling over the edge of the bench, the other on the top and bent at the knee, as she wiped herself yet again. Quite suddenly she realised that her master and trainer was standing in front of her. She scrambled to her feet and adopted the legs apart, hands behind head stance. It was a stance she approved of too because it left her as physically open to him as she was mentally now. He surveyed her body for a moment and then reached out to stroke and assess her breasts, stomach and thighs. His fingers were cool and dispassionate as they traced the livid stripes, stopped to examine where a stud or a whip’s tip had dug in and left a small crater and then moved on to check over any scabbing. She couldn’t repress a shiver at the feel of his touch and, as she was keeping her eyes respectfully lowered, the sight of his capable, strong fingers running across the twin battlegrounds that two days in the arena had made of her breasts.
Eventually he broke the spell, but Ayesha dared hope there was an element of reluctance there. It had been a long time since he had taken her.
“You’ve done well so far,” he told her. “Three wrestling bouts; all won - excellent. Log pulling, not so good. Chariot racing; a place in the second highest placed team. Twelfth out of a hundred in running the assault course............”
Perhaps it was the thought of water at the end of this, the longest day of her life but Ayesha remembered the feel of the cool water as a hundred girls had charged into it. The course had been built to involve part of the harbour and part of the mouth of the river and the beach. Wooden slopes had been constructed, rising from the sand and water had been playing constantly down them. The girls had had to try and swarm up the inclines while the guards of the opposing stable had lashed at them. There had been muddy quagmires, thigh deep, at the edges of the river itself that they had had to wade through before climbing nets and swinging across the river itself. The crowd had been everywhere, standing behind ropes urging the teams on as they had floundered through the mud, lining the route across the sand as the girls had staggered out of the water after swimming from the end of the jetty, crowding the little boats which had buzzed round the shoal of naked, glistening female flesh, splashing, snarling, pinching, nipple twisting its way round the course. They lined the promenade to gaze happily down on their sweating backs as they had struggled up the wet wooden slopes, the whips’ lashes wetted by their own bodies and carving even brighter lines across their flesh as they struggled, slipped and had to do it all again. The causeway had been the worst, she recalled. Three narrow tracks of boards leading from specially built wooden towers out to one end of the breakwater. They looked like the swaying wooden bridges often featured in adventure films about South America - except this time there were no side ropes to hang onto. There were plenty of whips to drive the girls up the steps of the towers and to encourage them out onto the long, perilous bridges. Nearly half of them, Ayesha herself on two laps had been flung, screaming, twenty feet into the harbour as the boards bucked and swung under them. The crowd had cheered deliriously as each terrified girl had plunged down to land with a satisfactory splash. It must have looked as though it was raining naked females, she thought.
“...........Two boxing contests; won one, lost one.” The trainer’s voice jerked her back to the present. The boxing, yes that had been a highlight of sorts. “Not at all bad. But most encouraging was how well you lost!”
Once again Ayesha’s mind leapt back to the vivid events of the past day.
The second time she had been put into the pens to box, she had found herself up against a hard and experienced girl who had given her a lesson. And it wasn’t one she was about to forget. Even as she had winced from the blows landed on her and missed with her own she had been watching how the girl feinted and dodged. Mindful of the trainer’s dire warnings about any girl who went down too soon, Ayesha had weathered the assaults and bitten down on the bitter pleasure the studs digging into her had caused. Instead she had exaggerated her wobbling stagger after a left and right combination to the breasts had left them rippling in the aftermath and her brain almost drowning in the orgy of exhibitionism, masochism and sheer decadence in which she was partaking. And when the inevitable end came, somehow she had managed to stand for a
second uppercut. Her legs had gone weak and she had nearly collapsed as the first blow had driven the studs in her boxing thong exquisitely up into her labia but she had heard the crowd’s roar, even as she staggered drunkenly around, bent double, and for some reason that had spurred her on. Maybe it was that she understood the pleasure she was giving - almost seeing herself as the crowd saw her - a desirable, semi-naked woman suffering for their entertainment. Whatever the reason, she had managed to straighten up, even though her legs were splayed wide apart and she was helpless, and wait for the coup de grace. Of course the other girl had taken her time, she had stalked in slowly and wound her fist back then swung it in and up. Ayesha’s face had hit the deck with stunning force before she knew what was happening.
The crowd round that pen had been merciful and she had been dragged back up to ground level and a whipping post to take a conservative twenty lashes. The guard had stripped her of her boxing corset and thong, making a show of prodding at the dents in her flesh before he fastened her to the post. During the last days prior to the show, she, as new girl, had practised this, she was not tied tightly but was able to rest her head against her forearms and arch her back thus presenting her bottom nicely and enabling the crowd to see her gathering arousal in the form of slicked labia sliding against one another as her pelvis moved and swung and her thighs flexed to absorb the stinging from the last lash and to invite the next.