by Sean O'Kane
The cage swayed on its chains and the crowd subsided into the silence of expectation. Tara shook her hair back proudly and stepped away from the bars. She knew she was good enough to orchestrate her own defeat - prolong things for the crowd and give Conor Brien plenty of time to savour the taste of that defeat.
Slowly she made her way across the cage in her usual crouch, feeling how it shifted slightly as she did so. The other girl did the same and as she came closer Tara could see the expectation of losing in her eyes. At first Tara did nothing to disabuse her of that notion. In the first clinch, both girls’ hands slipping over oiled flesh, breasts pressed flat together, Tara managed to get one hand between her opponent’s legs and throw her then she followed up by dropping to her knees on the girl’s back. The familiar battle lust raced through her as she watched the girl’s whip-scored body writhe as she stood back, it took a lot of self control to let her rise. But to her credit, the girl came up fighting, charging into Tara at waist height and sending her staggering back. The Cage tilted treacherously as their bodies left the centre and both of them sprawled into a corner. The other girl was up first and stamped her foot down onto Tara’s breasts. She screamed and turned over to protect them, took a kick to her buttocks but was able to use the bars to pull herself up. For a moment she stayed where she was and let a rain of punches and kicks fall on her back and legs. She glanced up at the Owners’ box and was pleased to note the concern on its occupants’ faces.
She ignored the dull pain of the blows and whirled suddenly, landing a backhanded slap to her opponents’ breasts, stopping her in her tracks and enabling her to get a grip on them, digging her fingers in to stop the oil making them slide off. She loved the feel of the soft flesh she was squeezing and the sound of the girl’s wail as she was pushed back. Her hands scrabbled at Tara’s wrists vainly but then she suddenly stopped pushing and let herself fall backwards. Tara was taken off balance and fell forwards. The girl got a foot in her stomach and sent her flying high overhead.
The world span and then she landed heavily, the cage swung and tilted again, propelling her into another corner and then the girl was on her again. Tara decided that she was a worthy opponent to lose to as she felt fingers dive between her legs as she sprawled and get a pinching grip on one of her labia. She thrashed desperately, lashing out with her fists and legs but couldn’t stop the sharp, penetrating pain. Another hand found a nipple and twisted. Tara yelled and arched, momentarily paralysed; but suddenly the two grips were released and the girl was gone. Tara blinked and looked up, she was scrabbling away and was picking up a flogger. So that was the reason for the open top, she guessed. Every now and then a weapon would be tossed in to keep the slaves busy and the crowd entertained. She grinned. How she loved this life!
She sprang up and decided it was time she asserted herself before throwing the fight. The girl came at her, swinging the lashes and Tara let her, dodging sideways as the cage tilted again, this time she was the one on top in the corner and she made it count, wrenching the whip from her opponent’s grasp and tossing it contemptuously out of the cage once she had delivered several hard lashes to the strong back and deliciously trembling buttocks. Then she strode back to the centre and waved to the crowd while the other slave pulled herself up.
She deliberately turned to the Owners’ box and when she was sure she had Conor’s attention she smiled and blew him a kiss. A slow-dawning expression of horror passed across his face as he took in the implications of her action and she was still laughing when the other slave leapt on her back and the two naked furies went at it with nails, fists and feet, seeking out every feminine crevice and hole and punishing it in any way they could. Tara loved every second of the desperate explorations, the feel of the warm body twisting against her, breasts bouncing and swinging, strong thighs clenching as her fingers tried to drive up between them. Then a riding crop was thrown in and there was a frantic crawl for it, each girl dragging the other back and trying for the advantage. Tara almost forgot her purpose and won the struggle.
She taunted the girl for a while, just flicking at her thighs and shoulders, then she let her grab it and allowed herself to take a thorough thrashing as she pantomimed the agony, arching, twisting and screaming as she pretended to be badly hurt. She listened for the crowd’s screams as those who had had the courage to bet against her suddenly saw big money coming their way. She stayed in a corner while the thrashing went on, facing her tormentor and holding the bars either side of her as if too stunned to sink down and curl up. The girl was laughing with savage joy as she swung the lash in to Tara’s thighs, breasts and stomach, she was getting her confidence up, beginning to believe that she could actually win against the famous Blondie.
But not yet, Tara decided. She surged off the bars, shaking off the beating as if it hadn’t happened, twisting the girl’s wrist till she dropped the crop and then holding her arm out straight and forcing her to bend over, she got one of her own legs over it, straddling the twisted limb. Then she wrenched it up until she could grind her sex and her clitoris against it. She listened for the cheers from her own relieved supporters as she sensually rolled her hips, using her opponent’s pain to fuel the lust which naked combat always roused in her.
She looked up to the Owners’ box again and revelled in the perplexed expressions she saw there. Coupled with the delightful friction between her legs, it was nearly enough to tip her over the edge and into orgasm. But fortunately the girl under her managed to twist around enough to use her free hand to grab one of Tara’s ankles. She gave a theatrical wail of despair as she allowed herself to be toppled from her perch and then a single lash whip came sailing in over the bars.
In the ensuing, savage whip duel the first blood was drawn and the crowd went wild. Tara had gone for the crop and let the other girl take the whip. With the greater reach she inevitably made it tell and Tara felt the first warm trickles begin to course down her back as they lunged, lashed and ducked, striking wherever they could.
And by the time a weighted, leather boxing strap was thrown in, Tara was genuinely beginning to feel the first effects of approaching defeat. But one look up at the expression of fury on Conor’s face as she went down on all fours under a barrage of lashes was enough to spur her on to play out her revenge to the end. She struggled to her feet, not having to feign it too much now, her body stung and ached all over, to see the other girl winding the strap round her fist, her face set in a grimace of savage determination. Then she flung the whip out so that Tara couldn’t use it and came for her in the gladiator’s crouch, closing in for the kill. Tara took one more look at Conor and faced up to the pasting she had condemned herself to.
It seemed to take forever. Now that she knew she was going to win a famous victory, the girl put on a real show and even through the daze of pain Tara gradually sank into, she appreciated the skill. After an initial shoulder charge to get Tara staggering backwards, she picked her targets, weakening her with blows to the stomach and breasts, dazing her with clubbing blows to the head. Tara tasted blood in her mouth as she was flung back against the bars and sank to her knees. Then her face was held roughly against her opponent’s sweat- soaked crotch and she began to lick at the pungent juices while she felt the girl thrust and swivel her hips - playing to the gallery. Tara could still have retaliated, she knew she still had plenty left if she needed it. But a long slow defeat would stretch out the agony for Conor Brien.
Time and again she was dragged to her feet, swung against the bars and then she tottered back to meet a fist or a knee brought sharply up between her straddled legs. The world dissolved into wheeling circles of colour as it spun round her when she was thrown or knocked clear across the cage. Then the girl took up the crop again and for as long as Tara remained down she was lashed with it. And once she had clawed her way upright again, using the bars. Her opponent’s weighted fist punished her until she collapsed.
Just once as she was flung face first against the bars and began to slide down, her rap
idly closing eyes picked out Carlo. He was standing in the arena gazing up at her with open-mouthed despair, almost as if he himself were feeling every shattering impact on her exhausted body.
Once again Tara did the only thing she could think of and prayed that his time he would see; she stuck her tongue out and showed him her ring. The crop began to scythe down across her already-numb back but she kept enough control to roll her eyes up at the Owners’ box. She saw Carlo’s eyes follow hers and realisation begin to dawn. He ran. And Tara knew she had done enough and was happy even as she was hauled by her hair back into the centre of the swaying cage. She hadn’t seen it but the final weapon had been slung in. A studded whip.
Carlo dashed for the dressing room, his mind in a ferment of sudden realisation and stark fear. He raced for the door which would take him outside but it opened before he got there and he cannoned into Ali.
“She’s getting pounded!” he yelled as he grabbed Carlo by the shoulders.
“I know! The bitch is throwing it!” he panted in reply. “It’s Brien, I think she’s getting something back on him. You were right Ali, she kept something back from us. Christ what a tough bitch! Get that plane and stay with it! I’ll try and get her out before he gets to her! Jesus, he’ll kill her if he does!”
Ali sprinted back out of the door and Carlo ran back into the arena. It was nearly over. His magnificent Blondie was hardly moving now; a limp and blood-stained form on the floor of the cage, her conqueror standing over her playing the crowd, getting them to shriek their desire to see another lash go in and watch the big blonde writhe one more time. The victor was frantically rubbing her free hand between her legs, orgasming in the sheer joy of complete victory and even in his desperate haste Carlo did have to admit that The Cage was a hell of an idea. The gleaming body of the victorious gladiator, streaked itself with blood in places standing over the vanquished slavegirl was intensely erotic. And as he rushed over towards the crane driver, the end came. Somehow the blonde contrived to get her knees under her and lift her backside up - he couldn’t tell if it was one last attempt to rise or an invitation to one last lash which would send her into the final agonised orgasm of the defeated. But as he gestured frantically to the crane driver, he saw the victorious slave take aim - she did it so slowly that the crowd was able to make a rising “Oooooh!” as they watched her arm rise and then the whip scythed down between the blonde’s buttocks. She twisted up, almost throwing herself off the floor, her shriek audible above the crowd’s demented cacophony and then she fell back and didn’t move again.
The cage was lowered and Carlo’s fingers fumbled with the lock. He looked up at the Owners’ box as the door finally swung open and saw Conor Brien shoving people aside as he tried to get out. Carlo ran in, knelt and picked the blonde up, then slung her body over one shoulder in a fireman’s lift and tried to make his escape.
Conor Brien would expect him to go through the Blue’s dressing room, so he made for the home team’s room and barged through the jubilant guards. Outside he was swallowed up by the crowd streaming out of the arena. Ignoring the cries of amazement once people recognised what he was carrying he ran towards the small airfield, all the time keeping an eye open for Conor’s head above the crowd. He was nearly there when he spotted it. He made one last effort to break through the crowd and finally burst free, he saw Ali taxi-ing a twin engined Cessna and turning it ready for take-off. Hefting the blonde firmly onto his shoulder he set off at a full run but heard Conor begin to shout behind him and he doubted if he would have time to load the girl and himself before he was caught. But he was going to try.
His feet pounded across the grass while his ungainly burden jolted and shifted, slowing him down. The plane came closer but so did the sound of footsteps in pursuit. And even he; Carlo who prided himself so much on his fitness, was panting with effort by the time he flung the rear door open, dumped the inert slave inside, slammed the door again and turned to face his erstwhile employer.
The two men faced each other, panting from the chase. The draught from the engines blew around them like a deafening hurricane.
“You and I can square accounts tomorrow, Carlo,” Brien shouted over the roar. “But I want that worthless bitch now!”
“Right Mr Brien!” Carlo yelled back and pushed himself upright to square up to the bigger man. “She’s worthless, so I’m buying her. You take all the money I got in the bank, that way you got a bargain. Shit, you own the bank so it’s no problem.”
Brien smiled but shook his head. “No deal. I got a score to settle with her, now get out of my way or I’ll settle with you too.” He took a menacing step forwards. But suddenly another voice shouted over the engines.
“That’s enough Mr Brien!”
Carlo looked along the fuselage and saw Ali leaning out of the pilot’s window. He was holding a pistol and it was pointing at Conor Brien’s head. There was something about the rock-steady way it was held which suggested that the man holding it knew how to use it and was quite prepared to. Brien obviously came to the same conclusion.
He gave a humourless smile. “It ain’t over till it’s over,” he said. But he backed off a step and Carlo turned and scrambled into the plane.
“Get us the hell out of here, Ali!” he yelled to the cockpit as he locked the door. Then ignoring the seats and seatbelts he knelt by the blonde as the plane began to bump along over the grass.
“Oh, Blondie. What the hell have you let them do to you?” he murmured as he turned her over and surveyed her ravaged body. Beneath him he felt the roughness fade as the wheels cleared the ground and they were airborne.
Chapter 19
John Carpenter put down the phone and turned to where Madame Stalevsky sat, an elegant eyebrow raised quizzically.
“They’re on their way. They’ve got the blonde but it sounds like something’s happened. They’ll be here tomorrow, about mid-day. But Ali says they’re going to need some facilities.”
“Like what?” Madame asked.
“He asked if we’d got some kind of sickbay. He said they were going to need it for a few days.”
The copter put down at The Lodge’s helipad and John, Madame, Yuri and Ivan - Madame’s two mute Russian helpers - waited till the blades were drooping and swishing before they approached. The pilot’s door opened and Ali’s familiar white-robed figure climbed out. He was followed by a shorter but powerfully built, swarthy man and Ali introduced him as Carlo. John and Madame instantly recognised him from the memorably expert whipping they had seen him deliver to the blonde in question and hands were shaken all round in mutual recognition of a shared enthusiasm for plying the whip on female flesh. And then John asked where the slave was.
Carlo looked a little uncomfortable. “She’s in the back. But she don’t look so good just now. If you can let me have a room and a few things, she’ll be ready in a couple of days....... Maybe a week,” he conceded.
“Make it two,” Ali said.
“What’s happened?” John asked.
Carlo held up his hands. “It’s a long story. If we can just get her settled and if you can leave her with me for a while. We’ll tell you everything.”
The smaller man went and opened the rear door of the copter and pulled out a human form wrapped in a blanket and a sheet so nothing was visible, except, John noted with concern, some blonde tresses trailing out of one end of the bundle. There was some blood on them.
Some hours later they all gathered in John’s office and Carlo related the whole tale.
“She just wanted revenge. Nothing we did to her could get that out of her stupid head,” he took a swallow of his whisky. “What a tough girl that is, eh? A session with ‘the Doc’ every day for a month and then four hundred lashes. And still she don’t let go of that thought. But you don’t worry Mr Carpenter, she’ll be fine if I look after her. Don’t ask me how I know, I just know. She gave me a sign. She’ll be back fighting, soon.”
“Okay, Carlo. Whatever you need, just ask. And in the me
antime, gentlemen, feel free to enjoy our hospitality.”
Carlo’s face lit up. “Ali says you got Patti here.”
“She’s here, sure. And she’s a reformed character, after Madame had her for two months’ special treatment once we found out she betrayed that blonde of yours. Madame has very strict views about how slaves should behave towards one another.”
Carlo nodded seriously in agreement and then laughed out loud. “I gotta see that Patti! She was fucking good even when she was bad!”
Tara woke slowly, fighting her way up through waves of pain and flashes of memory. She relived the garish lights shining down on The Cage, the sight of the studded whip descending to bite into her flesh, time and again, Carlo running from the arena, Conor Brien's face contorted in fury. That was a good memory and she opened her eyes, or tried to. They wouldn't open properly and she remembered the weighted boxing strap on her opponent's fist but she could see enough to know she wasn't in her stall. She was lying face down on sheets and the smooth, crisp linen against her skin was a touch of luxury she had long forgotten. She tried to raise her head; and screamed.
Pain exploded through her whole body. It wasn't the usual throbbing and stinging she was accustomed to in the wake of a good flogging, this was raw, sharp agony. Even the act of screaming hurt her and she fell back, burying her face in the pillow and trying to breathe shallowly enough to calm the pain in her torso.