21st Century Gladiators

by Mark Andrews

  Alas, it wasn’t to be. Nothing happened over the next few days or even weeks and as each day passed, our spirits drooped. But we still had to give our all, both physically and mentally to our training and other lessons, including the sex sessions with Jake and after a couple of weeks, I had come to the conclusion that Ukanda had been a fake; that he had just been toying with us and it was all not going to happen and slowly I knuckled down again to be a good slave.

  The next showing had me competing in a kick boxing fight. I won it as it happened but it also saw one of the boys castrated — with Obb’s whip. I will tell the story as it happened.

  Peter and I were both fair hands at kick boxing before we were kidnapped but Jake’s trainers improved both our skills and of course we now spent hours every day honing those skills rather than the hour or so a week we had had time for before. As a result, after the couple of months we spent at this daily training, I guess we might well have been pretty near Olympic quality, if not actually at that level.

  But also remember that the rules of the game were not being observed in our fights. Jake’s patrons wanted blood and guts! He didn’t worry two hoots for the Marquess of Queensbury’s rules or their equivalent in the martial arts. Indeed, if we broke the rules, his guests applauded all the more. This only meant of course, that we kick boxers had to be ultra careful for no holds were now barred and serious injury could result if we didn’t stay on our guard for the whole fight.

  I will say that in our sport, Jake didn’t mix the genders. We girls fought against each other and the boys were the same since to have limited the boys with, say the hook up their rectum and the left thumb locked to it, would have resulted in a wildly imbalanced bout.

  I was pitted against Sarakit, a Thai girl who was really very good at our sport. I suppose that Thailand being the home of kick boxing, it stands to reason that she might well be but then, against that, Thai women do not usually take it up and I guessed there wouldn’t be too many of her countrywomen for her to fight and train with. Nevertheless, she had worked hard to teach herself the skills and then trained her body to perform as this so demanding sport required.

  I had watched her at training and admired just how supple she was — she was quite able to kick her legs up vertically — and even keep them there for long seconds, a skill I hastily tried to acquire for I was sure we would be fighting each other at some stage and if I couldn’t emulate her in this she would have the advantage of me.

  Accordingly, I was as nervous as all hell when Jake told us we would be fighting that first afternoon but with Peter’s help, I used the techniques we had studied together to psych myself up into a frame of mind that would conduce to me winning the match.

  We faced up to each other wearing the almost useless gloves that Jake favoured, but otherwise stark naked of course, our slim bodies a feast for the prurient eyes of the next lot of twenty millionaires who had paid Jake dearly for the privilege of a three day visit to his island.

  And then it was on. We circled each other, each watching the other’s eyes without even a flicker if we could help it for during that flicker, the other might make her move and in kick boxing, they are lightning fast, possibly with the fists but more likely, the feet, one or both of them for we are experts at leaping into the air and making a double kick whilst still high up above the floor.

  I got mine in first and it was indeed a kick, although a single one — to the side of her head. It was a good first ploy and had her head ringing — for I could see it in her dazed expression but she soon recovered and now she came at me with both fists flying, my head and breasts and belly coming in for a dozen or more powerful punches which I was hard put to defend myself against, let alone counter-attack.

  But I did respond as soon as she had run out of steam, getting in a few punches to her breasts and belly, and then one almighty bash to the same side of her head as I had first kicked her.

  That had her down but she was on her feet in a trice and now she was angry, a very dangerous way to be for a fighter. One thing you have to do is to stay on top of your emotions right through the match. Losing one’s cool means you lose control and when I saw the glint of anger in her eye, I thought that perhaps I might now have the edge, especially if she didn’t quickly regain control.

  Of course, all the way leading up to the bout and through it, in the back of my mind at least, was the thought of a real night of love-making with Peter after three months of virtual celibacy, at least from him; and on the other side of the coin, the threat of being strung up like a side of beef, there to hang naked and in utter humiliation for nearly twenty-four hours until I would then have to face Obb and his terrible whip. It was certainly one hell of a motivation to win but I didn’t let it take over my thoughts. The two possibilities were always in the back of my mind but foremost was the fight itself.

  I watched Sarakit like a hawk, forgetting my own aches and pains, forgetting the gallows or the satin-sheeted bed in the bure; the centre of my mind on the fight and winning to the exclusion of all else.

  I won’t go on about the various kicks and punches we both scored — except to say I won by a knock-out, my last kick, after nearly an hour of wary pacing, the occasional kick and the many punches we both traded taking their toll, actually laying her out on her back on the canvas and Jake declared me the winner.

  I was of course elated at my win and could now look forward to a night of real loving with Peter in one of the bures after the guests went home. Sarakit and I were taken to Dr Sing’s clinic and our largely superficial cuts and bruises attended to and there she came to, after being unconscious for about twenty minutes.

  I felt terribly sorry for her for she was a lovely girl, her svelte figure a model’s dream and her velvet skin as smooth as the proverbial peaches and cream — or perhaps burnished copper. She had beautiful black, almond-shaped eyes and her face was that of a doll — not right then, of course, for it was bruised in a couple of places. Her breasts were smallish, as are those of many of her race, but perfectly formed and wonderfully upstanding, crowned with slightly darker areoles and tiny nipples that even I, who have no sexual leanings towards girls, ached to finger and even to kiss.

  Once the doctor had attended to her and ensured her brain was okay, the guards took her away and of course we all followed, to watch as she was strung up by her ankles to hang upside down for the rest of that afternoon and night, and all the next day, awaiting her terrible punishment just because she had not been good enough to win her fight.

  I pictured in my mind the almost naked Obb wielding his terrible bull whip against that so lovely flesh and I shuddered. It was bad enough watching the boys whipped but when a teenage girl had to suffer the appalling pain it was doubly bad.

  But as I stood there, watching them hoist her up by her heels, I couldn’t but think ahead to my own night of love once the guests had all gone home and I think my eyes actually misted over as I imagined our bodies together properly for the first time in over three months.

  I was excused my waitress service and attending the night fight later that night although Peter had to do his bit and we were both excused the sex auction and so I could snuggle up to him (carefully) in the cage while others had to do their bit for Jake’s growing nest egg.

  The next morning we were made to line up to be auctioned as ponies though and once more I had to suffer the indignity and pain of the horrible dildos in my rectum and vagina, the whip laid on to my straining back and bottom and of course the ribald comments of my own rider as well as the leers of those we passed going the other way.

  Lunch over, we then had to attend and wait on the guests during the third bout of that second performance. This time it was been Greta’s husband, Hans, a handsome blond German boy, and Jumba, who was Kesho’s man.

  The bout started ordinarily enough, but then, quite stupidly, Hans had an attack of conscience or something and stood
still, refusing to fight, loudly proclaiming in his broad German accent that this whole scene was morally obscene and he wasn’t going to have any further part in it.

  Jake gave him a punishment shock and then a dose of the potentially lethal one but even after that, he refused to go on with the fight. I was astonished for I thought he had the edge on Jumba anyway and would probably have won. As it was, Jake declared the Nigerian boy the winner by default and ordered his guards to seize Hans and drag him out to the gallows.

  We all followed of course but my heart was heavy for I saw the gleam in Jake’s eye and I knew something terrible was going to happen to the handsome German boy.

  Once they had him strung up in the gallows, Obb appeared in his usual attire, the spiked leather codpiece that clipped over his enormous genitals but otherwise naked to show off his spectacular body and I shuddered as I saw the almost fanatical glint in his eyes. This was not going to be any normal twenty-stroke whipping, I now knew.

  It wasn’t

  Jake explained what was going to happen: “This scum refused to fight,” he began. “He was given two opportunities to resume the bout but obstinately refused to go on with it. He is therefore going to be punished. Bring his woman forward…”

  The guard near Greta brought her up close to his employer who now smiled sourly at her. “I have decided to punish your man in a way that he will never ever forget…” He didn’t take his eyes off her for one moment but now address his lieutenant. “Obb, I wish you to castrate the swine.”

  Greta screamed and her hand came up to her mouth, her eyes rounded in horror at the words. The rest of us slaves murmured in fear and abomination — and came in for a global shock to our genitals to warn us to remain still, while the guests also murmured, but this time in delight that they were going to witness one of the most terrible things a man could do to another.

  Hans screamed as he heard his fate, of course, but Jake, his men and his guests merely drank in his misery. God, they were dreadful men, every single one of them!

  Obb now strolled around to face the front of the dangling boy and cracked his whip in the air — twice, and at each sharp report, poor Hans screamed and his hands went up to clutch at his still intact scrotal sac before letting them fall back towards the grass below him.

  It was all high drama, of course, if utterly dreadful for us slaves and particularly Greta and her man who was now facing the loss of his testes at the hand of Obb’s horrible whip.

  Despite being shocked a couple of times, Greta could not stand still and in the end they had to lock her to the upright next to her man, her hands being raised up above her head and behind the pole, her thumbs being cuffed together there so that she was now even closer and would see the tip of the whip as it did its grisly work.

  And then Obb began in earnest.

  Once more, despite my hatred of the man, my eyes couldn’t help but look at his splendid body, its burnished copper skin that was as smooth and blemish free as Sarakit’s, his beautifully defined muscles and the way they rippled and corded all the time — and of course the whip in his hand.

  I watched, again almost in slow motion, as he drew the whip back towards him, flicked it forward and then snapped it back again. As always, it was precise down to the last millimetre and it opened up his scrotum right down the centre line where the tiny fold of skin called the perineum that starts right in front of the anus and leads forward to the scrotal sac, continuing on under it.

  The skin opened like a ripe tomato and now we could see the two gonads, greyish-white in colour and attached to his body by various tubes, the purpose of which I had no idea, as they fell out of the now useless scrotum.

  Hans screamed of course and once more his hands went up, now trying to stuff them back into the scrotal sac — quite unsuccessfully of course.

  Obb waited. He could wait all day if necessary for there was almost no blood at this stage but eventually it took a shock to the boy’s penile root to force him to lower his hands — and then Obb struck again, this time attacking the right testicle, flicking it away, at which poor Hans really howled — nd howled — and howled.

  His screams were blood-curdling and I felt sick as I stood there, powerless to do anything to help the poor boy and just as sorry for his girl as she stood within inches of his naked, upside down body, watching as Hans’ manhood was destroyed at Jake’s orders.

  The other gonad was flicked off next. It really was as simple as that. Obb’s magnificent body seemed just to flick the whip — and then its tail landed in exactly the right spot, taking off first one testicle and then the other.

  But still he wasn’t finished. Hans was nigh on unconscious by now, his screams having abated to a hoarse growl since his voice-box had virtually given out after minutes of constant screaming.

  But then there was one last stroke — and the boy’s penis — or most of it anyway, went the same way as his testes, sliced off as if by a hot knife through butter. Hans did indeed faint now — and so did Greta, who had been shrieking as loudly as her man during the dreadful operations Obb had just perpetrated on the hapless boy.

  He was bleeding copiously now and Dr Sing moved in to stanch the flow and supervise his being carried to his clinic. They also took Greta and although she was returned to her cage the next day, we didn’t see Hans for a week or so. When we did, it was to stare at his newly empty groin. All he had left there now was a tiny, navel-like opening where his penis had formerly poked out of his groin. Apparently it functioned perfectly well as a urinary waste device but of course sex was now out of the question for him.

  He and Greta left us about a week later and we never discovered their destination for Jake kept no records and, in the end, obstinately refused to reveal it.

  Chapter 6

  The night of sex with Peter as a reward for winning my fight was utterly wonderful.

  After all these months sleeping in the hay on the bare concrete floor of our cage and having to remember all the time to keep our sexual organs apart and our hands away from them, the night we spent in the bure on the so soft satin sheet and the real bed (which was of course of the highest quality), was wondrous in the extreme. Just the bed would have been enough after the hard concrete floor of the cage but then we were allowed to make love together, the restrictive function of our two implants having been turned off for the night.

  We didn’t sleep much although I suppose we dozed from time to time after each wonderful climax. Peter made sure I had three of these to every one of his but he managed four over the course of the night before we were collected at eight the next morning and returned to our usual duties.

  We were very careful at first, Peter moving his loins towards mine only by quarter inch advances at a time but once we discovered it was indeed safe, he slipped it in and then held me close, his kisses like the finest wine and the real contact with his beautiful body as if it was our first time together.

  We had of course been sold as whores to various guests and whilst during that time they had engaged in normal sex so far as I was concerned, for Peter it had meant he had to bugger their assholes — something he really hated. Now though, he could make love to me the proper way and with the woman he loved and it showed through as if he had been actually celibate since we had last made love together, now nearly three months I think, although time had become a blur for us since every day was the same and we were never allowed to read a newspaper or hear or see news.

  But as a result he was everything he should have been as a lover and of course he now had Jake’s tuition in the sexual arts to help him, too. This had included how to control his libido so he could bugger the filthy backsides of all those men who desired it — and keep doing it for as long as they wanted without coming himself. He used this ploy on me now, slowing his own movements but keeping me on a high by restricting his much smaller motions to the area around my clit so that I w
as still being excited while he was allowing his own ardour to cool a little.

  Indeed he told me he mostly didn’t even allow himself to come at all during many of the more horrible of our joint sexual encounters with the guests (such as the one with ‘Idi Amin’) since he found them so repugnant and didn’t want to remember any sexual pleasure from their bodies. I thought it rather odd myself for I felt the same about them of course but since I had not been taught how to calm my libido (but definitely how to enhance it) I was unable to do the same. But even if I had had that ability, why bother, I thought. If you can get even a small pleasure from their disgusting embraces, wasn’t that better? But that was the way Peter thought of it and far be it foe me to have any thought of censuring him for it.

  Anyway, our sex, our loving and indeed the whole night was absolutely wonderful. So far from our usual nights curled up in the hay on the concrete that we might as well have been in the state guest room at Buckingham Palace. It certainly felt like that, I can tell you.

  It was wonderful in another way, too. So we had been forced to have sex (not make love, for I didn’t count it in those terms) with Jake and his guests in each other’s presence and for all our good will to each other, such an act is hardly conducive to a good marriage and I had begun to wonder if watching me squirming around with other men might have cooled Peter’s love for me. That night together told me there was nothing wrong with our marriage or with our ability to make love so fabulously.