My heels dig into the hard earth as I navigate the track, trying hard not to trip. If I fall, I will land on Max, and if I knock him down, I will trigger a domino chain reaction that would probably embarrass all of us and garner me a severe punishment.
Our audience is seated upon the benches on one of the flanks. The amphitheater is football stadium huge. A dirt track runs around its inner perimeter and I can see the grooves of wheels (not motor-vehicular wheels either, but something more ancient) ground into the dust.
Our audience is not large, and therefore they are concentrated to a segment of the bleachers. The seats are stone, but bedecked with cushions and divans so as to ensure the comfort of their billionaire patrons.
Ah yes. I’m coming to the billionaires.
They are a mixed bunch. In outward appearances, they are everything I expect them to be and yet not what I expect. There are possibly twenty of them. Twenty of them for sixteen slaves! There are more men than women, and I recognize some.
There’s a black A-list movie star whose last movie – the third in a series – didn’t generate the expected returns for its production costs, a rumored $250 million if those numbers are to be believed.
There’s a tow-headed gentleman whom I believe I might have seen on the cover of TIME. If there are CEOs there, I don’t think I’ll recognize them if they are low-key, do not involve themselves in scandals and do not make enough waves to be splashed on the cover of People.
There’s an African leader who is decked out in his tribal glory – headdress, colored sashes over multicolored cloaks and all.
A famous female supermodel who is now in her forties is leaning over to her friend (partner?), a famous female fashion designer known for her luxurious celebrity wedding dresses.
A swarthy man in an immaculate suit and tie sits next to an older version of himself – a man in sheikh clothing.
A famous Czech tennis player is flanked by his best friend, a Spanish soccer player who made news for recording the highest transfer fee ever and who is better known for his sexual antics off the field.
And there’s a man I have seen in newspaper headlines.
He wears a bristly mustache, and he carries his handsome head above his bulky shoulders. I remember reading that he was a wrestler once and that he once twisted a bull’s neck with his bare arms. Yes, he is a dictator of a small European nation.
And I remember reading that he has executed over a thousand dissenters.
I shiver at the array of luminaries and billionaires before me. I am nothing. Nobody.
And I am about to be sold like a heifer to one of these people.
Russell is amongst them, of course. He beams at us in that paternal fashion of his, as if we are his own creations. (In essence, I believe we are.)
“Oh God, that’s my mother,” Max murmurs.
I gaze at where he is indicating. Not that any of us can point to anyone, tethered as we are. I assume the beautiful dark-haired woman beside Max is his mother, seeing as she shares the same features as the twins. She’s speaking to Russell, and she keeps glancing over to Max and Alice. I wonder what goes on in the head of a woman such as she – one who would knowingly allow her offspring to be paraded naked and auctioned off to the highest bidder.
Unless . . . she’s planning to buy back her offspring, of course.
All in the name of charity.
My heart begins to beat a little faster. Is this Russell’s plan? To buy all four of us back? Is he allowed to do that?
The guards (minders?) that flank us are dressed in Roman centurion outfits as befitting the amphitheater theme. Their red cloaks swirl around them in the breeze and they carry whips instead of spears.
“Turn and face your masters,” says the lead one with a voice like gravel.
We do a half-turn to face the spectators. As we are still affixed to one another with the daisy chain of embedded dildos in our raw orifices, the twisted iron chains strain against the flesh of our upper thighs – one strand in front and the other at the back.
It is a most uncomfortable sensation.
We stand there as our audience inspects us. A titter goes through them, and there are snickers and murmurs through the tiered ranks. I can feel the hard gazes of the men on my tits, especially since they jut out so prominently from the top of my corset, and pussy – streaming with its decorative pennants.
“Turn around again to show them your back,” the guard rasps.
We do an about-turn, as we have practiced. The iron chains unwind and rewind themselves around our thighs as we end up a hundred-and-eighty degrees from where we were at. Our buttocks and back view are now proffered to the gaze. The dildos in the men’s rectums are very obvious in this frontage, and I think that’s the whole idea.
“Right turn, and march!”
We assume our previous positions with our side profile to the spectators again. And we march upon the well-trod dirt track around the amphitheater.
One circuit, and it’s back to the holding pen.
I wonder if the master or mistress who will purchase me has already made up his/her mind at this first round of display.
6
It’s now time for the Race.
We are partnered – Max and I. The partnering down our slave ranks includes a man and woman as a pair.
We are dressed in the same garb as before in the Parade, only now our arms have been released from our bonds.
It’s necessary, of course, for what we are about to do. My nipple, pussy and clit clamps have been released for about an hour to allow the circulation to flow into my flesh again and for the numbness to ease. But as soon as my respite is over, the clamps are put on again upon my tender flesh like leeches.
We are tethered to a two-wheel open Roman chariot. It’s not from the ancient past, of course, in case that’s what you are thinking. It’s newly made, I think, and gilded with gold paint. The wheels are large and spoked and steel-rimmed. These are the ones that made those tracks on the ground of the amphitheater, which suggests that we are not the first slaves to have graced this place.
Both Max and I wear a harness each. The harness is brown leather and creased with use, and we wear it strapped around our shoulders and chests. (In my case, two horizontal straps run just above and under my breasts to secure me tightly to the chariot.)
And yes, since we are beasts of burden, we are decorated with fashionable horsetails. They sprout from our assholes, attached to dildos that fit into us snugly as we were previously measured for size. To prevent them from slipping out, the rims of the dildos are further strapped to our attire – mine to my corset and Max’s to the bands that encircle the root of his cock and balls.
My horsetail is a roan-colored one – rich and plumed with real horsehair and combed to perfection. My feet and ankles are shod with calf-length boots. All the better to run . . . or should I say clomp with. My veins are charged with the crackle of adrenaline, and in my ears is the rush of my own blood. It’s simultaneously humiliating and exhilarating to be tethered and bedecked as such.
Max’s face is flushed with embarrassment. I guess he has never been treated before in such a manner, rich kid that he is. In addition to his black horsetail – attached to a dildo in his rectum which is even thicker than mine – and his clamps, his erect cock (already strapped securely) wears an added embellishment.
It’s a slender penile wand – inserted into his urethra. It’s so long as to sprout like an additional tail from the head of his cock. It ends in a little piece of scarlet fluff three inches from his tip.
No wonder he is disconcerted.
“It’ll be OK,” I comfort him.
“I guess,” he says half-heartedly.
“And are we here to win?”
“It’ll improve our chances to fetch higher prices.” His tone is laced with sarcasm.
“That’s a good thing, right?”
“Depends on which side of the coin you’re on.”
He’s not the only one deco
rated such. Greg wears a penile wand too, as do the rest of the men. Greg has the added sparkle of his penile head barbell, of course. I notice that at least two of the guys have had their scrotums pierced.
Greg catches my eye and flashes me a smile. This does not go unnoticed by his partner, Alice, who face blackens.
All six pairs of us are tethered to chariots, which are all placed side by side on the expanse of the track. A Roman soldier perches on each of the open chariots, holding our reins. We are not allowed to let the chariot lurch to the front or for him to fall off in any way. Anyhow, he’s going to make sure of that because he wields a wicked-looking bullwhip.
Our billionaire spectators are in their places. Waiters in togas and sandals ply the stone bleachers, serving champagne in fluted glasses and hors d’oeuvres in little shell plates.
“I hope I won’t trip,” I say.
It’s not that I’m competitive, though I’m willing to bet Alice is. Far from it. I just don’t want to make a fool of myself and Max and look stupid in front of everyone. Least of all Alice.
“You won’t trip. I’ll buoy you up. We’re tied together after all.”
That’s what I’m afraid of.
“What if we come in last?”
“Losers get flogged.” Max’s mouth twitches. “You know the drill. That way, they make sure we give our all.”
Yes. The dread of falling and being embarrassed looms above my neck like a proverbial Guillotine.
I don’t don’t don’t want to fall.
Seriously.
The way I’m garbed is humiliating in itself.
The ringmaster calls out, “Take your positions!”
Oh shit.
We tense. Red and yellow dust motes swirl in the air before us. Oh yes, this will hopefully be quick and all over before I come to my senses.
“Ready?”
We crouch. My fluttering heart is threatening to spill out of my throat. I don’t want to embarrass Max. I really don’t.
Beside me, Alice darts me a vicious glare.
“Careful you don’t get an accident, Gina.”
What’s that supposed to mean?
No, no . . . she wouldn’t stage something, would she?
The whip crack on the red ground signals the start of our race. This is followed a split second later by the sharp lash on our shoulders.
The sudden and unexpected sting drives me forward, and I find myself running like all the hounds in hell are after me. I can barely keep up with Max, whose athletic legs pump in and out stridently.
I am by nature lithe. I run and run with my heart in my mouth and only the whip crack on my back to chase me. My boots ground the dust and send clods of dirt flying behind me. I daren’t look back to my minder holding the whip lest I accidentally get a lash on my face. The harness bites into my shoulders and chest, but I barely feel it. The chariots trundle behind and around me, and I can dimly hear the spectators cheering. Our bells tinkle and chime for all they are worth, but I can hardly hear them for the din.
We have to make an entire circuit around the track. My vision is focused straight ahead, and I can faintly discern the flash of Max’s limbs and the heat emanating from his flesh. As we go around the bend, I can see that Alice and Greg are pulling ahead of all the others.
For some reason, I feel incensed.
She’s going to smirk, smirk, smirk.
And –
The bullwhip cracks against my shoulders again.
“Faster, you curs!” shouts our charioteer.
I think I’m more afraid of that whip than of losing out to Alice. A gust of endorphins injects fuel into my legs, and as we zoom towards another bend, we are neck to neck with Alice and Greg.
No way. But I believe we have a ghost of a chance!
My lungs are bursting and I see green ellipses before my eyes.
“Faster!”
K-r-a-a-c-k!
We navigate the bend, and Alice’s furious face turns to regard mine. Her eyes are crazy wild and for a moment, I think she’s going to lash out with her boot and trip me. Fear speeds me up. I almost stumble.
And we are on the final bend – the finish line being back where we started. The ringmaster with his flapping red cloak awaits us. An ache spears my groin, and my muscles are agonized all over with the strain. But I still run and thump and clomp and do whatever I have to (not be last) get over the finish line.
I slow down as I vault over, and my entire body goes into shudders and shakes as if I’ve just been dunked into ice-cold water. My limbs are a wobbling Jell-O mess. My lungs are on fire, and the energy just drains out of me as if someone has pulled the plug. My breasts heave and tremble, and I discover that I have lost my clit clamp (and corresponding lead weights) and one of my nipple bells.
Uh oh.
I can’t remember if the rules say I have to be intact when I cross the finish line.
“I can’t believe we’ve won,” Max mutters as he turns me around and hugs me in his sweaty arms.
And there you have it. We’ve won!
I can’t believe it either until I look all round and realize that the spectators are on their feet and cheering, and the other competitors are in and looking dejected, and Alice’s expression is apoplectic but she can’t come over and slap me because she’s still tied to her chariot. Russell and Max’s mother beam like we’ve just won the sweepstakes.
My one intact nipple clip presses against Max’s as he holds me close – breast to chest. The clink of metal ensues and I can taste his salty sweat and imbibe his masculine tang, and suddenly I’m glad, glad, glad we have won and beaten that all-too-smug sister of his.
Our charioteer disembarks, and I’m reminded of his lashes. I peer over to my back and am horrified to see red streaks across my shoulders. Max wears the same.
“They’ll fade,” he says affably.
The ringmaster comes over to us, his cloak a red cloud.
“Follow me,” he says.
My head is still spinning with victory, and it suddenly registers that winners should also get something.
“We’re not going to be whipped, are we?” I ask the ringmaster anxiously.
“Oh no,” he smirks. “You’re going to be in for something far, far better.”
7
Max and I are taken to a hall. There’s a stage upfront which has been decorated to resemble the interior of a barn. Rectangular bales of hay are scattered across the wooden floor beams, and several iron hooks are suspended from the ceiling.
I eye the latter with dread.
The losers – a petite dark-haired girl with ringlets and her redheaded stepbrother – have just been flogged right here upon those bales, we are told. They are nowhere to be seen when we enter. I peruse the surface of those bales for telltale signs of blood, but there are thankfully none.
My pulse is still tapping against my throat, however.
Max and I are still in our horse garb, with the tails sprouting out of our butts. Max’s bobbing penile wand fluff is no longer in his urethra, thank goodness. The corset cinches my waist and my missing clamps have been replaced – alongside with a curt clip on my ear from my charioteer. Our audience is now seated theater-style before the stage with a central aisle to divide the seats into two areas.
I spy Russell and Max’s beautiful mother in the front row. She’s clutching Russell’s arm affectionately, and he’s leaning towards her as she whispers into his ear.
“I’m sure she’s very proud of me,” Max says in a low voice.
I can’t tell if he’s being truthful or snarky.
“Well done, son,” Russell calls as Max passes.
Max does not reply.
The faces of the audience blend into the darkness as we step onto the brightly lit stage. The ringmaster turns to the crowd.
“And now, we have our victors, Max Devlin and Gina Wesley from House Devlin, who is here in our midst.” He nods respectfully towards Russell and his wife.
The audience lustily ap
plauds.
We stand before them, naked and self-conscious. My eyes water in the spotlights trained upon my face . . . and on my tits and pussy. I can’t see the faces in the crowd anymore, but they can clearly see every detail of me.
“A magnificent pair of horses, wouldn’t you say?”
The ringmaster motions me towards the center of the stage where a compressed bale of hay sits. “And they shall mate like horses for your viewing pleasure.”
More wild applause.
How can Max’s mother applaud to this, honestly?
The ringmaster says to me, “Get down on your hands and knees, little filly. And climb onto that.” He indicates the bale.
Max helps me up onto the bale. The compressed hay is firm, and my weight depresses it only marginally. I prostrate myself upon its prickly surface, my rump and its horsetail in the air. My bells and lead weights swing below my body, tinkling lightly. The hay fibers dig into my palms and knees and leave little crisscrossing patterns that I shall admire later.
The ringmaster puts a frayed lariat around my neck. He attaches the other end of it to one of the hooks in the ceiling. So I am to be a tethered animal once again. On my rear end, my horsetail sprouts in affirmation of this.
The ringmaster signals to Max. “Mate with her.”
Oh God. This is something I’m going to relish – getting fucked by Max – since he’s not allowed to fuck me anymore without permission.
But what a way to get fucked.
In front of his mother and father. I don’t mind the ‘everyone else’. It’s his mother in particular – her beautiful face shining and glossy with the veneer of expensive makeup – that gets me antsy all over.
I remember when my own father caught me in bed with Tommy LaPolla in high school. We were careless, and Tommy was supposed to climb out of my window before dawn, but he fell asleep. I really thought my Dad was going to give me a hiding, something he hadn’t done for years.
Max takes a deep breath. If he has ‘mommy’ issues, he doesn’t let them show.
Paraded before the Billionaires Page 3