by Sean O'Kane
Eventually he reined himself in and waved the girls on when he realised he had just enough wipes left for the pens – slaves were often carried out from them – and the ponies. The ponies were especially valued as the stables had taken to running them in leather thongs over the wickedly studded crupper strap at their groins. The thongs themselves were often thrown to the crowds but Alex had saved up and had arranged to bribe a driver to give him one. It would fetch good money – if he could bear to part with it! The outpourings from a girl who had been driven for three circuits with a studded strap between her legs which held dildos up both passages, a whip at her back and a thong preventing too much air getting to her, would produce a truly perfumed and erotic experience for him, which might hold its character right up until the next games.
Alex lived for the arenas. They provided him with as much sex as he needed and in between games he saved up to replenish his collections and used the scent to relive the erotic charge of watching the girls suffer for him and the rest of the crowd.
Chapter Three
Clive Mostyn broke the connection on his tablet and passed a weary hand across his eyes. “What a bloody mess!” he said.
His helicopter was clattering in to land in a field just outside Newcastle and a limo was waiting to ferry him to the arena. He fervently hoped it was going to be a good show. It had cost him a fortune, but getting Greville Lloyd re-elected was vital to maintaining his parliamentary majority – and he was going to need it – there was a growing liberal reaction to some of his proposed legislation aimed at further entrenching slavery but he was certain he could carry the majority of the country with him – it was just Parliament he had to worry about.
And now this!
He had just taken a call from very high up in the Met. They had raided the Suarez girl’s house but she had already gone. It seemed as though she had been spooked at the last minute by some others who were looking for her.
It had to be one of the arenas. Someone had leaked the information he had had dug out of government records about her deed poll name and now all the arenas would want her. But somehow he had to get her first! He could manipulate the publicity and the kudos he would attain in the public’s eyes if he could control the confrontation that every arena fan in the world – let alone in the UK – would die for. The final conflict – no a whole series of events! – between the two daughters of the legendary Blondie.
But if one of the stables got her, the revenue from selling her on or from staging the fights with Ace would go into their coffers and not his – the country’s - he corrected himself rapidly.
His private secretary looked across at him.
“Have they put out an APB?”
“Of course. But she’s got a three hour start, the patrol sent to find her got involved in a bit of neighbourhood strife a couple of doors along from where the Suarez girl was living – something about a slavegirl being shafted by a neighbour’s son on his eighteenth birthday.”
The secretary raised an eyebrow. “Sounds reasonable,” he said.
“But everyone got drunk and the parents of the boy claimed they’d been overcharged by the girl’s owner. Apparently it all got pretty heated and by the time the lads had sorted that out it was considerably later on.”
“As you say, sir. What a mess!”
Mostyn managed a grim smile. “Apparently the wife of the man doing the moaning was quite presentable so they arrested them both and she’s been sold at a good price. So I suppose it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good!”
The secretary laughed. “She won’t be bothered about the price of sex now she’s chipped!”
Clive chose to look in on the circus to start with and see the chariot racing. He took his seat in time for the last couple of races on the Sunday. He was pleased by the welcome he got when he appeared in the Owners’ box and spent some minutes waving and milking the applause before taking his place beside the Tykes’ owner, a newly ennobled businessman – by Clive’s own recommendation – Robert Barber, now Lord Barber of Arundel.
“It’s been a good show, Clive,” he told the Prime Minister as he sat down. “I have to say it looks like it’s going the way of the Proteans, but you’d have been pleased with the fights that’ve been put up. And the crowd’s handed out some pretty juicy punishments to both sides, so there’ll be plenty of action later on.”
“Good! How did Ace do?” Clive wanted to know.
“We’ll go along and see her race in the single pony class in a bit, shall we? She’s walked through two whip duels. Sad to say, my girls didn’t put up too good a fight and they’ll pay the price for that later. Serve the silly bitches right!”
Clive settled down as the compère announced that the next six chariots were ready. Just down in front of the box the six teams of six slaves to each chariot stood, their skins gleaming with oil in the late sun.
In his anxiety to provide a real spectacle, Clive had made the chariot racing a separate event and had invited other teams to compete for an ornate cup he had given to the Tykes stable so they could present it and have a yearly event built around it. Down below were girls from the Countess de Goncourt’s Girl Squad and another team was from a new stable in Canada – the Rockies – and there was a team from North Africa and one from Indonesia. Lord Barber told Clive that there had been some spectacular pile ups and collisions in the first heat and the crowd had loved it. With six chariots competing the struggle to get round the corners at each end of the circus and to stop the opposition from doing so was intense.
The slaves were harnessed two on each side of the chariot’s shaft at the front and one on each side behind at a shorter crossbar. The front four slaves’ bridles were linked by their bits and the driver held the reins that ran back from the slave on the extreme left and right of the front rank. The two behind them were usually fairly sturdily built as they provided the main power. The front rank had to combine speed with fighting ability. The two men in the chariot had to steer, balance the rig and whip the slaves on – as well as trying to use their whips to trip and confuse their opponents’ slaves. The speeds that these rigs could reach made for very entertaining collisions and crashes and were popular with the crowds, but the owners and trainers often moaned about the number of slaves who had be confined to the stables’ sick rooms after a games.
As it turned out, the Canadian team put in a strong performance and were accompanied into the finals by the African team, whose tall, graceful women had a good turn of pace and could fight for their ground at the turns. The Girl Squad’s rig crashed out after only a couple of laps, forced into a fence by the Indonesians. The Tykes’ own rig was taken out by an expertly placed lash from the Proteans’ whipman and the scene of one of the lead slaves’ legs being taken neatly from under her at full speed was played and re-played in slo-mo on the screens, much to Lord Barber’s disgust. But even he had to admit that the helplessly tumbling, harnessed females skidding through the dust into the sideboarding was an amusing sight.
As befitted his rank, when Clive descended from the Owner’s box to make his way to the pony racing circuit, he found that Lord Barber had laid on VIP transport. There was a delightful two-in-hand rig waiting for him. The ponies were from the Tykes’ dressage team and were typically petite and elegant. Their breasts were not overly big, but a thin plastic tie located at the root of each breast and pulled tight, emphasised their roundness and made them stand out perkily in neat parcels. Each nipple was crowned with a silver cap that Clive knew was fastened on by means of nipple piercing. Unlike the racing ponies, the dressage ponies didn’t suffer the studded cruppers but nonetheless had double penetrations held in place by the plain leather crupper, which also had an upwardly curving prong at the back from which their tails hung at an attractive angle. Their legs – never too long or too thick! – were left bare and beneath their elegantly slender ankles they wore boots with wedge heels and which, at the toes, terminated in hoof-like vamps. And the soles were metal shod with proper
horseshoes. As Clive inspected them, they scraped them on the concrete floor of the tunnel and nodded their heads impatiently, making the plumes - in the bronze and white of the Tykes – wave and bounce prettily.
Between their elaborately tooled, leather blinkers, their eyes shone bright from the double penetration and masochistic excitement and their lips furled over their bits. Clive patted their flanks and thanked his host as he climbed aboard the lightweight sulky and settled himself before taking the whip from its holder and preparing to move his team off. Beside him, Lord Barber and Neil Consadine; a member of the consortium that owned the Proteus stable, also settled down.
“No racing, gentlemen!” Lord Barber requested as he moved off and set the pace. Clive smiled and followed on, whipping his girls up to a gentle, high-knee-lifting trot. Dressage ponies were not raced, they were trained for elegance of movement, smooth obedience to the whip and precise manoeuvres in the paddock. But of course when they weren’t needed in the dressage paddock, they were as available as any other arena slave. Clive found his gaze drifting down to the adorably neat little buttocks, quivering as the ponies trotted. A good ladder of tramlines could only improve them he thought. Too bad he wasn’t spending the night.
The sulkies carried them past the crowds of pedestrians who were also making their way to the pony racing and they were cheered on their way in a friendly and relaxed manner, although Clive knew his security people were mingling with the onlookers. Some people were not so impressed with his ‘reforms’ and it didn’t do to take chances!
They arrived without mishap and handed the rigs over to the grooms and took their places at the front of the ring to inspect the runners before the start.
There would be four heats and then a final between the winners and the two fastest losers – always provided one stable didn’t win all four, something which had only happened very rarely. The ponies were driven round the perimeter of the ring at a walk to allow the punters to assess the form and place last minute bets. Despite the way the floodlights shone on the oiled and gleaming, naked female flesh on view, the conversations were almost entirely about previous races, times and practice form. The first race went to the Tykes, the second to the Proteans, the third was won by the home team again and it was left to the final heat to see if the Proteus stable could even things up. But as they were running Ace in this heat, they were odds on to do just that. Clive leaned on the rails at the front of the Owners’ enclosure as the PA announced her entrance and a huge cheer went up. As always, it seemed strange to Clive that no one, himself included, had seen the resemblance before. The girl was taller than most people around her – just as her mother had been – and the way she carried herself was familiar; proud and aloof, tolerating the crowd’s attention as they reached forward to stroke her flank or touch her thigh as she passed close in front of them, but making no show of being aware of them. He could remember being struck by Blondie having that same ability to be there physically but to be somewhere else mentally.
Beside him Lord Barber sighed and turned to Neil Consadine. “You lucky sons of bitches! She’s a real one off!”
Neil laughed aloud and patted Ace’s shoulder as she was guided past them. “That’s exactly what she’s not, by all accounts! And I’d wager a year’s prize money on the fact that all three of us are looking for her half-sister even as we stand here.” He gave them a roguish grin that Clive was helpless to do anything other than laugh at.
“Okay! But she’ll have to go some to beat Ace!”
And that was the truth, he thought. The tall ex-model’s legs were famed for their endurance and she was quick witted and agile too.
When the starting pistol rang out, Ace just seemed to glide over the ground in long graceful strides, she needed hardly any whip, but her driver knew enough to put on a reasonable show of lashing her to her work. By the end of the first lap she was two lengths or more in the lead. She came flying down the home straight past the owners with her light brunette hair flying in its ponytail, her gleaming legs flying and her magnificent breasts, steadied by thick straps, but nevertheless bouncing, shining with saliva and oil. But her head was steady and she was obviously well within her capabilities. For the remaining two laps the crowd were treated to an exhibition rather than a race, even though the Tykes’ pony was a capable performer. When she was driven back to the paddock she came over to her owner who patted her sweating flanks and made a fuss of her before she was driven away to be rubbed down and got ready for the evening.
Clive drove back to the main arena for the mass log pulling fully intending to use his host’s household slaves to dispel the hard-on that watching Ace had left him with. He suspected he wouldn’t be alone. Added to that, the mass log pulls were simple whip fests, and as whipping was a pastime he was greatly given to, it was inevitable he would need relief at some point.
The mass log pulls simply consisted of fifty or sixty – the exact number was agreed prior to the games by the owners – slaves harnessed to a telegraph pole. The teams had to haul it the length of the arena, then haul it back. Each length was a single race and in the event of a tie, a third length would be competed over. The guards from each stable used every trick they could to lash the girls on. The only trick that was banned was the use of ginger in their arses, which was perfectly legal in the pony and chariot racing but mostly used in the finals. In the log pulls it was down purely to how much effort could be whipped out of the slaves.
He took his seat alongside Lord Barber and Neil Consadine and watched the terraces fill up as people returned from the pony racing and settled in for the most gruelling and exciting of the day’s events. In the Owners’ box the seats were plush and wide and it was quite possible to enjoy the services of the household slaves without having to be bothered to move. There were curtains that could be drawn on either side to afford some privacy, although these were seldom used. Barber himself had beckoned across a brunette, dressed in the Tykes’ uniform of a simple shift dress with a short, flared skirt. The waist line was fashionably low so the bronze coloured skirt was made to look extra-short as it finished four inches above the knee. The compère announced the log pull and Lord Barber merely gestured downwards as the girl reached him and she immediately knelt and began to undo his flies.
Clive looked at the girls standing at the ends of the rows of seats, now filling up with male and female staffers for the Tykes and Proteus stables. He spotted a pretty enough blonde and waved her over. Whether she had been augmented or whether nature had blessed her, she had a very appealing amount of breastflesh, and the neckline of the dress kept plenty on view. Clive gestured her down to her knees a little to one side of him, so he could reach down and fondle them as he watched the events in the arena.
The logs had been pulled into place by tractors and the chains had been attached. Now, with a recorded fanfare blasting through the PA the two squads were led out. All of them were naked and gleaming with oil once more, some of them who had been in the arena already were sporting welts but all of them had wrist cuffs on which were clipped together in front of them.
“We’ve got a real treat, ladies and gentlemen!” the compère told them, “A full sixty girl team on each side! So it’s going to be flagellation heaven! And our sponsor is sitting in the Owners’ box right now so you can thank him for what the sluts are about to receive!”
Almost reluctantly, Clive took his hand out of the slave’s bodice where it had been happily mauling and squeezing soft tit flesh. But he stood up and smiled and waved graciously again, then resumed his seat before the applause wound down and he resumed his explorations of the girl’s breasts.
Her full lips were slightly parted and she was panting now, the harshness of his grip was driving her onwards and he decided that he would definitely have to ram his cock between them before the end of the event.
Down below, with well-rehearsed obedience the slaves went to either side of their pole and stood beside the chains which had obviously been allocated to them in pr
actice sessions. The guards came round and attached each girl’s wrists up at one shoulder to the chain which came off a steel collar gripping the pole half way along its length. The men then unshipped the whips the stable had thought the most effective and stood off to one side, each man covering two girls. A senior guard from each stable then climbed onto the pole and stood about halfway along it, they both had fearsome stockwhips.
The compère asked for quiet as Lord Barber briefly took his cock out of the girl’s mouth and held up the starting pistol.
“Take the strain!” the compère shouted when he saw the gun go up. With a heavy slithering and rattling of steel the slaves leaned forwards, tensioning the chains behind them, their fingers anxiously seeking the best grip on the steel that ran over their shoulder. The gun fired and immediately the arena echoed to the snaps of the lashes as they began to torment the slaves into action.
Both teams had been well drilled and the lines of naked, gleaming slaves began to sway from side to side. The long legs tensed and strained as the two lines began to ‘break out’ the logs; free them from the sand and get them moving. On top of each log the main whipman cracked his long lash above the heads of the girls, whilst below him the guards yelled their charges on and slashed down with their whips. The Proteus stable had equipped their men with floggers comprising thin leather tails that would sting the girls as the sweat ran into the welts. The Tykes had favoured slightly more solid tails of leather that smacked rather than cut. Both teams’ guards got their girls moving by targeting their thighs and buttocks.
Clive sighed in pleasure at the sound of the whips and his hand kneaded deeper into the breast of the slave kneeling by him. He looked up at the screens where there were close ups of rows of shining thighs and buttocks quivering as the lashes rained down, even as they strained for purchase. By now the girls were straining so far forwards that the whip was whistling past the nose of the girl behind as her sister slave in front was lashed. He knew that down there the air would be heavy with the scent of sweat and arousal and it would be driving the girls mad with desire.