THE GLADIATOR (10 page)

She was sure she had actually ejaculated. In the next session it was confirmed when she was given a vibrator after electricity, fed through terminals connected to needles in her breasts and sex, had had her bucking and thrashing on the bench. Again she felt herself lock with almost frightening power around the buzzing shaft, and when the Doc pulled it free, he commented on the thick rivulet of discharge which oozed from between her swollen lips. He took some on his fingers and let her lick them.

Even after those sessions at the end of which she was taken repeatedly, she would masturbate in her cell and gradually she began to understand what was being done to her. They were giving her true nature total freedom. By keeping her utterly isolated and in the dark, she was being made to focus entirely on sex, pain and pleasure. She now existed only to stumble down the corridor to discover more ways in which the female slave could be made to experience whatever her masters wanted her to, to stumble back to the shower and then her cell. And always she craved more, she couldn’t sleep until she had had one more of these awesome new climaxes she was capable of. Sometimes the German woman attended her if her breasts needed attention, or her labia, and she would call her a whore, a pain addicted bitch on heat, a slut who would open her legs for any man and Tara didn’t mind in the slightest. It was true, and inexorably her mind began to take a back seat while her body ruled her life. Now when she was summoned to the dungeon, she stumbled along, holding her iron ball, in front of the guard. Once there she would obediently bend over when told to, get herself into position on the bench when told to, fetch the next whip, collect the necessary chains, clips, clamps or tongs. Whatever was needed for the next stage of her treatment she would willingly bring and lay out for the Doc. Her particular favourite was to stroke her own nipples into full erection while he held two pairs of open ended tongs, and once they were primed to full hardness, she would cup the breasts herself while he placed the steel rings on either side of each nipple then squeeze them together and twist both sets. She even forgot whether she was doing all of this just for the sake of her plan or because she just couldn’t help herself. And eventually she began to forget what her plan had ever been. She began to sink into a protective miasma in which she only existed to orgasm through suffering. The relentless hammering in of the lesson was achieving its goal, and the session which had literally involved a hammer as well as nails was one she would never forget.

Chapter 11

Carlo came for her in her cell eventually and took her to one of the cells on the ground floor for her eyes to acclimatise. The cell had a high window in the outside wall and she was left to sit on the bed and wait while her eyes slowly recovered. Carlo came back and hacked the rivets off the wretched iron ball so that she could walk freely at long last. Then he took her. She was made to bend over the bed, take her weight on her hands and spread her legs. He made no attempt to test her lubrication with his fingers, he just plunged his cock straight in. Simply being ordered to bend over had fired her up enough so that he slid in effortlessly and was immediately into a rhythm which had her being knocked forwards as he plundered her to the hilt and he reached under her to sink his fingers deeply into the flesh of her wildly swinging breasts.

“You know what you are now, don’t you Blondie? You’re a complete slave, addicted to pleasure and pain,” he said from behind her.

She was beginning the long climb to a blinding climax and could only moan and grind her hips against him in response, he urged her on to grip him even tighter by smacking her rump as she felt the warm pulsing and the strange draining feeling while her vagina spasmed and clamped around his still ramming shaft. She was nearly spent herself by the time she heard him gasp and felt his familiar hot gouts of sperm jet out of him and fill her so wonderfully. As usual he pulled himself free unceremoniously and she pitched forwards onto the bed, lying curled up and gasping in the wake of her orgasm.

Mark Cavanagh was lounging in the day room as she was brought before him, wrists clipped together behind her back. Carlo stood behind him; in front of him one of the household slaves knelt, her own hands pinned behind her back, while she licked slowly up and down the shaft of his erect cock. The girl bore tell tale signs of a recent beating to her back and buttocks and was clearly under strict instructions to simply lick her master, not suck him. He had business to conclude first.

“So, you think the silly bitch has learned her lessons well and is ready to move on, Carlo?”

“I think she is, Boss.”

Tara, in the grip of her newfound torpor, stared at the ground, indifferent to the discussion.

“We’ve got two weeks before the next show. Get her back into training and we’ll make her the star of the first day in the arena.”

At the mere mention of the arena, Tara’s heart began pounding.

“We’ll have her flogged for the crowd,” Cavanagh went on. “Have a good platform built for a post and frame and she can take four hundred lashes.”

Suddenly time itself seemed to stop. Everything went still and silent. Even Tara was roused as the import of his words sank in, she dared look up and saw that even the household slave had stopped her work and was staring at Cavanagh aghast.

“Have them delivered in four batches of a hundred. It’ll make good entertainment in between fights,” he went on, ignoring the effect his words had had.

“Sure, Boss,” Carlo agreed calmly, and Tara couldn’t help glancing up at him too. He was ready for it and met her eyes. “She’s plenty tough enough,” he said. “Orgasms permitted?”

“Yeah,” Cavanagh stretched out luxuriously and clicked his fingers for the slave to start work again. “Let her howl all she likes. The crowd’ll love it. And then she can have her tongue pierced.”

Tara’s heart pounded even harder. She was going to be a solo gladiator! All she had to do was take this awesome punishment. All the weeks in the dungeon with the Doc had just been a preparation for the real thing – and if she could handle it well she would be forgiven.

She was taken back to her stall and revelled in the surroundings, the straw, the smell of leather and polish, the sound of the three solo fighters getting their daily beating from Carlo after training, Tara had no trouble falling asleep that night. Word seemed to have spread fast and the grooms had handled with her a kind of awe. But that was none of her concern any more. She was a devoted slave. If her masters wanted her to be publicly flogged to the blood; that was their business not hers.

After her long imprisonment, it took over a week of gruelling training before she was anywhere like being back to her full fitness but even so, she never lost a bout with any of the other slaves and by the time the arena was once again in full readiness, so was she.

The night before the show was due to start all the slaves were paraded as usual in their

metal accoutrements. Each stable now boasted a squad of forty eight girls plus three solo fighters and the training ground was a superb sight as over a hundred slaves were displayed, examined and discussed. Tara heard Carlo say that now they were up to full strength, new and even more testing events would be added because there was a ready market to sell any exhausted slaves into and a seemingly unending supply of new submissives to take their places. During the previous week Tara had witnessed a duel between Jet and El Tigre as to who would take over the captaincy of the squad once Tara moved on, El Tigre had won convincingly and Carlo had had to step in to prevent Jet taking any further punishment from the gypsy girl’s whip. Of course the fact that Tara was to take no part in any combats during this show had meant that the squad was one member down, but as that meant forty seven were taking on forty eight, it wasn’t deemed important.

Tara had trouble getting to sleep that night, she squirmed on her bed of straw for hours while she squeezed and rubbed her thighs together in a vain attempt to assuage the arousal she felt as she envisaged her coming ordeal in front of the crowds, avidly watching her from around the arena. She and she alone would be featured on all the video screens so no one would miss a second of her prolonged flogging or one flinch, twist or scream of her reaction to it. To add to her problems, the sounds of helicopters and light aircraft ferrying in the late arrivals, disturbed the evening and night air. Fortunately her own groom took a last look round the stable before going to her own bed and saw how restless she was. She clucked her tongue sympathetically and went to fetch something. She returned with a large dildo.

“Come on, let’s get you sorted, Blondie. Can’t have you falling asleep at the whipping post can we? Spread those legs nice and wide.”

Gratefully Tara did as she was told, the rubber shaft slipped easily up into her roiling depths and the girl set about giving her a much needed shafting.

She was only given a light breakfast and then her groom spent a long time brushing her hair into its golden best before clipping her wrists behind her back, attaching a chain to the restraints and feeding it forward, between her legs before handing it to Carlo. He led her out of the stableyard and towards the looming bulk of the arena. Tara could hear the noise of the spectators as she was led into the stone passage which ran between the dressing rooms. Here Carlo tied her chain round a steel loop and left her for a while. All round her she could hear the sounds of feverish activity as the two sets of guards got their charges ready for the first events. She leant against the cool stone and tried to calm her racing heart. She was scared. She knew that by the time this day ended she would have experienced pain beyond anything she had yet endured; but still the cruelty about to be inflicted on her excited her. It was almost as if she was part of the crowd, and would watch her own suffering with nothing but the same excitement they were feeling.

She fixed her eyes on the archway leading out into the bright, sunlit arena and waited for it to begin.

The announcer’s voice suddenly boomed out over the PA and hushed the crowd.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, today we have a very special treat for you! One of our gladiators took it into her head that she didn’t want to entertain you any more and ran away!” There was a chorus of derisive yells before the voice continued. “And so she’s going to be punished right in front of you, and of course provide us with extra special entertainment!...”

Tara listened as the crowd exploded with delight when the announcer detailed the extent of her coming punishment. She felt no resentment, only that same strange empathy with them. Then suddenly Carlo was beside her and a cameraman was at his shoulder. The crowd noise redoubled and Tara realised that she was on all the video screens. As he released her chain, Carlo leant close to her.

“We’ll give them the best show they ever had, eh Blondie?” he whispered as he took up the slack and led her out into the arena.

Chapter 12

From his seat in the terraces, John Carpenter gazed down in awe at the figure which emerged from the tunnel. Even without the loving close-ups the cameras were giving the girl on the huge video screens, he could see what a truly magnificent creature she was. Even on the end of a chain and being led towards a platform on which she was to receive an almost medieval punishment, she held herself proudly erect. Her shoulders were back and her heavy but high breasts shook and swung delightfully with each step she took. She was exceptionally tall and so the broad swell of her hips was entirely in proportion. Her thighs were long and powerful, John noted from one screen how they swelled forwards from her hips. From the corner of his eye he noted that Madame Stalevsky was nodding approvingly.

“A beautiful specimen.” She had to lean close to him to make herself heard above the noise around them.

“And if they’ve got another fifty like that - and the opposition as well, not to mention the other stables.......it’s no wonder we can’t get any good stock!”

Despite his promise to keep them informed about where sales were taking place, Ali had not really come up with any good information. John had attended a few that he had told him about but it was obvious from the poor quality of the merchandise that Conor and the other stables’ buyers were still getting in further up the line. But Conor was telling no one - not even Mark Cavanagh it seemed - exactly where he was buying. Eventually John had decided that if the arenas were going to pose such a direct threat to The Lodge, it was time he got to know his enemy. He had subjected Patti Campbell to an agreeably hard session at the end of which she told him all he needed to know and then he had parted with a small fortune for three seats in this arena, apart from himself and Madame he brought his wife, Caroline. She had served as one of the original Housegirls at The Lodge and John had had a feeling he would need some relief during the show.

Despite himself he was impressed. There was obviously a colossal amount of capital tied up in these projects and he couldn’t help but admire the sheer scale of the whole thing. The arena was just big enough to engender a fevered atmosphere but not so big that the spectators were too far removed from the action. The previous evening he and Madame had inspected the squads and apart from admiring the quality of the slaves they had both noted that among the admirers there were heads of state and heads of multi-nationals. Even compared to The Lodge’s exalted membership, it was rarefied company.

He had also found himself deeply aroused at the thought of all the magnificent girlflesh on view, fighting and competing purely for his entertainment. But even he, an experienced flagellator, had been shocked at the sentence handed out to this magnificent blonde creature who was now mounting the steps of the platform to face the whipping post.

“Four hundred! Can she take it?” he asked Madame as the girl’s arms were raised and her restraints clipped to the post.

“Women are a lot tougher than even you think,” Madame replied with a mysterious little smile at Caroline, who smiled back.

John suddenly realised why Madame’s training dungeons back at The Lodge were off limits even to him - and why, when they emerged, the girls were so breathtakingly submissive and compliant. He settled back and returned his attention to the scene unfolding in the arena.

Tara rested one cheek against the wood of the post and braced herself for a prolonged thrashing to her back. Nothing she hadn’t had before, but it would only be one quarter of her ration this time. Carlo wasn’t ready to start just yet however. He produced two nipple clamps with a short chain joining them and held them aloft. The crowd responded gleefully.

“Ah! Let’s see what our chief trainer’s got in mind!” the announcer said.

Tara knew instantly.

Carlo clamped her left nipple first, fear having worked its usual magic on her and made it stand out hard and rubbery. She winced as the teeth bit and again the crowd roared as one camera caught her grimace. Then he pulled the chain tight around the post and settled the other clamp on her right nipple. The chain was deliberately short and the clamps pulled cruelly at her nipples. It also meant that as she squirmed and writhed under the lash, she would make the pull even worse.

Taking his time, Carlo next piled her hair forward of her shoulders, stroking her almost as a lover might, teasing her, making her wait, settling the tresses carefully down over her breasts. Then he stood back and took up the long thin whip he always used for extended punishments and swished it through the air a couple of times. The arena fell silent.

Ssshwack!

The noise of the lash landing was almost drowned by the explosion of cheering as the show got under way at long last. Tara jerked involuntarily as the first line of fire was laid across her shoulders and immediately the pain in her nipples intensified. She tried desperately to hold herself steady as Carlo got down to work. But inevitably as the crowd roared and the lash continued to lace her with narrow tracks of scalding heat she eventually threw her head back and yelled, not caring about the pain in her breasts, acknowledging only that she was going to orgasm. Carlo stopped once she locked rigid and her hips began to hump against the post while bright shards of piercing ecstasy shattered her mind. Then, before he started again he pushed his fingers up into her as she shook in the aftermath and worked them inside her until she was arching her ravaged back, sticking her bottom out and begging for him to take her. He obliged and the crowd roared him on as he stoked her to another draining, spasming climax. And then he went back to whipping her.

She came again but this time he didn’t stop and her gyrations at the post became almost hysterical as the climax ripped through her. And then suddenly, it was over. Tara was hanging from her restraints, her legs shaking helplessly. She opened her eyes and looked up at the screens. On one screen she was actually looking at her own face, tear soaked and dishevelled, mouth open and panting. On another she could see her back. Carlo had done his usual professional job. From shoulders to waist it was laced with criss crossing webs of thin red lines, but no skin had been broken and her buttocks and thighs were untouched. That was for later, she realised. Behind her Carlo strutted and acknowledged the applause, waving and bowing.

When her legs could support her she was led down and back to the tunnel. The racing chariots were assembling with their frisking teams of tacked-up girls, fidgeting and fretting as their plugs and dildos, studded tit straps and their trainers’ special ointments worked on them. Then she was back in the blessed cool and allowed to sink down to her knees. Carlo gave her some water and then left her to recover. She pressed her back gently against the cool stone and closed her eyes as the races got under way. So far so good, she reflected. Carlo was probably going to whip her breasts and stomach next, then buttocks and thighs after that. But the last session was going to be a real firework display, she thought. It would have to involve a pussy whipping. She shifted a little and managed to get a different part of her back against the stone, then settled down contentedly to wait.

She watched the exhausted chariot racers led back in and then saw one of her stablemates led out to fight with one of the studded whips which had now been adopted. The only concession had been a slightly broader leather corset, leather shin guards and headguards which looked like fencers’ masks. She was able to see most of the contest and groaned with frustration as she saw her team mate make a fatal error. The two had stood toe to toe and traded lashes which had scored their backs, shoulders and breasts - neither one giving ground and shrugging off the impacts as the crowd, now thoroughly aroused by the blood which was being drawn, urged them on to greater efforts. But suddenly the girl from the opposing, green arm-banded team, feigned injury and made the home team’s girl think she had an opening; she ducked low and swung in a lash to her opponent’s thighs. With a studded whip that usually brought a girl down, but this time the girl danced back just enough to avoid the lash. Off balance, Tara’s team mate stumbled forward and the greens’ girl was able to land a wicked strike vertically down her back, which landed between her buttocks. And as her legs were splayed for balance it buried itself between them, Tara winced at the thought of the stinging whip biting into sexflesh. There was a shrill wail as the girl went down and then it was just a matter of time. The greens’ girl could choose her target as the home team girl writhed in the dust and struggled to get up again. She made it but bore the traces of the whip by the time she did. Her shield arm was down and it took only two scything lashes across her chest before she was down again and Carlo stepped in.

It had been a good enough contest and the crowd were content to give the thumbs up to a tariff of ten further lashes for the loser and then Tara was on again.

The whipping post had been altered.

From its top now protruded a thick beam which stretched horizontally out some four or five feet. Chains hung from it half way along its length.

Once she was standing under the beam, Carlo released her wrists and attached them to the chains. She could still touch the ground if she stood on tiptoe but her breasts were pulled up and formed smooth mounds on her ribs. She knew from long experience that this was the best position for them to be lashed in, as they rippled pleasingly but didn’t swing or bounce too distractingly for the flogger or the onlooker.

“It looks like he’s going to whip her tits this time!” the announcer said. “But he’s leaving her a choice. As he whips her she can turn and take it on her back or sides again or just stand there and take it on the tits! Let’s see what she does, take it away Carlo!”

Carlo waved and did just that. Tara was taken by surprise and as the lash slammed home across the upper slopes of her breasts and the tip snapped at her right underarm, she instinctively hollowed her chest away from it and then half turned away from Carlo, lifting her left leg as if to ward off the next strike. But that strike was delivered backhandedly and came at her from behind. She shrieked as it cracked across her already flayed shoulders, arched again and twisted back to face him. Carlo grinned at her, knowing he had taught her how this session was going to go. She flicked her hair back and wiped some sweat off her face on one raised arm, then faced him again. She was ready this time and took the full impact across her chest without twisting. Carlo was standing a little off to her left at just the right distance to make the whip bite with its full venom as it struck. But grimly Tara held on for lash after lash, absorbing the flashes of stinging agony which exploded in her breasts, knowing it was far preferable to having her back or sides worked over again. Carlo knew it too and continued to work on her breasts, cutting in little flicks to the undersides then putting his full weight behind a downward swipe, snaking the lash achingly close to her nipples and once or twice hitting the throbbing little peaks themselves, secure in the knowledge that she would hold her breasts steady for him for as long as she could. It made for a good show. But Tara knew she was heading for another orgasm and once it hit she would spin and howl and lose all control, then her back would feel the lash again and that would drive her to even wilder convulsions. Carlo played with her until she heard the crowd’s count reach twenty five and then he aimed for the nipples quite deliberately. One....two......three....bitter lashes snapped across them. Tara bit her lip and desperately fended off the approaching crisis for as long as she could but at last she had to surrender to the blinding storm of tormented ecstasy which blew through her entire body, making her fling her head back and yell, her belly contract and her legs lift as she tried to rub her thighs together. Helplessly she twisted and jerked at the end of her rope and the whip caught her back once more. Orgasms raged through her again and again until, with his usual perfect judging of a slave’s condition, Carlo stopped and let her catch her breath.

Dimly she heard the announcer discuss the state of her body and involve the crowd in trying to estimate how many times she had come. It was wonderfully, erotically humiliating and she and Carlo exchanged glances of perfect understanding before he started in again. This time he worked down her stomach and thighs to take up some more of her allotted ration before he returned to her chest and made her perform her dance once more.

She managed to walk off again but groaned as she sank down against the wall and this time pressed her burning front against the cool stones. She was half way through.

John kept his wife busy as the day progressed. He watched the various contests unfold on the sand and as enthusiastically as any of the other spectators gave the thumbs down to any slave he didn’t think had given her all. He kept Caroline kneeling between his spread thighs and pressed her face down onto his cock whenever he felt the need to ejaculate. Both he and Madame were most impressed by the log pulling. It was a brutally pointless exercise but one which demanded fine judgement on the part of the guards. Two pairs of the slaves who were obviously selected from the finest specimens each stable possessed were matched against each other, each pair had their arms raised and spread out along the length of a single pole which ran across their shoulders and through the rings on the backs of their collars. Their wrists were strapped to it and from the centre of it a long chain ran back and was wrapped around the middle of a heavy log. The object was very simple; the two teams raced to be the first to drag their log the length of the arena. They raced the best of three and an extra, smaller log was added each time.

The slaves looked to be pretty evenly matched, but the guards were evidently given a free hand as to how best to spur their charges on. John and Madame conversed professionally as they watched while the green team’s slaves were butt plugged, the plugs having been dipped into a bucket of what the announcer said was a secretly formulated mixture of spices designed to get a girl prancing and desperate to have the plug removed. The blue team were similarly prepared but their guards preferred to stuff the slaves vaginally rather than anally. Both teams’ plugs were held in place by thongs. The greens had studded ones but the blues had smooth ones and while the greens’ guards carried long stock whips the blues relied on short multi-bladed floggers.