THE GLADIATOR (5 page)

The truck took them back towards the little port at which they had first arrived but turned off once it had crested the hill and Tara could see they were heading towards a small airfield. Helicopters and small, ungainly aircraft stood about. And into one of these planes the consignment of slaves which contained Tara was loaded and firmly lashed down. As the engines began to roar and shake the plane, not for the first time Tara reflected on just how much money was invested in the stables and the shows. But her thoughts were shattered as the plane began to trundle over the grass and it felt as if every tooth in her head was being jarred loose.

Some hours later they put down for re-fuelling but as no doors were opened Tara couldn’t see where they were. Cramps and thirst were tormenting them all by then and when one of the guards paid them a visit just before the second take-off he passed along the stacks of crates which stood down both sides of the fuselage and pressed a wet sponge into each one, allowing the slave to suck some moisture from it. Seeing so many naked girls sucking so eagerly must have stirred a thirst in himself because he unpacked two of the solo fighters and led them forward by their tongue rings. Obviously further along the plane there were seats for the guards for about an hour later the slaves were returned, each with obvious traces of sex oozing down their thighs and making their chins shiny. Tara was insanely jealous.

At long last, when her arms and legs were ablaze with pain, she felt the plane begin to descend and heard the engines throttle back. Then there was a violent thump followed by more painful jolting and at last they stood still.

The rear doors of the plane were flung open and a cold wind blew in. Men speaking thickly accented and halting English entered and began to unlash the crates. Then each one was taken out and opened, its wretched occupant slid out and her ropes cut. There was no need to stand guard, none of the girls could do more than lie where they were and slowly rub some feeling back into their limbs. It was late in the evening and although Tara tried looking around when she could at last stand, all she could see, apart from the usual scattering of buildings around a small airfield, was featureless, level ground with some high mountains on one horizon. It had taken three planes to transport all the slaves and guards, Tara’s had been the last to land. The boss flew in by helicopter as the unloading was completed and thirty nine exhausted, naked and cold girls stood in the bleak, darkening landscape wondering what would happen next.

There was the noise of engines from over by one of the buildings and soon the headlights of a convoy could be seen heading towards them. It turned out to consist of covered lorries with bench seats running down each side of their length behind the cab. Some of the big, bearded men in whose territory they now were, unshipped whips from beneath their coats and gestured the girls inside. At least that time they weren’t tied and completed their journey in relative comfort, apart from the cold.

About an hour later they were herded into their new quarters. By then it was fully dark and all Tara cared about was getting out of the unaccustomed chill. So she and the others jostled their way through double doors, while whips cracked over their heads and they found themselves in a barn. Thankfully it was reasonably warm despite its high roof, and the floor was strewn deeply with straw. All down the walls were rings set in the stonework and once the girls had all used the buckets at the far end, which was all that was offered in the way of toilets, they were chained to these by their collars and then fed. When the lights went off, two of the new guards stayed on duty, so Tara burrowed down into the straw and went straight to sleep.

As it turned out, Tara’s stable was given several days to recover from the journey. Wherever they now were, it was a long way from the perpetual sun they had become used to. From the look of the land and the guards, Tara formed the impression that they might be either in Turkey or maybe even Georgia. The area was remote, but boasted an incredible number of ruins. All of them dating from ancient Greece or Rome as far as she could tell. The arena here was an original amphitheatre. The only alteration was that a fence had been put round the perimeter of the fighting area. Beyond that the ancient stone seats climbed high in steep terraces, and where they stopped, the familiar video screens were mounted, looking incongruously modern.

Although the days were warmer than the nights, it frequently rained and Tara and her companions were given short shifts of rough wool to wear before training warmed them up. They itched and scratched unbearably, and Tara found herself resenting the clothing for its own sake. To her it didn’t seem fitting for a slave to be dressed at all - except for fighting gear, pony tack and maybe some lingerie to look pretty in before fighting a cane duel.

The whole estate seemed to occupy a valley in the otherwise bleak uplands which surrounded it, and like her owner’s estate it had a river running through the bottom. However the assault course here was built on dry land and consisted of a circuit almost a quarter of a mile in circumference and was dotted with obstacles like climbing nets, greasy poles, and most wickedly, a place where the running track narrowed and passed between thick thorn shrubs.

The river itself seemed to be reserved for a complicated wooden construction. From each bank, long piers stretched out and met in the middle. But there they widened out into a very large platform. And just upstream there seemed to be some sort of weir. Tara eyed the arrangement suspiciously; she had a feeling it would play a part in the show, and after Carlo’s finale at the first one, she didn’t underestimate the owners’ and trainers’ ingenuity or cruelty.

But to make up for the looming presence of that ‘bridge’ there were the fighting pens. And she thoroughly approved of those at least. They were underground, under the arena. Whether they had been reconstructed or merely adapted, she couldn’t tell. But they consisted of a series of sawdust floored squares with high wooden partitions surrounding them, and in between, mighty stone pillars held up the floor of the arena itself. Here the audience would be able to get really close to the action. There were no fewer than fifteen pens in the low ceilinged area, the only light came from pitch torches in brackets on the stone pillars. There were enough of these to give a reasonable amount of light, but it was a flickering and eerie one. In her imagination, Tara saw the crowds pressing tightly around the pens, urging on the naked contestants and she considered that the crush of bodies in this large but claustrophobic area would produce a sexual charge which would far exceed that of the arena itself.

Chapter 5

All the girls knew when the show was due to start because one afternoon the air was full of the noises of helicopters and planes once more. Trucks and cars roared through the estate and past the barn they were housed in. That evening they were all fitted with the metal decorations they had worn before and were displayed for the guests. Again they were staked out and got a first glimpse of the opposition. They were tough looking girls, Tara thought, quite a few were black and many of the rest looked Eastern European. But what really amazed her was the sheer number of girls now standing at the stakes and being assessed by the crowd of guests. Seventy eight of them. And she was also perfectly well aware that each girl was now a willing gladiator. However brutal the discipline, if there wasn’t a part of her which wanted to submit, the best the guards would get from a girl would be sullen obedience. But she knew that every girl here would fight till she dropped for the honour of her stable.

By the next morning their barn was doubling as dressing room and surgery. Guards brought in several tables and piles of boxes containing plasters and liniments for patching up and relieving injuries and strains. And with them came the cameras. Once again the cameramen zoomed in on every detail of the chariot harnesses as the devilishly studded straps were tightened into crotches and around breasts, and dildos eased up into anuses and vaginas. And once again Tara felt the familiar thrills of imminent competition and exhibitionism stir her insides into warm soup as the dildos were finally screwed in to their fullest extent and the strap was eased between her legs, the studs just digging into the fleshy labia and Carlo’s infernal concoction beginning to make her anus burn.

Since the first show, he had made one refinement to the harness. Tara and Jet now had two reins coming off their bits. The inner reins connected to the bits of the two girls who provided the main pull for the chariot and they were connected to each other as well. That meant that a tug on Jet’s or Tara’s outer rein made the whole team swing in the required direction, making the steering much more responsive. As it turned out, it needed to be.

Once they were all led out and hitched up to their rigs they were walked out to where the races would take place. The arena had evidently been judged to be too small. So further along the valley a wooden ‘circus’ had been constructed, modelled on the classic Roman pattern. It was a long narrow stadium with boards down the middle, but also there were tall boarded partitions sticking out from the edges, narrowing the track in places. Tara understood their purpose immediately. They were chicanes, designed to bring the chariots together and make the teams fight for the way ahead as well as just race.

But Carlo was plainly unhappy, from what she could make out these chicanes had never been mentioned to him, so his stable had never had a chance to practise. He stood in front of Tara, his fists balled on his hips and confronted the man who was clearly the owner of the opposing team. He was tall, with thick black hair and sharp features, and he was smiling and inviting Carlo to back out. He was also inviting him to consider how it would look if he did so. Carlo really had no choice and went into a huddle with the drivers to discuss tactics, but with such short notice all he could do in the end was walk along the lines of his ponies and tell them to fight better than they had ever done before; and run faster.

As it turned out the races were thrillingly brutal. The chariots did indeed have to fight for the way ahead and time and again teams of girls were sent hurtling into squealing chaos as they ricocheted off the wooden boards; going down in tangles of legs and arms. The drivers would have to dismount and desperately disentangle harnesses and girls before he could continue. On several occasions the team going down managed to get involved with the team just behind them; enough to bring them down as well. Tara gritted her teeth around her bit till her jaws ached as she fought whoever came within range and she took a savage joy in the cacophony of noises as the roar of the crowd mingled with cries of the girls, the thuds of the bodies hitting the boards and the smack of the whips.

No substitutes were allowed so in between races Carlo and the guards scurried from rig to rig, spraying anaesthetic onto sprains and dabbing disinfectant into cuts. The ponies frisked and squealed into their bits at the not-so-tender ministrations and by the end of the third race even Tara was reduced to helpless panting – her vision all but obscured by sweat and tears from the harness’s chaffing at her skin and its insidious rubbing at her interior.

Carlo strutted triumphantly after scores had been tallied; plainly they had done enough to win. But it had been a bruising contest. Back in the barn, several of the girls were placed on tables and attended to. Jet was badly grazed from a close encounter with one of the chicanes, Tara herself was bleeding from several cuts over her shoulders where whips had caught her repeatedly. Two other girls were limping badly and one was carrying a nasty cut on one thigh from one of the collisions.

They had two hours to rest and eat and then the afternoon would be spent in the arena.

The solo fighters would be centre stage in the circus for pursuit running and then later there would be log pulling. Tara gathered all this from Carlo fussing round with his lists and his clipboards as she lay gratefully on one of the tables while a guard massaged her and attended to her cuts.

They were split into three squads for the afternoon. One squad would fight with whips, one with staves and one with a combination of both. Tara was to captain the whip squad. It was a form of combat she particularly enjoyed and she grinned at the guard who, while he was buckling her into her leathers, stopped to insert his fingers into her and found her open and moist. He grinned back and ran his fingers along the still-discernible indentations in her labia made by the studs of her harness.

“Later on, Blondie,” he said. “First you’ve got work to do!”

Unlike their home arena, this one’s entry was open to the sky, so Tara and her cohort were formed up into four neat rows of three and marched smartly out to do battle. The ancient stone seating excited Tara as she looked around her and imagined the terrible scenes which might have been enacted here so long ago. Every seat seemed to be taken and she could see plenty of brightly coloured female attire. And as her squad marched in, bare breasts bouncing, shields and whips held high, she could feel the crowd’s excitement and down at the front she could actually see some couples already intertwining as they anticipated the spectacles to come. This was where she really came alive and as her heart raced, the fires in her belly ignited. She scuffed her feet in the dust to assess her footing and then looked up as the opposing team entered at a jog and halted a few yards from them. Carlo strode over to his opposing trainer who was with them and Tara heard the exchange which followed.

“These whips have been greased!” Carlo said angrily as he fingered one of them.

“Of course,” the other man agreed smoothly. “We always use greased ones. They hurt so much more and naturally I assumed you would use greased ones as well.” He adopted an exaggerated look of surprise. “Don’t tell me your sluts are fighting with dry whips! Oh dear!”

Carlo fumed in vain. Once again there was no way out.

Tara looked around at her troop. She saw several nervous swallows and lips being licked. Then she looked back at Carlo who was shrugging in resignation and she mouthed a word at him. She might well get a punishment for it but this was an emergency.

It was a formation she had worked out and had scratched in the sand of the training ground at home. Then she and Carlo had drilled the girls in it.

Now Carlo smiled grimly as he saw her mouth the word, “Wedge,” at him, and he came close, whispering it to the squad.

Then he and the other trainer went, leaving the arena to the gladiators. Grips on whip handles were settled one last time, hair was shaken back, last minute loosening up exercises were gone through and then suddenly the starting pistol cracked.

Tara immediately leapt forward, and behind her she knew the girls were forming into the wedge formation, with her, their captain, at the sharp end. There were only a few yards separating the opposing lines but so well drilled was Tara’s squad that by the time the enemy was engaged a tight triangle followed Tara into battle.

The idea was to split the enemy into two and then fan out once the initial charge had beaten some of them down.

Tara yelled in sheer exultation as she hit the line, swiping with her shield and striking overarm with her whip. Her first contact was with a black girl who was knocked sideways by the ferocity of the charge and the weight of bodies pressing in behind Tara. But then, from one side came the first of the lashes from the greased hide whips. It caught Tara full across the width of her shoulders and turned her battle cry into a shriek of shocked pain. It stung like no whip she had experienced. Behind her she could hear similar screams and realised they were in trouble. The impetus of the wedge had faded under the first lashes and now they were being surrounded rather than splitting the enemy. Desperately Tara turned and lashed out at the girl who had struck her, catching her across the breasts, then backhanding her with her shield. As she went down, Tara dropped her own whip and grabbed her opponent’s. She straightened up just in time to meet a charging girl with her shield up, and for a few seconds they locked against each other, sweating breasts rubbing, thighs straining. Suddenly Tara ducked and got her shoulder into the girl’s stomach as she lurched forwards, then she straightened suddenly, throwing her high into the air. Panting she looked around. Those of her squad still on their feet were cowering behind their shields, dodging the biting lashes as best they could and being driven remorselessly backwards. Tara leapt into the attack again, slashing wildly at the backs of her opponents and hearing their shocked screams as the lashes bit.

“Grab their whips, you dumb bitches!” she screamed as some of the enemy reeled under her assault. She saw Cherry come up like a fury from a crouched stance and pounce on her attacker bare handed. The gypsy girl was standing toe to toe, refusing to give an inch even though she was getting the worst of each exchange. But when she heard Tara she collapsed onto one knee and swung in an uppercut to her opponent’s crotch, bringing her down into a writhing heap and allowing her to grab another of the deadly whips.

Slowly the tide turned as Tara’s squad abandoned their whips and wrestled instead, soon it was evenly balanced as the doctored whips became spread out. Girls now stood face to face and traded lashes on an equal basis. Bright lines of scarlet appearing on the sweat- gleaming flesh of breast, back and thigh. Some pairs fought on the ground, wrestling for control of a weapon. But anger was winning the day, Tara’s squad was not going to go down to treachery. One by one, with groans of exhaustion or shrieks of pain, the opposition went down. But once they were down, it didn’t stop there. None of the victors were interested in accepting the usual gladiator’s submission, they wanted revenge. Tara looked round and laughed with delight at the erotic scene being played out. Twisting, squirming slaves were being pursued as they writhed in the dust by her own girls wielding the terrible whips and picking their targets. No matter how they struggled to shield themselves, they left tempting areas of soft feminine flesh for the lashes to bite into. And they still had to take their places at the whipping posts for losing. Sure enough the thumbs went down when at last a halt was called, and they stayed down till a tariff of thirty lashes was reached. Then Carlo insisted that the home stable’s whips should be used. Tara sat and watched as the sentence was carried out. The sight made her squirm with pleasure and she hoped that the guards might visit later on.

Revenge was sweet. She could feel that the cuts on her shoulders had opened and she had plenty of new ones but she couldn’t have cared less.

Back in the barn and laid out face down on a table, flinching occasionally as disinfectant was dabbed onto her, she heard Carlo’s voice just above her.

“This one tried to speak to me. Put her down for sixty lashes, full body whipping when we get home. And make a note, I’ll carry out the sentence myself, give her fifty more for winning and then fuck her lights out.”

She smiled contentedly. He would do all of it.

Then she heard him address the rest of the girls and tell them to assume that the staves were weighted as well. They were to ignore the weapons at first and go for the girls, get every weapon they could off them and then use them themselves.

It worked for the next squad, but by the last contest the enemy was ready for them and gave them a bad mauling, but once again they had won through on balance.

In the evening, they were sent into the pens.