Into The Arena

by Sean O'Kane

  At long last the guards had hauled them out of the sweat soaked atmosphere when every conceivable appetite had been sated. The night was just as warm on deck but at least there was a gentle breeze and she had sunk gratefully down onto a mat when she had been chained to the railings, allowed to sleep in the open for once.

  Their last day at sea had started out as a day of rest. They had been showered and fed and then allowed to sleep until lunch. But even then Tara's sex and anus burned and stung almost unbearably. However, Carlo had had one last treat for them.

  All of them spent their final afternoon aboard ship fully displayed in broad daylight for any further use the crew or the guards cared to make of them.

  Once again they were led up into the dazzling daylight and saw what awaited them this time. Chains dangled from the boom arms of two derricks. At first Tara had visions of some kind of mass flogging session. And in her present state she would have preferred that to what Carlo really intended. They were made to sit under the boom while their wrists were clipped together behind their backs and then the chains were attached to broad ankle restraints which the guards had next buckled onto them. Tara groaned inwardly, she knew what was coming and sure enough she was flung unceremoniously onto her back when her guard hauled on her set of chains and dragged her legs up into the air. At first she was convinced that it would be a full ankle suspension but instead the pull on her legs stopped when her pelvis was only a couple of inches off the deck and her back was still on it. But she was aware that her legs had been pulled wide open. She craned her head up to see her guard making the chains fast to a ring in the deck some way beyond her spread legs. Then he came to stand in the wide V they formed and smiled down at her in the way she knew presaged some refined cruelty that Carlo had dreamed up.

  He unclipped the scourge at his belt and bent to let it lie with its handle on her stomach, while its cool lashes trailed down along the still sensitive slit of her sex, down between her buttocks and then fanned out on the deck. Tara swallowed nervously and glanced to her left and right. All the other girls had been dealt with similarly and she realised what a perfect display of submissive slaveflesh they made. Twelve naked girls with their legs held up and wide apart, their sexes, still sore from their previous use, were nonetheless completely open to whatever any man wanted to do with them.

  It was Carlo's last lesson.

  This was the culmination of everything they had learned. And for the rest of the day the men of the crew and the guards drummed the lesson in one last time. In a nearly constant stream they strolled along the line, commenting and assessing. Occasionally there would be the smack of a whip and an answering yelp from away to Tara's left or right. Sometimes there would be a whole series of them, accompanied by the familiar sounds of a slave being driven to that place deep inside herself where pain and pleasure became something else - the pure essence of slavery itself. And Tara was driven there herself many times that day, crying, twisting, arching under the relentless whip on her already pounding sexflesh, then subsiding into gasps and moans as she was swept away and could only offer her open and throbbing sex in gratitude to the man who took her after beating her.

  Her neck grew stiff as she constantly tried to crane it upwards to see who was using her and eventually she gave in. She stared up into the cloudless blue of the sky and accepted each man as an anonymous master of her body, paying him tribute only with her cries of utter abandonment to piercing agony and consuming delight.

  It was no concern of hers what he did to her, or how he did it. Her only business was to cry out for his pleasure and to provide an easy passage to his release as he knelt between her open legs and then eased himself down onto her while his thick erection ploughed her insides into another eruption of molten ecstasy. And all around her Tara could hear her sisters rendering up similar offerings to the whips and the cocks of their masters.

  And so, when the girls finally trooped off the ship, their necks joined by collars and chains, their hands clipped behind their backs and walking in ungainly open legged fashion as mute testimony to hard usage, they went as complete submissives to face their future.

  Chapter 8

  As they descended the gangplank, Tara managed to look about her, squinting against the light which was already harsh. They had arrived at a small port in a sheltered bay. Hills which seemed to be barren apart from low growing scrub and wind-bent trees, stretched around to enclose it. And behind the port the land rose still higher, blocking any further view. A few houses and warehouses straggled along the waterfront, but over on her right there seemed to be some very new looking tower blocks, almost as if a holiday resort had been built. Some lorries were parked on the quay, presumably waiting for some or all of whatever else the ship carried to be unloaded. Men, and even a few women - all quite normally clothed, Tara noted - seemed to be going about their business and were completely ignoring the coffle of naked girls being led down from the ship. As her feet touched firm ground for the first time in what seemed like months, Tara glanced back up at the towering bulk of her erstwhile prison. A strange feeling of loss engulfed her as she looked at it. At least while they had been held there, they had come to know what to expect of Carlo and the guards. But what would happen now? She repressed a shudder at the uncertainties any future might hold for naked and chained girls.

  Among the high-sided lorries parked on the quay a smaller one waited and they were led towards this one. It had an open load platform with a single steel rail running horizontally back from the roof of the driver's cab to a vertical support right at the back of the platform. One by one the girls were helped to clamber up onto the platform and were arranged in two rows of six, facing each other on either side of the rail and still connected by the chains to their collars. Once they were all up, the guards went down both lines, unclipping their wrists but then crossing them in front of them and putting them over the bar before joining them, by their restraints' clips to those of the girl opposite.

  "Hold on tight my bitches!" Carlo called cheerfully as he climbed into the cab beside the driver. They all closed their fingers around the thick bar and exchanged nervous glances. Tara could see that Jet, the girl opposite her was thinking about whispering something once Carlo was in the cab, but Tara shook her head. The other guards were still about, standing by a minibus behind Jet. In a cloud of diesel smoke the lorry started up and jolted into motion. Carlo's last instruction proved to be very necessary as the roads were badly maintained and the lorry bumped and lurched as it growled through the small town, climbing upwards through a few wide streets bordered by houses built of stone and with cracked rendering, shuttered windows and dusty red roof tiles. As she looked about her, Tara for the first time realised just how far her journey had taken her. Not just emotionally, but physically as well. She was a long way from home in all senses. And again she felt a yawning pit of fear open inside her.

  The town was soon left behind them and the lorry jerked and ground its way up into the hills, all the girls holding tight to the rail, their breasts bouncing and swaying. Tara could see that all their faces were set and strained. They were all afraid. And suddenly it was as if a cloud had fallen from her mind and she could see clearly for the first time in weeks. Out here, away from the confines of the ship, her impassioned and agonised submissions fell away. That had been then; this was now. And now she was a naked captive. What had she been thinking of? How had she been able to welcome, even enjoy such treatment? And if she had, then it was that lying, treacherous bastard Conor's fault. It was he who had put her in such a position that her only recourse had been to the pretence that she enjoyed submission. All her fury returned and she repeated her mantra of the first few days of her captivity. Whatever the other girls were; she was different. She was in no way submissive! It had been merely a camouflage she had adopted for survival.

  She began to look around her again, this time with the ultimate aim of escape. And revenge.

  Where were they, she wondered? The town was now f
ar beneath and behind them and the land seemed to sweep down to the sea on all sides, but up ahead there were low mountains, rocky and bare. What lay beyond them?

  The lorry ground and snarled its way upwards until it reached a peak and began to descend. Then Tara, looking ahead over the cab roof, could see that before them the land fell away into a wide fertile valley which stretched up to the feet of the mountains. And a mile or so ahead of them she saw some kind of ranch. That was the only word she could think of. But it was huge. There was a cluster of main buildings from which spread out seemingly acres of the same red roof tiles she had seen in the town. The whole complex seemed more like a small town than one dwelling. And out from the buildings spread a network of fields where horses and cows were pastured. But on the far side of the giant complex stood one building in particular. It was high walled and yet had a strangely small roof area. It reminded her of something she had seen quite frequently before, but these surroundings were so strange she just couldn't place it. There was something very familiar about its shape, which was nevertheless an odd one, it was almost as if the wall nearest her was curved in some way. She flicked her hair out of her eyes and looked again but was distracted by the shockingly loud and sudden clattering roar of a helicopter coming up from behind them, passing deafeningly low overhead and then, as all the girls watched, it flew on ahead and settled in a cloud of dust beside the ranch they were heading for.

  Carlo leaned out of his window, grinning back up at them.

  "That's your owner! He wants to meet you!" he called out.

  Mark Cavanagh whom everyone called simply 'Boss', slipped his jacket off and stretched. Helicopters were useful, though tedious and uncomfortable. But now he was at home. He had put his briefcase in his office and was strolling along the colonnade which fronted the southern aspect of the house. From here the ground sloped down in an immaculately tended lawn, bordered by myrtles and junipers, towards the small river which flowed across the estate and on either side of the lawn, in two long, low wings stood the newly constructed lodges which would house his special guests when the shows in the arena began. Behind him he heard the delicate tapping of a woman's high-heeled shoes on the marble flooring of the colonnade. He turned and saw Patti coming towards him with a tall glass of gin and tonic. She was a Scottish girl who had been with him for some years now; since well before he had become involved with the arena circuit and had bought this remote outpost which nevertheless served his purposes admirably.

  Her coppery red hair was loose about her shoulders and her pale skin was startling in this sun-drenched land. But she reacted badly to too much sun and anyway her pallor provided a welcome contrast to the tanned skin of the other women he kept here. Her appearance was made all the more dramatic by the fact that all she wore was a sarong, slung about her hips and as she walked, one satin-skinned leg was revealed almost to the top, only the off-centre way she had fastened the sarong prevented her displaying her delta. He smiled as he realised how she would have sprung up and hastily put it on when she had heard the helicopter come in. Her heavy breasts, lightly dusted with freckles, swung lazily from side to side as she moved towards him, a delicate ripple running through them as her feet touched the floor with each step, the smooth, dusky areolae surmounted by the red nubs of her already erect nipples provided a further alluring touch. Despite the length of time she had been his slave, her breasts were still spectacularly firm, their upper slopes were still smoothly convex - no trace of a downward sag there - and there was still plenty of roundness beneath the nipples with only a slight crease where the underbellies touched her chest. He had already been wealthy and successful when he had met her and revealed her masochistic nature to her, but now, some years on, he was one of the super rich and she was still one of his favourites, despite the increasing numbers of slaves on the ranch.

  "Welcome home, Master," she said in her soft Scottish lowlands accent, handing him his drink and then putting her hands behind her back.

  Mark threw his jacket onto one of the benches which stood at the back of the colonnade and then took the cold glass. With his free hand he stroked her side, warm and soft to the touch, letting it fall slowly to the flare of her hip. Alone of all the slaves, she was allowed to look him in the eye, and she did so now as he stared at her. He noted with satisfaction that her beautiful green eyes held their usual expression of self-abandoned worship. He took a long drink and then fished an ice cube out of the glass. He gently wiped it around and over her areolae and nipples until they were even more prominent and inviting and she was giving soft groans of delight. He had been away for some ten days and had been looking forward to taking a whip to this particular slave as soon as he returned. He was about to order her indoors and do just that when someone coughed respectfully behind him.

  "Yes, Ali?" he said without turning, but returned the ice to its glass and put his hand between the girl's legs.

  "Gerd needs to see you, Boss. And Carlo too," the deep voice of his Sudanese major domo held a slight note of reproach. There was business to attend to before he could take his pleasure. He gave the slave's soft and engorged cunt lips one last stroke and drew his fingers through her soft pubic hair before he turned to face the tall, reserved figure of Ali.

  "Very well, but tell me, has this whore been screwing every man she could get her hands on while I've been away?"

  "Not while I've been watching, Boss." Ali gave him a wide grin. "But when I haven't......who can tell with women eh?"

  "Oh well, I'll beat the truth out of her later. Mount her on the training ground for me will you. You know how I like her, and you know what whip."

  Ali inclined his head and led the woman away. Mark let his eyes feast on her long, pale back and the roll and tremble of the generous buttocks under their thin fabric covering as she walked.

  "Oh, and don't forget to weight her cunt lips!" he called after Ali.

  "As if, Boss!" the tall Sudanese called back.

  Smiling, Mark walked further along the colonnade until he came to the double doors of his day room and entered. It was a large, cool room with a cedarwood floor and Louis XIV chairs and settees arranged around exquisite Persian scatter rugs. The stocky German, Gerd, his site manager and overseer was lounging on one of the chairs smoking a cigar.

  "Gerd, you know I won't have smoking in this room," he said quietly.

  "I know, Boss. But I don't think she does." He gestured behind him to where a pretty little Philippino household slave stood. "She offered me one."

  The household slaves all wore a simple uniform consisting of a very short, white, tunic and white high-heeled shoes. Even those girls who came from Northern countries soon became sun tanned once they had lived on the ranch for a couple of months, and the white contrasted very pleasantly with their bronzed skin. The tunics themselves barely covered the buttocks and the necklines were scooped and loose so that even though the girls' bodies were covered, they could be fondled casually with a minimum of effort. The slave in question now came forward nervously, her eyes wide with apprehension, her heels tapping on the wood floor.

  "Honestly, Gerd. Do try and get ones with at least a smattering of English. It would make Elena's life much easier."

  Elena was Gerd's wife who ran the house - and the girls - with iron discipline.

  Gerd simply smiled and flicked the offending cigar out onto the terrace. "You, ring for Madam Elena," he told the girl.

  She gave a frightened curtsey and did as she was told, then stood quietly by the wall awaiting her correction.

  "I've been looking over the dockets from this latest consignment, Boss," Gerd went on. "We're way over budget on them. The cost of making settlements on all their accounts, wiping their records, paying bribes.........Even when we sell them we'll never recoup the outlay."

  "I know," Mark sighed and leaned back wearily in his chair. "I've seen Conor and we're changing our approach. From now on he's spreading his net wider. But don't forget that once we've got the arena up and running, the inc
ome will go through the roof."

  "I know, but it's not a figure we can count on yet," the German replied.

  Mark smiled, Gerd was a cautious man who liked all his books to balance.

  The door at the back of the room opened and Elena entered, followed by Carlo, still dusty from his journey. The Philippino girl poured him a drink with trembling hands; her eyes flicking nervously to the cane in Elena's hands while Gerd explained her transgression. Elena, a petite woman in her mid forties with short cropped blonde hair, sighed and talked briefly with the girl in her own language while Carlo joined the other men and sipped appreciatively at his cold drink. Mark looked over behind him and watched as the dusky-skinned girl spread her legs, bent over and flicked the back of her tunic up before grasping her ankles. She had a nicely formed little split fig peeping out from between her trim and straight thighs. Elena sent the cane whistling in across her buttocks, making them ripple. The girl kept her silence and as the second stroke was delivered he returned his attention to Carlo. The background noise of the caning was ideal for the subject matter and for a moment all three of them enjoyed the whoosh and smack of the rattan, but then Carlo brought them back to the real business of the day.

  "This is a good consignment, Boss. Conor knows his business all right. I reckon they're much better than the first lot. And there's one you've got to see! A big blonde. She's a natural! She's got the real anger in her. When she fights, she fights herself almost, as well as the other girl."

  There was real enthusiasm in Carlo's voice and Mark was intrigued.