Into The Arena

by Sean O'Kane

  Her musings came to an end as a strained moan broke from a girl on her left. And as their endurance began to ebb away the colonnade was soon echoing to cries and moans of distress from all the girls. But these ceased abruptly as they heard a door open and voices and footsteps approach. Chief among the voices was that of the Boss himself. He seemed to have a group of people with him, of both sexes. They were relaxed and laughing as they approached until one of the women in the party must have caught sight of the swaying line of slaves and let out a little shriek.

  Tara heard her owner laugh. "Ah! You've noticed my little display. These are the best of the squad slaves," he said. "I had them put up here to demonstrate the sort of endurance you may expect from them. I can assure you they will provide very good value for money. In all respects."

  There was male laughter and Tara felt a man's hand stroke her flank. Then her heart leapt as the man himself came round to stand before her. It was the Boss. Quickly she lowered her eyes and grimaced against the agony in her arms; determined not to make a sound. "Please feel free to handle the merchandise, ladies and gentlemen. You will find superb muscle tone, and when you consider that it has been hanging here all the while you have been arriving, freshening up and taking a drink, I'm sure you will agree that you can confidently expect top class entertainment at the show itself."

  Tara immediately felt a hand stroke her buttocks and move to her thigh, squeezing and assessing the firmness. Meanwhile a woman, very wealthy looking and in her fifties, Tara guessed came to stand beside the Boss.

  "This is a strong looking one," she observed. "And you say we'll be able to reserve them for bed use as well."

  "At an extremely reasonable rate," The Owner agreed. The woman licked her lips and reached out a hand. Instinctively Tara tried to raise her knees and twist away as the hand approached her sex. Then she found out why her ankles had been weighted. After hanging for so long it was unbearable to increase the strain on her arms and all she achieved was a soft rattle and clink as the weights swung, then she had to remain still while the woman let a single finger trace down across her stomach and then continue down along the cleft between her labia. Her legs were open just enough to allow it limited access to the vagina itself and Tara tried not to screw her face up in disgust as she felt it enter her. To sleep with your cellmate and to have sex with your fellow gladiators was one thing, but to be pawed by this pampered old jade was quite another, especially as her owner was calmly proposing to sell her body to her. And to add to her distress, Tara felt the woman's finger slide quite freely between her lips, despite the relatively small gap between her legs.

  "Oh!" the woman exclaimed, "she's quite wet!"

  "Of course, she's a slave. She's in pain and loving every second of it."

  The woman withdrew her finger and she reached up to fondle Tara's breasts with her whole hand. And despite gritting her teeth she felt her treacherous nipples harden under the touch.

  "And I'll bet she'll need to take a bit of whipping before she gets into bed with an old hag like me," the woman said and laughed throatily. "Well Charles did say he was going to give me a very special anniversary present." Then she moved away with the Boss to examine Channel who was next in the line.

  Now another man stood before her, he was only in his thirties and was accompanied by a pretty, dark haired woman of the same age. She was staring up at Tara with wide-eyed wonder.

  "Touch her," the man told her. "She's not going to bite. Not from where she is now anyway."

  The woman gave an irritating giggle and Tara flinched as she felt her stretched taut breasts fondled again.

  "You can see by the nipples how much she likes the pain she's in," the man observed. Tara had to bite her tongue at this second reminder of how she was betraying herself. She wouldn't mind betting this stupid man was one of those who would never have dared approach her before she was enslaved. The woman gave her annoying laugh again and wriggled a finger into Tara's vagina. The trouble was that these contemptible idiots who would probably never be dominant enough to own their own slaves were humiliating her so badly that she knew her sex was gushing its appreciation of her own pain and degradation. She loved and hated her owner with all the tangled emotional intensity of a true slave.

  "God, I haven't had a pussy since I was in boarding school," the woman said. "And it's so juicy! Just think, you'll be able to watch her lick me out after you've whipped her."

  "That's the idea. After the shows she'll be battered, bruised, hot and horny, and all ours to play with," the man told her.

  "I want to see the black one. She looks gorgeous!" And they moved along the line, leaving Tara helplessly in the grip of confused pique that she should be deprived of any more humiliation. Her head hung forward in despair as she realised just how deeply she was a slave.

  For what seemed an eternity the hanging girls were pawed and groped, until at last the whole group gathered on the lawn and the Boss chatted happily with them while their pre-dinner drinks were topped up by the household girls.

  At long, long last they moved off down the colonnade and Tara heard male footsteps behind her. An arm encircled her waist and lifted slightly, just enough to free her arms and she cried aloud as she tried to lower them. But then Carlo was laying her carefully down on the marble and massaging her shoulders with every sign of genuine concern. A tall African man in a flowing white robe was attending to the others and between them they soon had all the girls sitting up and rubbing at their own aching limbs. Carlo was plainly furious though.

  "I told him not to leave them so long! What kind of show are my girls going to put on with dislocated shoulders eh?"

  "Relax, Carlo," the tall black man told him. "They're okay. The Boss knows what he's doing."

  Carlo relapsed into mutters as he helped each girl to her feet and set about checking in detail every sorely tested muscle and joint, just to be sure. Tara was perfectly aware that his concern was purely professional and had nothing to do with her personally, but it was good to feel his strong, expert hands on her body again.

  Once he and the man he referred to as Ali had clipped their hands together behind their backs again and this time added chains linking their collars, he was a bit more cheerful.

  "They're a good looking bunch. Fine material! Now I want them to see something."

  "Boss said to take'em downstairs."

  "We will, in a minute," Carlo assured him, and with a hard smack on the lead girl's bottom he led the coffle down the colonnade.

  At first it seemed as if they might be going back to their barracks, but Carlo led them past them and the training ground, on past the tall stadium itself and out towards the fields. The low buildings which Tara had caught a glimpse of earlier seemed to be stables, but they were led past these as well and eventually came to a gate. Beyond it the Boss and his guests were standing, still attended by the girls with their neat little tunics and each holding a tray of cool drinks. Carlo led Tara's coffle to a long rail which looked like a hitching rail for horses and he had all six girls stand with their backs to it. Then he and Ali passed along behind them, unclipping their wrists and re-joining them so that each wrist was on a different side of the horizontal rail, tethering them.

  The main group seemed to be looking out over the field for something. It sloped up slightly to a crest and as yet nothing was in sight.

  "Keep your eyes peeled my bitches," Carlo told them, walking up and down behind them. "You will see my best animals now! My best work!"

  And with that he left them to join the main group with Ali in his long robe following.

  For a moment nothing happened. But then, faintly at first, but growing louder, there were the unmistakable cracks of whips at work and then things which looked like plumes bobbed into view, and over them Tara could see the blur of whips. But suddenly as the land flattened out the whole spectacle unfolded and Tara couldn't restrain a gasp of total amazement.

  Three pony traps came careering over the hill towards the onlooke
rs, running in the lanes Tara had seen earlier. But the ponies pulling them were human ones. And female as well. Tara stared, her throat suddenly dry, never had she imagined such a thing could be done. The girls were running furiously in elaborate harnesses which seeemed to criss cross their bodies, their hands gripped the shafts of the lightweight carts which held a single driver who was wielding the whip. It was clearly a race and each driver was equally determined to win, regardless of the cost to the 'pony'. The whips slashed at shoulders, breasts, thighs and backs. The lashed ponies sometimes threw their heads back and made the plumes on their bridles dance. As the traps came closer, Tara could hear the drivers yelling encouragements as they wove complicated patterns in the air with their whips and scored networks of thin red stripes on their ponies' gleaming flesh. Whether it was oil or sweat Tara didn't know but the superb female figures before her shone with it. The slight rumble of the wheels on the dry ground became louder and louder and eventually even the snorting and gasping of the ponies between the whip cracks could be heard. In a storm of noise and dust the traps reached their audience and then in an obviously rehearsed move the three drivers, now neck and neck, wrenched on their reins. The ponies' heads came sharply round to their right and they wheeled in perfect formation in a tight circle before the applauding onlookers. Tara could see how the girls' mouths were dragged sharply over and realised that they must even have bits in there, just like real ponies. But as they wheeled, the final touch of realism almost brought a cry from her. From between the tightly muscled and scarlet striped buttocks of each girl a real tail wagged and swung.

  The drivers stayed in their seats as the ponies stamped and cavilled against the tight reins, the dust settled around the traps and the audience approached, still clapping delightedly. The Boss had stage managed their entrance superbly and Tara was left replaying the moment the ponies had burst over the crest of the hill, their feet pounding, their thighs pumping and the cruel whips playing maddening tattoos on their skin as they raced for the line. She realised that her own heart was doing its fair share of pounding, the girls were the most devastatingly erotic sight she had ever encountered and she stared at them now, straining for a view among the crowd which surrounded them. In the cool of the evening there was even the faint suspicion of sweat steaming from their oiled bodies. They occasionally tossed their heads as hands stroked and groped them. Tara tried to drink in every detail of the harnesses but found that her eyes kept going back to the breast harness. All three girls had the same arrangement, two-inch wide leather straps encircled each breast and buckled tight against the inner curve. From near the top of the strap another one led up to the deep collar which kept their heads held high and proud. The strapping made the breasts stand out high and firm in neat domes of nipple-crowned flesh. And, Tara realised with a jolt deep in her stomach, they kept them steady for the drivers' whips, even as they ran.

  She couldn't deny the pangs of envy which she felt as she watched the crowd admire them and heard the enthusiastic commentary the Boss was giving, detailing feeding and exercise regimes and explaining the finer points of the harnesses, which frequently brought squeals of horrified delight from the females in the group. But Carlo returned to stand behind them once more.

  "These are the very best!" he crowed. "They don't just race in pony carts either! No, these beauties do pursuit running, as well as log pulling and single combat. They even go up against the men! Of course they lose - but they really know how to lose. Out in the arena, it is a fine sight!" he sighed happily.

  Tara continued to gaze at the girls. They were tall, just like she was and powerfully built for girls, but she could imagine how carefully they had been fed to keep the breasts and buttocks full and feminine. Carlo's words washed over her but she pricked up her ears at the word 'arena'.

  In her mind's eye she envisaged an expanse of sand under a bright sun and two naked females struggling and fighting until one was utterly defeated. Or a single female, bloodied but unbowed as she fought and inevitably lost to the power of a well-muscled man who would exact the full price of defeat when she at last went down. And all the time a crowd cheered and yelled as they wallowed in the vicarious excitement of the spectacle being enacted for their pleasure; fixing all their attention on the figures before them.

  It was a thrilling image of decadence and savage eroticism.

  And at last she had an image for what had always been at the back of her mind in her darkest fantasies. It was a fantasy so extreme that she had never allowed herself to have it - had probably dismissed it as so impossible it was not even to be dreamed of. But here and now it was a reality. The Boss - her owner - was making it a reality. And she knew now what part she wanted to play in it.

  She hardly noticed Carlo unclip their wrists and begin to lead them away, but she kept her head turned towards the field as she followed reluctantly, and noticed the way the Boss's hands constantly strayed to pat a flank, or stroke a breast or buttock as he talked tirelessly about his favourites.

  Carlo also took one last look and halted their procession.

  "Those are the best of the best. They win big money! The Boss likes them so much he gives them their daily beating personally, whenever he is here."

  Then he seemed to turn himself back to the job in hand and pulled them along. But Tara's mind was replaying his last words and her heart was thumping.

  Chapter 12

  Patti Campbell stood in front of her mirror. From the gym she had come back to her room for a long shower before dressing for dinner and now she was examining herself critically. At thirty years of age, it was an ever-increasing struggle to keep herself as her master wanted her. But on the whole, she thought, she wasn't doing so badly. Her legs were still long and shapely, the thighs firm and smooth. Her stomach was still flat and her waist trim; sure her hips and bottom had filled out a bit but she felt that only added to her mature attractions. There was simply more of her arse for him to thrash, and it was still tight and smooth. Then there were her breasts. She cupped them lovingly and stroked them. They still stood proud on her chest with virtually no sign of a crease beneath them. And God knew they had taken a fair hammering over her years with Mark. He loved them, and whether he wanted to beat them, stroke them or punish them with tit presses, needles or wax; they were always ready for him. She grinned at her reflection, "High, wide and handsome," she whispered in that soft lilt which she knew he also loved. But the Scottish lowland upbringing which had bequeathed her that particular asset had also bequeathed her a level head and a practical approach to life.

  She had met Mark Cavanagh five years previously. He was a high flyer, a whizz kid, two years younger than she. In a whirlwind takeover which had had the financial papers gossiping for months, Mark had moved in on the company, whose MD she was then personal assistant to and quite simply taken over. She had arrived for work one day to find her erstwhile boss had gone and Mark sitting behind his desk instead. He hadn’t wasted a second and in a hectic few weeks had broken her in to his way of doing things. It had been an eye opener. In his business dealings he flew close to the wind but seemed to live a charmed life and she soared, breathless, in his wake. A month or so later he had asked her out to dinner and she had ended up in his bed. The sex had been very good; but entirely conventional. However, midway through the following morning she had entered his office to find him frowning at a document she had prepared. He had taken her breath away completely by saying that he was fed up with her sloppy presentation and had decided that he was going to take her in hand. She was to raise her skirt and bend over his desk for a spanking.

  Whenever she thought of that moment on which her whole subsequent life had turned, she was still excited and aroused by the sheer nerve of the man. He could have had no idea of what her reaction would be. She might have slapped him, resigned on the spot, gone to some tribunal or other. But as she dithered and spluttered he had stood up and added; "Then before I fuck you tomorrow night, you'll bend for the cane. Now lift your skirt."
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  It must have been the powerfully sexual nature of that final command which cracked her. But whatever it was, she found herself stammering idiotically and even apologetically that it was too tight to raise over her hips.

  "Then take it off woman!" he ordered irritably. "Quickly, I've got other work to do."

  A moment later she was standing before him in only the shirt she had worn the day before and her knickers and high heels. She had never forgotten the strange thrill of that first spanking. How it had hurt and excited her, and how he had stopped every now and then to answer the phone, then gone back to beating her backside till it was an inferno. But when he had finished he took her right where she was, jerking her backwards and forwards on his desk as he pleasured himself inside her molten loins, and from then on she had never looked back.