by Sean O'Kane
“Hold tight!” the doctor’s voice was suddenly harsh and throaty with excitement. Raika felt the fingers inside her joined by one then two more. She held her breath as she felt the hand shift and the woman’s wrist and thumb grazed the insides of her thighs.
“Oh yes, Mistress!” Suddenly there was overwhelming pressure on her lips, they resisted for a moment and then she felt them surrender and split wide apart as the doctor’s whole hand slid into her and her fist began to twist and rub at what felt like every millimetre of her vagina. After only a few minutes she exploded into a shattering orgasm, bright shards of light exploding around the smiling face of doctor Sands as she knelt over her, propelling her as expertly as any other man or woman had ever done.
Afterwards she was allowed to undress the doctor and kiss the neat, high riding breasts, rolling her tongue around the red-pink hard little tubes of her nipples. The struggle to get the tight jeans off was well worth it though when Raika was at long last able to kneel between the smooth thighs and explore the complex landscape of her lover’s vulva with her tongue, interrupting the expeditions to dart back and lash at the straining nub of the clitoris, poking out from its hood and begging for attention.
At last the two women lay side by side and listened as a real horse trotted past, a Housegirl was riding side saddle behind a man and laughing throatily as she was carried towards an outdoor session somewhere in the grounds.
Finally the doctor climbed to her feet and stretched her graceful nudity in the sun.
“Do you ever get to play with the slaves?” she asked.
“Oh yes, Mistress!” Raika enthused. “They are very good and do anything you tell them. They have no choice.”
“I feel like beating that big brute over there. Got a crop?”
There was one stored in the little trunk the blanket had been in and Raika watched as the doctor unclipped Ayesha’s wrists from behind her back and refastened them to the ring at the back of her collar. Once she felt the shaft of the crop graze her ribs as she was repositioned the tall slave clearly knew what was coming and settled her feet well apart.
“I’ve had to watch the men do this for three days now! And I’m dying to get my hand back in,” the doctor said, one hand diving between her own spread legs and the other lifting the crop back. She delivered seven blistering stokes across Ayesha’s backside, making even her dance and twist at the end of her reins. Raika found her own hand straying downwards and fumbling into the hot moistness between her legs as the dry reports of the leather on flesh rang out and deep tramlines blossomed across the trembling expanse of buttock flesh.
“Come here!” the doctor ordered and Raika was placed on her knees, the doctor’s cunt rubbing in her face, her clitoris mashing against her nose as she lashed Ayesha until she achieved another orgasm.
Reluctantly they dressed as the afternoon began to wane and the severely welted Ayesha trotted them wearily home.
“I’ll square it with the men if they moan about the damage to her,” the doctor told her as they put the trap away. “And one night I’ll have you in my room, my dear Raika, and I’ll thrash that gorgeous bottom of yours to the blood.”
In a dreamy haze, Raika stabled Ayesha for the night and went to her bed thinking that when her master sent for her, she would ask if he would take Doctor Sands too.
Chapter 13
Conor Brien watched the figures in the ring that had been set up out on the arena floor carefully. He saw the man pick the slave up with one hand at her crotch and one hand gripping her breast, lift her high over his head and then slam her down. Beside him, Gerd his trainer winced as the man made great play of backing off and then throwing himself face down across the inert form. From outside the ring another guard counted slowly to three without any discernible movement from the woman. The victorious male wrestler stood up and unceremoniously dragged the slave to her feet, pushed her roughly through the ropes and then stepped through after her.
Conor checked his stop watch.
“I make it she held out for five minutes so he’s got five more to play with her.”
Gerd shook his head. “She won’t get up after this one, boss.”
“How many has she taken so far?” Conor asked.
“Eight.”
“Good, that’s already two more than this time last week. And never underestimate Snake,” Conor told him as the female figure, her outrageous tattoo obscured by the dust and dirt that coated her and which had been made into a kind of glue from mixing with the sheer amount of sweat and sperm that covered her body, was pushed down onto the sand in a sitting position under a rectangular whipping frame. The man busied himself buckling thick suspension cuffs onto her ankles. Her chest heaving from the long afternoon’s contests and defeats, Snake propped herself up with her arms slightly behind her and watched the man disinterestedly. When he was done he enlisted the help of the referee and they hauled her up to hang with her legs splayed wide apart, her head at the level of the man’s groin. Her arms dangled limply as she swung back and forth while the man made his choice of whip; a sturdy flogger.
Beside Conor, Gerd shook his head.
“That’s her second cunt whipping. She’ll not take it,” he said gloomily. “Blondie will be too strong for her.”
Conor smiled at him as the sounds of firm, wet impacts from between the slave’s spread legs drifted up from the arena floor.
“I’ll worry about Blondie. You just keep Snake working to her limit and in three, four months’ time we’ll have ourselves a lulu of a show. Trust me on this!”
They watched for a few more minutes as Snake’s crotch and inner thighs were belaboured zealously. Both men noted that she made no attempt to protect herself by trying to bring her arms up even though her shrill yelps and moans were clearly audible above the smack of the leathers. Eventually, with one eye on the clock, the man threw down his whip, opened the fly of his shorts and thrust a rampantly hard length of cock into her mouth with urgent disregard for her ability, or otherwise, to cope with him. Immediately Snake’s arms came up to grasp the man’s hips, her hands caressed his buttocks and cupped his scrotum as he plundered her mouth. He even turned the handle of the whip downwards and pumped it straight down into her flogged vagina. For the first time she reacted and Conor smiled broadly as his favourite slave began to buck and grind her way to yet another orgasm at the hands of yet another conqueror.
He waited until the man had clearly delivered the last of his load deep inside her throat and stood back, the slave was lowered and unshackled and another count began, then he checked his watch again, careful not to let his anxiety show.
The count reached ten and still Snake lay on the sand, gasping for breath, arms and legs spread limply out.
“Come on, come on!” he muttered.
“She’ll never make it,” Gerd insisted.
By twelve she stirred and rolled over onto her side. By fourteen she was on all fours. At sixteen she tried to stand and fell back. At nineteen she staggered upright. Conor punched the air.
“Y’see, Gerd! Keep her at it! Don’t let her slack! Now I’ve got work to attend to.”
He turned and made his way along the terraces. ‘Last Slave Standing’ was going to be a huge hit in the arenas and Snake was going to be the star. Her insatiable appetite for suffering made her ideal for this event that was entirely his brainchild. Any arena fan would pay through the nose to watch two owners pit two of their best slaves against each other to see how many men they could take on, the contest only finishing when one couldn’t rise after a count of twenty – they had tried a count of ten but had found that the contests ended too quickly. The extra ten seconds’ grace meant several more exciting rounds of desperate defence from the naked slaves as they fought to prevent the men having too much time in which to play with them. The rules stated that every time a man stepped into the ring with a competing slave, he had ten minutes in which to subdue her, therefore the less time he spent getting a pinfall, the more time he woul
d have to play with her on the various items of equipment the owners would agree on prior to the event. For the slave the logic was neatly reversed and the whole made for good sport.
Of course as he had invented the game, his stable would have an advantage to start with. However, sooner or later the ultimate duel would have to be held. The Queen of the arenas would have to meet the young pretender to her crown. Snake and Blondie would meet in a final decider and Conor knew that the whole of the arena world would be watching and betting on the outcome.
In only a couple of weeks Snake would be going into a show defending an unbroken run of victories with the studded whip that only Blondie herself could surpass. She had already overtaken Ayesha’s record.
He would unveil his plans to the other owners in a few weeks’ time and then – well then they would see what happened. Snake was not as tall or as naturally athletic as Blondie but she was tough, strong and had that almost insanely strong masochistic streak.
He laughed with delight as he glanced behind him and saw Snake crawl stubbornly back through the ropes and totter to her feet to face another male wrestler. This one came in mercilessly fast and threw her before she had even stopped staggering. She had her legs straddled drunkenly for balance and he plunged his hand between them, Conor knew he would be applying the crotch hold – an invaluable weapon against a naked female opponent. His thumb would be deep in her vagina, two fingers would be up her anus and she would be unable to stop him doing anything he wanted with her. On this occasion the man was content to just toss her into the air so that she landed against the ropes and was catapulted back towards him, where she ran into the immovable object of his shoulder between her breasts. A cheer went up from the other men, seated in the shade at the edge of the arena, as, for a moment, Snake seemed frozen to the spot and then slowly she sank to her knees and then toppled forwards. The man put his foot on the back of her neck as the referee counted her out and she was hauled out of the ring for another bout of punishment. She had succumbed almost immediately so she could look forward to nearly a full ten minutes’ worth of flogging or whatever her conqueror wanted to put her through.
Even Conor doubted she would come back from that. But ten men taken on consecutively was a good total. By the time she met Blondie in the biggest showdown in modern arena history, she would routinely be able to take fifteen or sixteen. Blondie herself would have trouble coping with that – even if she were fully fit. Conor Brien smiled to himself as he considered the careful plans he had laid to ensure that that wouldn’t be the case. He had total confidence in Snake but with that Blonde, it didn’t do to take chances.
He was whistling happily as he left the arena, the pistol-like cracks of a stock whip echoing around the empty stadium. She would be well worth the shagging later on, he thought.
“And finally, let’s all raise our glasses to the magnificent efforts of Carlo, Brian and the grooms in bringing back such a significant victory and keeping their unbeaten record intact.” John Carpenter was in his element and Carlo fidgeted uncomfortably, he was aware that other things were going on apart from this reception and they were more important to the future smooth running of the stable than this, admittedly pleasant formality. But he accepted that it had to be done and tried to concentrate.
“No CSL slave has ever competed on a losing side. So the next time you hire one out for an evening in the dungeons, just remember you’re getting ‘em cheap!”
There were good natured jeers and laughter but then John proposed the toast to CSL’s continuing success and he and Brian acknowledged the acclaim.
It was two days after their triumphant return and a buffet lunch was laid out in the Long Gallery, the Housegirls were allowed, for once, to dispense with their long dresses and served the members wearing only beautifully tailored and boned basques with exquisite embroidery on them, thongs, hold up stockings and elegantly heeled court shoes. The tall windows of the gallery looked out over the parkland, golf course and lake, and in mid afternoon it was flooded with light. Along the inner wall, which formed one wall of the Common Room on its other side was a row of alcoves with statues of mythical figures in each one. Between these stood tables laden with every hors d’oeuvre and snack the cooks’ encyclopaedic knowledge could come up with.
Against the opposite wall, one in between each of the windows, the ten CSL gladiators were hooded and tongue tethered.
Almost as soon as the toast had been drunk, there came the unmistakable sounds of hands landing hard on the quivering, satin smooth buttocks of the Housegirls and answering female giggles and yelps.
Carlo sipped some superbly light and refreshing Sancerre and gazed about him, trying to put what might be happening down at the stable block to the back of his mind. He was not normally given to complacency, but even he had to admit that the victory at Salazar’s arena would have gone a long way to enhance CSL’s already sky-high reputation. And their share of the prize money along with the agreed hiking in price would mean that very soon the stable could go up to fifteen slaves – the number at which he and John had said they would stop expanding for a while.
Indulgently he watched Brian laughing and joking with some of the members as they congratulated him on the success. The welted and recovering slaves themselves stood patiently under the hoods which covered their heads down to their noses, their hair bunched into thick pony tails at the back just above where the hoods were buckled. They reminded him of some falcons he had seen once, hooded to keep them quiet in their mews until their trainer released them to kill.
Carlo put his drink down and went to the nearest slave. It was Blackie who stood with her weight on her right leg, her hips cocked gracefully, her forehead resting against the wall. Occasionally she champed on her tongue chain. Carlo shushed her as he patted her warm, branded hip, still striped and with speckles of blood under the skin now fading and the bruises starting to yellow. He stroked her back and she turned her head to nuzzle blindly at his shoulder as he petted her, her neat little breasts rubbing against him. Smiling he put his hand down and she felt him against her thighs, immediately she parted them and he cupped his fingers down past her clitoris and then up into the hot and viscid vagina.
“We’ll have you back in training and earning your keep in the dungeons before the week’s out, my girl,” he said, withdrawing his hand and drying it on her mons. Although her previous experience had been wildly overstated by her previous owner and everyone was sure that this show had been her first, she had acquitted herself well.
Carlo moved on to where Blondie stood and ran a hand gently down across her breast. She started back at his touch, wrenching her tongue leash and making a grunted gasp of pain.
“Whoa there! You big silly bitch. You’ll get plenty of pain soon enough,” he told her and she immediately quietened at the sound of his voice but she was plainly getting bored with being tethered, felt and admired. She lifted one leg behind her, bent at the knee and stamped it down far enough away from her other foot to make it plain she wanted something between her legs. Carlo watched the toned flesh tremble a little after the stamp and he noted the parted labia at her crotch and the partially retracted clitoral hood. She was on heat again – like all the rest. The memory of the almost constant whipping and innumerable cocks that had sunk into them was fading fast. They needed another dose. And the fact that Blondie herself was so clearly up for it, delighted him.
Around them The Lodge was slowly building up towards one of its famous nights of unbridled lust and debauchery. The Housegirls looked superb, the basques and stockings were beautiful enough but so many backs, shoulders and delightfully quivering bottoms, carried marks from crops, canes, whips and paddles that Carlo was sure that before the sun set, the dungeons would be in full swing and the girls would be tested to their limits until the early hours. He saw Madame Stalevsky, cool and remote as ever, watch critically as one of her underlings was bent forwards across a table and taken from behind. The man was busily talking to a friend and continued
his conversation as he thrust into her. Meanwhile the girl put her knuckles to her mouth to stifle any moans or groans which might interrupt the conversation going on behind her. Madame nodded slightly as the man stopped talking long enough to tense and then pump frienziedly for a few seconds before withdrawing and wiping himself on her buttocks. The girl, her knuckles white with effort, had confined herself to a few shudders as she had orgasmed silently.
Madame looked up and caught Carlo’s eye. The two smiled at each other, professionals in the same trade. Carlo turned back to Blondie just as the first crisp strikes of a crop on buttock flesh sounded from further along the gallery. He untethered her and led her across to one of the tables, he pushed some half emptied dishes away and then pressed her back, between her shoulders. Immediately she slid her feet further apart and lowered herself onto the surface, keeping her legs straight and well apart. Carlo took a few seconds to admire his favourite before he had her. The fact that she had struggled for a third place in the pony racing had bothered him far more than he had let on to Brian, but her obvious impatience to get back to being a sex slave had reassured him that it was just a one-off misjudgement on his part that had over committed her. Still there was one way to check whether a slave was being ‘honest’ apart from the thrashing one he taught his assistants. Carlo surveyed the ripely pouting labia nestling in the little hollow at the tops of the long, graceful thighs with the coral pink inner lips unfurled like delicate blooms around the vaginal entrance. Even the rapidly fading indents and scabs left by the studded tack and boxing thong only heightened his appreciation of the resilience of high-quality sexflesh. The broad width of the smooth, toned buttocks was still heavily welted and bruised and yet that too only seemed to beckon a master on to beat them further, or to stroke them, whichever gave him more pleasure. He would do both in due course he thought and returned his attention to business, unzipping his flies, fetching out his almost fully erect cock and sliding it home with impressive ease. From somewhere beneath him there came a soft sigh of pleasure, he smiled down at her whip-striped back as he pushed into full penetration and then held himself there. For a second she too held steady but then he felt her move and he smiled more broadly. This was what he was looking for, a real appetite to be taken by her master, even if she had to do all the work to pleasure him. He felt her sheath grip him as strongly as ever as she began to swivel and buck her hips in that way that females have, where their pelvises seem almost dislocated from their upper backs. From time to time she would hump her back to the extent that if he looked down he could see most of his gleaming shaft emerge from her, but then she would slowly hollow her back and take him back in, inch by inch, gripping him hard and making sure every centimetre of cock he fed her was fully sensitised. Carlo relaxed fully. Any slave who fucked this enthusiastically after a pounding in the arenas had years of productive life left in her.
