THE GLADIATOR

by Sean O'Kane

  In the relative cool of the late afternoon, two further chariot races had taken place and Tara’s rig won one and came second in the other. As the other blue chariot was driven into the fence by both red chariots in the last race and the driver was unable to get the team back on their feet in the allotted time, the Reds won the team event but Tara’s chariot would race for the individual prize the following morning.

  To her delight she wasn’t taken back to her own quarters that night but was taken to a stall in the same building which housed the solo gladiators. As soon as her groom, one of the slavegirls who also served the estate, had chained her for the night she had dived deep into sleep, curled up on a rough sheet spread over straw, but not before she had seen the three solo gladiators led out in their full pony harnesses, complete with nodding blue plumes in their bridles and their tails swishing down the backs of their thighs. Obviously the entertainment would go on until the very last of the daylight had gone.

  However, she discovered that it was to go on after that as well. She was woken later on by one of the guards, accompanied by several of the male guests who practically threw themselves on her and took her where she lay, fingernails raking at her scored flesh as they thrust themselves urgently into her sex or her anus, according to their tastes. Tara gathered from snatches of conversation she overheard while a seemingly unending line of men took their pleasure with her that her owner had made a change in his plans. Instead of being auctioned off to serve in the bedrooms of the guest wings as he had originally intended they should be, he had decided that the day’s exertions had been enough for the slaves. Consequently they were being taken in their own quarters and there was to be no further whipping. Tara had a very satisfactory length of manhood between her lips and was being allowed to play with herself while she worked at it, moaning in pleasure as she sucked on the thick erection in her mouth and her fingers stirred the warm, sticky soup in her vagina as she visualised the orgiastic scenes which would surely be taking place in the barracks.

  At last she finished servicing the guests and was allowed to lie down again but sleep was further delayed by the return of the solo gladiators. And it became obvious that the owner saw no reason why they at least couldn’t take more whip. Tara lay awake and listened in deepest envy to the admiring male voices further down the stalls, and in particular to that of her owner himself, and the delicious sounds of leather on female flesh followed by the unmistakable noises of those same females being enjoyed to the full. It only served to harden her resolve to be numbered amongst those most privileged of slaves.

  For Tara, the second day started later than the first. The three sorely tested solo fighters were led out first and soon she could hear the crowd in the arena cheering as the contests resumed. As Tara had watched she had seen the grooms holding the fearsome whips those slaves used.

  The sight had made her impatient to get back into the thick of the action and she was relieved when at last she was taken out, ready and willing to face whatever tests lay ahead. All twenty four girls of each squad raced over the assault courses in front of those spectators who fancied watching a mass spectacle rather than single combats. From there, she and the her chariot team had been taken still wet and panting into the dressing room under the arena and after a short rest had run the final chariot race. They had won but the exertions of the assault course had reduced both teams to a staggering trot round the last circuit and while Tara had lashed out at and grappled with her opponent as the teams sweated and gasped their way towards the finishing line, the crowd had gone so hysterical that Tara actually became aware of the noise as the drivers had mercilessly flailed with their whips - even using uppercuts to score their ponies’ inner thighs. And as she looked back on it, Tara could see why it must have been quite a sight. All eight of the ponies must have been gleaming from head to foot with sweat and were plainly at the ends of their tethers. All that kept them going were the whips and their desire to get the harnesses off as soon as possible. And after that.......

  Tara and Jet had pulled the chariot over the line almost despite the two girls in the middle, rather than with their help. They were beyond doing anything other than keeping their feet. There had been the blessed relief of bottles of cold water held to their mouths as they stood shivering and gasping on the arena floor, but they weren’t allowed out just then. The losing team were tied to the whipping posts to accept their punishment, two on either side of the barrier and the victorious team looked on as the lashes were applied, the huge images on the screens providing close ups of the arching and twisting bodies under the whips. And Tara was well aware that in the strictures of their harnesses, the movement, coupled with the eroticism of public punishment would be propelling the girls to dizzying heights and depths of pain and pleasure.

  And when her own harness was once more peeled off and the dildos removed, she took one of the guards for the best ride she could; laid back on a table, legs wrapped tight around him, interior muscles clutching desperately, she bucked and howled her way to her own long overdue orgasm, heedless of the grinning cameramen.

  All the squad girls were rested for the next few hours while the finals of the various single combats were fought and punishment was meted out. Tara listened to the crowd from her stall and wished only to be back in the arena to face the final test. She knew it would be something special. Carlo had been tight lipped but obviously excited about ‘the finale’ for days and she pricked up her ears when she heard the noises of heavy machinery coming from the direction of the arena. She stood up and moved to the front of her stall, stretching her chain to its limit, but however she tried she could get no clue as to what was going on, all she could see was the stable courtyard. Horses were being brought back in, though she had no idea what they had been used for, and eventually the three solo fighters were half carried, half led back and tethered outside. They were covered in dust and sand, but through that coating Tara could plainly make out the livid traces of whip play.

  She paced her stall, nervous and excited for what seemed like hours. Sometimes the announcer’s voice boomed out but she couldn’t make out the words. She picked half heartedly at some food until at last her groom returned, ran a brush roughly though her hair, said tersely that she would do and led her out.

  In the dressing room all twenty four girls were gathered amid an atmosphere of suppressed excitement which seemed to be exuded by the guards. They were buckled into their fighting kit, the unstudded leather corsets, which were no more than wide belts, and gauntlets. But nearly half of Tara’s squad were not equipped with whips, instead they had the weighted nets. Hours of practice had taught them that these could be used, if slung like a weighted rope at knee height, to bring an opponent down but after that, it meant wrestling with them to prise the whip from their hands. It was time consuming and could be a big handicap in mass combat. She frowned her puzzlement at Carlo, but he just grinned and told her, “When you get out there, Blondie, you’ll understand.”

  He was right. When she and her opposing captain led their troops out of the tunnel and acknowledged the deafening cheers which greeted them, she did indeed see what Carlo intended. Over the afternoon, the men had been very busy. The barrier and posts had been removed from the centre of the arena and instead the machinery that she had heard earlier had constructed a small hill of hard-packed earth. It stood some twenty feet high at its peak and its slopes stretched out almost to the perimeter fencing. At its crest stood the whipping posts, looking even more sinister than they had before and making Tara’s heart pound and her mouth go dry. She jumped when she felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Carlo.

  “Okay, Blondie. You and the rest of my lovely bitches hold that hill against this rabble. Hold it and then beat the crap out of them.” He smiled and then continued, “If they take the hill then you’ll be the first on those posts and I’ll start the bidding at fifty lashes. Understand?”

  Tara nodded and glanced at the opposition. Their dark-haired captain was getting a simila
r talking-to from her big blond trainer. In the same glance she noted that more of the opposition were equipped with whips than with nets. And she understood that her squad was being handicapped for holding the high ground. Briefly she wondered how much negotiation had gone into bartering their fates, but then dismissed the thought - it was none of her business. She knew all she needed to know.

  Once on top of the hill she manhandled her troops into the best order she could, forming them into a tight ring around the summit and trying to give each net wielder a whip on either side of her for cover. She kept herself out of the line so that she could lend assistance wherever it was needed but at last all she could do was wait for the charge from the widespread circle of gladiators at the foot of the hill.

  And when it came the crowd seemed to surge to its feet as one and roar in sympathy with the defiant screams and yells of the attackers as they ran uphill to meet Tara’s defenders. Tara heard herself screaming wordlessly in sheer exultation as she waited for the two forces to meet and the battle to commence. This was the moment she had waited for all her life.

  Tara’s net wielders had learned their lessons well and as the attackers came within range they slung out the weighted nylon webs like ropes and scythed down their targets then threw themselves onto the struggling girls. But that left gaps in Tara’s line and suddenly the two squads met in a juddering, screaming mass of heaving bodies. Tara flung herself into the fray and found that there was hardly room to swing a whip in the main press. It was simply body against body, shield against shield. Muscles strained, whips cracked wherever they could. Whip handles were used as clubs. Girls screamed and cursed - the rule of silence swept away in the excitement. Tara found herself holding off two girls, one with her shield, one with her whip arm wrapped round the girl’s chest, her forearm pressing as hard as she could make it against the breasts and the erect nipples. All round her was noise and struggling female bodies, the air was thick with the smell of sweat and leather. For a few moments the two lines swayed and fought but then the fact that Tara’s force was pushing downhill tipped the balance and with no warning apart from despairing screams, the attackers were falling back with the defenders falling helplessly on top.

  At the bottom of the slope there was more space and the battle resolved itself into individual skirmishes. There was room for the whips to be swung. Tara leapt to her feet after her headlong tumble down the slope, saw a red ribboned girl beside her, swung her whip down across her back and then back handed her across her chest with her shield. She went down and Tara looked round. Immediately she saw that her girls were getting the worst of it. They had fewer whips, and down here on the flat that was a fatal weakness.

  “Back up the hill!” she yelled. She had no idea of whether or not she was allowed speech out here in the arena but all she wanted was to see her opponents on the whipping posts and know she had won for her owner.

  Her troops obeyed her and soon they were re-formed at the top of the hill. Some had retrieved their nets on the way back, some had stolen whips from beaten opponents and they all exchanged fierce, proud grins as they settled themselves for the next charge.

  Twice more they beat off the attackers before Tara had a chance to assess the situation again. Several girls of both squads were down, either stunned or exhausted - or both. But the attackers were worn down most, she thought, and she determined to finish the battle with a spectacular strike.

  She settled her grip on her whip handle and looked around at her companions. They were all looking at her - waiting for her to give them the lead. She tossed her hair back and screamed out the command to charge. The red squad wasn’t ready for this reversal of the roles and Tara’s girls came down on them in an avenging tide of naked female battle fury.

  It was a rout. And Tara almost laughed with the ferocity of the joy she felt as she lashed, whirled, danced, kicked and bludgeoned her way through girl after girl until she was face to face with her opposing captain. She was striped from shoulders to knees and in places some blood oozed from where weals crossed, but she was still standing and defiant. They circled each other warily, ignoring the grunts and shouts around them but suddenly a blast of music from the PA system deafened and distracted them. They both looked around and saw that Carlo was playing his trump card.

  From the same tunnel that they had emerged from, there now came an entirely new force. Male gladiators. Tara recognised Carlo leading out his guards and the big blond trainer leading out the Reds’. But what caught her eye and, to judge by the roar of gleeful approval from the crowd, theirs as well, were the leather strapped, erect sexes which jutted from each man’s loins. The stiff, rearing columns of maleness wagged as the men ran and began to encircle the struggling females. With professional calm, Tara assessed the whips the men carried - they were multi lashed with short, flat-bladed tails. Not designed to bring a girl to her knees in one or two lashes, she realised. No, what Carlo had in mind was a prolonged spectacle which could only end in one way. She looked again at the swaying erections between the strong thighs and licked her lips, aware of the fire in her own loins. Fighting and competing always turned her on, but to fight out here against men who would inevitably win and claim their prizes on the floor of the arena was the stuff of her most treasured fantasies.

  The cruelty of the trick Carlo had played on the girls only made the masochistic fires in her belly burn with even fiercer heat. He had deliberately set the two squads up to batter each other into exhaustion before revealing that the battle had not mattered at all. What was happening now was the main event.

  A big, black haired, bronzed man she didn’t recognise was sidling towards her, his whip at the ready, the thick pole of his sex rising from the black thatch at his crotch, its strapping both inviting and terrifying her. She abandoned herself to giving the best show the crowd could ever have dreamed of witnessing and threw herself at him, yelling and swinging her own whip. With contemptuous ease he swatted her lash aside with one forearm and swung his own lash in to lick around one hip and wrap into her already scalding buttock. Then she was right up against him and trying to get one knee up into his groin, but he had carefully turned his hips side-on and her knee just slid up his thigh harmlessly. He gripped her whip hand’s wrist in his own crushingly strong one and let her feel the rigid shaft of his cock press against her stomach as he held her to him. She arched her back and squirmed, determined to fight to the last, but he squeezed until her whip dropped from her fingers. Then he dropped his own and wrapping his arm round her waist he lifted her easily off her feet and lowered her down onto his thick, leather-ridged shaft. Despite his augmented girth he slid easily into her and she yelled in a confusion of defeat and delight as she felt her labia spread wide and her tunnel filled and stimulated along every inch of its length as he pushed further and further into her. She melted against his muscular stomach as at last she felt the cock stuff her to what felt like her very cervix and she threw her head back, wrapped her arms and legs round her conqueror’s body and let him take her.

  Holding her by the hips he effortlessly lifted and dropped her time and again, his leather strapping wreaking havoc inside her and sending her whirling out of time into a maelstrom of repeated, multi coloured, ecstatic explosions. And when at last he held her hard down onto him and began his own thrusts towards orgasm she ground herself fiercely against him, willing him on to spurt every last drop of himself into her.

  But she had hardly finished screaming her pleasure to the sky before she felt herself lifted and cast aside. Her innards were emptied so quickly and thoroughly that for a few moments all she could do was lie on the sand and gasp like a landed fish. As she gradually came down though, she became aware of the crowd’s baying once more and all around her the sounds of male and female pleasure, underscored by the grunts and cries of struggles as her fellow slaves fought their way to inevitable defeat - determined, just as she was, to go down playing their full part in the spectacle.

  She got to her knees but was hit from be
hind and pushed down onto her forearms, immediately another of the fiendishly enhanced rods of manhood impaled her and she bucked and yelled as her contracted vagina was forced open again. But with only a couple of strokes the unseen man subdued her and she found her herself grinding and rotating her hips hard against his stomach as he thrust. She felt his hand bury itself in her hair and yank her head up so that she was staring up at one of the giant video screens. And to her dazed excitement she realised that one of the cameras had zoomed in on her. It was filming from the side and she could see herself, just as she had always imagined, bruised, dirt-streaked and whip marked, her full breasts hanging ripely beneath her and rippling under the thrusts from the man kneeling behind her and bracing himself by his grip on her hair. Vaguely she registered the announcer’s voice calling the crowd’s attention to various scenes being enacted all over the arena, then her attention was returned to her own internal state when suddenly the man withdrew and again made her yell with frustration and discomfort. But up on the screen she could see his rigid, gleaming shaft now poised just behind the curve of her buttocks. He leaned in a little and she felt - and watched - as it rubbed between the striped mounds. She gave a wordless cry of protest as she realised what he intended. The crowd realised as well and a gleeful cheer went up from those watching this particular bit of the show as he reached down to aim himself at her back passage and then begin to push.