by Sean O'Kane
“El Tigre here needs to know who is boss, Blondie,” he told her as she sat up, dazed and still panting. “She needed to be beaten by the best and then see the best beaten. Now she will submit fully to the whip and make a good fighter. Maybe as good as you soon, eh?”
As a reward for her part in Carlo’s display, he had ‘El Tigre’ as all the men called her delivered to Tara’s stall that night and he leaned on the half door, watching indulgently as the girl paid homage between Tara’s widely spread legs.
With the squad up to thirty six girls, nicknames were abandoned and instead each girl wore a numbered disk at the front of her collar. Tara’s was number one, but despite that, hers and the gypsy girl’s names stuck.
Training soon settled back into its gruelling routine which was only alleviated by the guards’ increasingly frequent references to the next show. And then finally there came a day when no slave was taken out and guards and grooms alike had scurried about on mysterious errands.
It occurred to Tara to wonder during that day how the men would set about transporting a total of thirty nine slave girls. And when she found out, she once again marvelled at the excitingly cruel and yet elegantly simple solution.
Of course the slaves were no more than cargo. Valuable cargo, but cargo nonetheless. So only the slightest of nods in the direction of their being human merchandise was made. The girls were simply crated up for the journey.
To begin with, the day started normally. Food was swilled into the trough which ran down one side of the stall and Tara’s hands were clipped together behind her back which meant she had to kneel down and plough through the gruel face first until she had lapped up everything. One of the stable hands then returned and wiped her face before leading her out to squat over the channel cut in the floor which ran in front of all four stalls. There she voided herself, her motions were examined, notes taken and then she was cleaned. All this was perfectly normal and Tara had come to enjoy the care which was taken over her well-being; she had come to accept fully that she liked the idea of being a purely physical creature - a beautiful animal - kept by her owner to be tested and exhibited, to be admired and desired. And to be submissive to his will at all times. And from conversations she had overheard between her owner and her trainer, she knew that if she did well at this show, she would be promoted to the rank of solo fighter and wear the heavy tongue ring as the badge of her complete enslavement.
So when she saw the crates, her immediate reaction was one of admiration rather than horror. They were simply wire lockers about three feet high by six long. Four of them were laid out in the courtyard, ready to be stacked onto the waiting truck, where a pile of already occupied crates was already loaded. The slaves had simply been hogtied and then slid in through the top-hinged flap at one end of each crate. It seemed that no one had been bothered about noise because no gags had been employed and the crates’ occupants were already whimpering and groaning as Tara was made to lie down while her groom folded her arms and legs up neatly behind her then tied her ankles and wrists together, before two of the guards lifted her easily and slid her into her crate then picked that up and tossed it casually onto the truck. She found herself above one of the new girls and alongside Carrot. In short order the other three crates were stacked and the truck jolted off, to the accompaniment of outraged squeals from its cargo as breasts were painfully squeezed against the harsh wire every time it lurched or dropped a wheel into a pothole.
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 fightin
g 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.
