by Sean O'Kane
It had been a good enough contest and the crowd were content to give the thumbs up to a tariff of ten further lashes for the loser and then Tara was on again.
The whipping post had been altered.
From its top now protruded a thick beam which stretched horizontally out some four or five feet. Chains hung from it half way along its length.
Once she was standing under the beam, Carlo released her wrists and attached them to the chains. She could still touch the ground if she stood on tiptoe but her breasts were pulled up and formed smooth mounds on her ribs. She knew from long experience that this was the best position for them to be lashed in, as they rippled pleasingly but didn’t swing or bounce too distractingly for the flogger or the onlooker.
“It looks like he’s going to whip her tits this time!” the announcer said. “But he’s leaving her a choice. As he whips her she can turn and take it on her back or sides again or just stand there and take it on the tits! Let’s see what she does, take it away Carlo!”
Carlo waved and did just that. Tara was taken by surprise and as the lash slammed home across the upper slopes of her breasts and the tip snapped at her right underarm, she instinctively hollowed her chest away from it and then half turned away from Carlo, lifting her left leg as if to ward off the next strike. But that strike was delivered backhandedly and came at her from behind. She shrieked as it cracked across her already flayed shoulders, arched again and twisted back to face him. Carlo grinned at her, knowing he had taught her how this session was going to go. She flicked her hair back and wiped some sweat off her face on one raised arm, then faced him again. She was ready this time and took the full impact across her chest without twisting. Carlo was standing a little off to her left at just the right distance to make the whip bite with its full venom as it struck. But grimly Tara held on for lash after lash, absorbing the flashes of stinging agony which exploded in her breasts, knowing it was far preferable to having her back or sides worked over again. Carlo knew it too and continued to work on her breasts, cutting in little flicks to the undersides then putting his full weight behind a downward swipe, snaking the lash achingly close to her nipples and once or twice hitting the throbbing little peaks themselves, secure in the knowledge that she would hold her breasts steady for him for as long as she could. It made for a good show. But Tara knew she was heading for another orgasm and once it hit she would spin and howl and lose all control, then her back would feel the lash again and that would drive her to even wilder convulsions. Carlo played with her until she heard the crowd’s count reach twenty five and then he aimed for the nipples quite deliberately. One....two......three....bitter lashes snapped across them. Tara bit her lip and desperately fended off the approaching crisis for as long as she could but at last she had to surrender to the blinding storm of tormented ecstasy which blew through her entire body, making her fling her head back and yell, her belly contract and her legs lift as she tried to rub her thighs together. Helplessly she twisted and jerked at the end of her rope and the whip caught her back once more. Orgasms raged through her again and again until, with his usual perfect judging of a slave’s condition, Carlo stopped and let her catch her breath.
Dimly she heard the announcer discuss the state of her body and involve the crowd in trying to estimate how many times she had come. It was wonderfully, erotically humiliating and she and Carlo exchanged glances of perfect understanding before he started in again. This time he worked down her stomach and thighs to take up some more of her allotted ration before he returned to her chest and made her perform her dance once more.
She managed to walk off again but groaned as she sank down against the wall and this time pressed her burning front against the cool stones. She was half way through.
John kept his wife busy as the day progressed. He watched the various contests unfold on the sand and as enthusiastically as any of the other spectators gave the thumbs down to any slave he didn’t think had given her all. He kept Caroline kneeling between his spread thighs and pressed her face down onto his cock whenever he felt the need to ejaculate. Both he and Madame were most impressed by the log pulling. It was a brutally pointless exercise but one which demanded fine judgement on the part of the guards. Two pairs of the slaves who were obviously selected from the finest specimens each stable possessed were matched against each other, each pair had their arms raised and spread out along the length of a single pole which ran across their shoulders and through the rings on the backs of their collars. Their wrists were strapped to it and from the centre of it a long chain ran back and was wrapped around the middle of a heavy log. The object was very simple; the two teams raced to be the first to drag their log the length of the arena. They raced the best of three and an extra, smaller log was added each time.
The slaves looked to be pretty evenly matched, but the guards were evidently given a free hand as to how best to spur their charges on. John and Madame conversed professionally as they watched while the green team’s slaves were butt plugged, the plugs having been dipped into a bucket of what the announcer said was a secretly formulated mixture of spices designed to get a girl prancing and desperate to have the plug removed. The blue team were similarly prepared but their guards preferred to stuff the slaves vaginally rather than anally. Both teams’ plugs were held in place by thongs. The greens had studded ones but the blues had smooth ones and while the greens’ guards carried long stock whips the blues relied on short multi-bladed floggers.
John was of the opinion that the greens would win, the slaves would be driven mercilessly by their harness and those whips. But Madame was not so sure and wagered on the blues. They shook hands on the bet and John let her borrow Caroline, who ducked under Madame’s customary, full-cut, knee length skirt and got to work.
The blues’ chief trainer fired a starting pistol and the two teams leaned forwards and began to strain against their loads while their guards plied the whips over their exposed and sweat-shiny backs. Most of the spectators were on their feet, cheering on their fancied team as the slaves’ feet struggled for purchase and then slowly began to drag the logs forwards. With agonising slowness and under constant whipping the teams began to edge along the arena and then pick up pace as the inertia of the logs was overcome. For the first few yards the teams were level but then the blues’ guards switched the whips from their slaves’ backs to their straining thighs, the blades snapping between them at the soft skin on the insides. Immediately the slaves seemed to get a second wind and opened up a lead which saw them take the first race.
While the second logs were being added and the chains wrapped round them as well, John observed that again the guards adopted different strategies in dealing with their charges. The green team watered theirs, made them kneel and allowed them to fellate them. On the screens the cameras captured the eagerness with which the whip-stimulated and butt plug-tormented slaves worked on their masters’ shafts. But they weren’t allowed to drink down the men’s sperm. Instead the guards pulled their heads back and showered their faces. On the other hand the blues’ guards pulled out their slaves’ dildos and gave them a good shafting as they bent over under their pole. And from the close-ups on the screens, it was plain that they were allowed to come and the men allowed themselves to ejaculate fully inside their bodies.
“That’s why my money’s safe,” Madame said as Caroline extricated herself from her skirt and resumed her position in front of her master. “A slave is still female. She exists to please her master or masters but if she is allowed some pleasure herself, she will give everything out of gratitude. The greens will try hard and hope to get fucked but the blues know they will. Also the blues’ whips are better for getting at the female parts while not doing too much damage before the other events. Their trainer knows his business well.”
John resigned himself to losing his money. Madame was never wrong when it came to slaves. He should never have bet against her and decided that Caroline would pay the price later.
Nevertheless he wa
s on his feet and cheering the greens on as the two teams sweated and fought their loads for another length of the arena. The cracking of the whips on the naked females, now pouring sweat and showing delightful networks of weals as they struggled on was almost drowned out by the crowd. It was a close call but John felt slightly more cheerful; the greens won by a few inches, Madame just smiled and reminded him that there was a show to be put on and if the blues had won there wouldn’t have been a third race. During the second rest, while the third and smallest log was added, the greens’ slaves were once more teased while the blues were allowed to fellate and swallow. When the starting pistol sounded for the third time, the slaves had to plant their feet wide apart to try and get their loads moving and here the difference in the whips really told. The blues’ guards delivered volleys of lashes right between the spread thighs as they strained - every sinew standing out in clear relief. Immediately the slaves redoubled their efforts and slowly began to drag their logs towards the finishing line. The greens’ guards couldn’t use the stock whips with such accuracy and their slaves took yet more punishment to their backs and buttocks, they were clearly weakened rather than stimulated and the blues began to forge ahead.
Every person in the crowd jumped to their feet, even Madame, John noticed, and the noise became thunderous as the two teams made their slow and painful way along the arena. But once the blue team was moving, the guards shifted their targets again, now they moved to stand in front of the sweating and straining slaves and walking backwards, flicked their whips across the swinging breasts, stinging and stimulating the already erect nipples. The cameras missed nothing; on two screens were giant images of the green slaves’ backs getting more and more striped and cut, while on the other two were close-ups of two pairs of breasts being skilfully worked on by real experts who were tormenting and exciting their slaves, holding out the promise of satisfaction in return for one supreme effort. And they got it. The blues made it over the line a clear six feet in front of the greens.
The announcer told everyone that lunch was being served once the losers’ tally had been set at twenty lashes and the blue team’s slaves were still getting their well-earned shafting from their guards.
To the sound of yet more whip play, cries and groans, the crowd made its way out of the arena. John Carpenter was certain of one thing as he followed Madame out; he had to become part of this. It was the best morning’s entertainment he had ever had and there was still a day and a half to go.
The buffet lunch was served on the lawns between the guest wings of the house and again John was amazed at the sheer scale of the operation, the catering alone must have cost a fortune. Virtually every woman was dishevelled and flushed and their men were sharing them around companionably as they discussed the morning’s events and what the afternoon held in store. John himself gave Caroline to an elderly gentleman and watched distractedly as he backed her up against a wall and began feeling her up, lifting her skirt up her long, slender thighs and helping himself to the moist softness between them. She was well trained and gave him as good a ride as she could but John’s thoughts kept turning to how - if he couldn’t beat the arenas, he could join them. It wasn’t just that he wanted to be part of them, he realised that shows like this one would exhaust slaves pretty quickly, they would be sold on and more new ones would be purchased, making life increasingly difficult for The Lodge. But if he could somehow get onto the inside of one of the operations he could perhaps safeguard a supply of slaves. There was no way he could buy his way into a stable; he was rich enough but these owners were in a different league of wealth and power. The word ‘stable’ kept going round and round in his mind.
It wasn’t until he was making his way down to the pens for the next round of combats that it finally clicked. Racehorse stables often trained horses for independent owners didn’t they? So, if he could find a really prize specimen and loan her to a stable it would give him a lever to take a few slaves for his own purposes. But where could he get hold of a slave? A slave who would need to be something really special. For some reason he found his thoughts turning to the magnificent blonde who was still awaiting two hundred further lashes.
Carlo came for Tara in mid afternoon. The crowd was settling back into the arena after the fights in the pens and her next tranche of punishment would provide a good hors d’oeuvre for the rest of the day’s fun.
Tara was not surprised to see that under the whipping post’s arm a trestle had been set up. She mounted the steps, hearing the applause that greeted her but making no reaction. She knew her job. Without being ordered, she bent over it and let Carlo tether her wrists and ankles to the four legs. It was pretty much what she had expected but a frisson of real fear ran through her when she saw that he had taken up a cane and was flexing it for the crowd to see. Surely they couldn’t expect her to take a hundred with a cane? Her backside would be laid open! One of the cameramen came to stand just below the platform and trained his camera on her face and glancing back between her spread legs she saw another one with his camera trained on her bottom and displayed sex. They would get both parts of her reaction, her grimaces and screams and at the same time her sex would engorge and open with excitement as she suffered. When she climaxed, the whole crowd would see how enthusiastically she exuded her fluids and this humiliation comforted her.
In the event she took fifty from the cane across her backside and down her thighs. She came several times and the crowd cheered her each time, and in between those they cheered each time Tara felt a thin trickle run down across her flesh. A glance up at the screens told her that Carlo had judged it time for the blood to flow. But in amongst the furnaces that roared through her whole pelvic area, it was of no consequence. Her eyes were blinded by tears, it was the most intense pain she had ever taken, the bitter, narrow lines of agony piled on in such quantity had swept her away in screaming, ecstatic semi-oblivion. And when she was hauled groggily to her feet, not knowing if she had taken her full ration she tottered and nearly fell. But Carlo grabbed her by the hair and pushed her to her knees in front of him. He freed his rampant cock from his shorts and to her delight presented it to her mouth. She sucked hungrily, grateful for the opportunity to gain some pleasure which didn’t come from the whip and when he spurted himself into her it helped ease the soreness in her throat caused by her screaming.
She took the next fifty on the soles of her feet. They simply laid her down on her face with her wrists lifted and clipped to the ring at the back of her collar while her feet were lifted and tied to the crossbar of the trestle. It took a long while until the cane could sear its way through the thick skin of her soles but when it did, she knew she was putting on a good show, jumping and arching at each Thwack! and then humping and grinding at the wood beneath her as she climaxed over and over again.
Tara was only vaguely aware of crawling from the arena that time. And once she was chained in the tunnel again she collapsed full-length on the sand and slept for the rest of the afternoon.
Carlo woke her by flinging cold water over her and then giving her some to drink before hauling her upright. She groaned as her feet took her weight but she managed to stagger back into the arena, although Carlo had to hold her by one arm. Up on the platform was now a whipping frame. It was late now and shadows were lying across the sand of the arena. It was churned up and Tara could see hoof prints, so she must have slept through the pursuit running as well as other spectacles. She cursed herself, she had never seen the horses in action. But her thoughts were interrupted by the announcer who told the crowd that over the next few minutes they would see something truly extraordinary; a slave of unique toughness worked on by a true whipmaster.
First of all Carlo strung her up in the classic X configuration and Tara was aware of a strangely respectful silence from the crowd and a surge of pride shot through her as she realised they were looking at her ravaged body with admiration, wondering how on earth she could take any more. Tara gritted her teeth and prepared to show them how well
she was trained and just what class of slave they were watching. The first half of this last part of her punishment consisted of Carlo simply searching out and lashing any strip of unmarked flesh he could find on her back, sides, breasts, stomach, buttocks and thighs. It was a full body whipping in all senses of the word and Tara clung onto consciousness by the skin of her teeth as the measured and accurate delivery of the whip only spiralled her upwards with agonising slowness. But at long last he let her reach her peak and dimly she heard the crowd explode into cheers as she arched into a climax once more.
Carlo waited until she had fully calmed before he went back to work and drove her to one more blinding orgasm before he took her down. By then she was completely lost; she didn’t know whether she was standing freely or whether she was tied, her hair hung in thick, sweat-matted tresses in front of her tear-blurred eyes and she only realised that she had actually been taken down when her cheek collided with the floor of the platform as she collapsed. But any hopes she might have had that at long last it was all over were dashed as she felt chains being fed through her ankle restraint loops. Of course; at the end it had to be the worst and the best of all. The most feared and the most loved.
She felt the pull of the chains and the strain come onto her legs as she was hauled up to hang by her widely spread ankles. She was raised until her hands were hanging clear of the platform and her face was on a level with Carlo’s crotch. What followed was something Tara never forgot. Her entire body was a flame, it burned with an intensity she had never experienced before, every inch of her hide seemed to be shrieking contradictory messages to her fogged brain. And in her inverted position she was incapable of any rational thought now, she sank beneath the waves of white-hot sensation and abandoned herself to being simply whip fodder hanging in front of her trainer. A body to be tested and enjoyed; a purely physical creature to whom thought was unnecessary and irrelevant.
