THE GLADIATOR

by Sean O'Kane

  She decided to stand her ground. Suddenly she stopped dead and faced the rider, arms and legs spread in the crouch of a gladiator. She saw him smile and bring the whip down so that it slashed across her back again. She flinched but stayed where she was. He whipped her again. This time across the fronts of her thighs. Again she held her ground, blinking away the pain, shaking her sweat-matted hair out of her eyes and watching her opponent carefully. He was laughing now; she could see him picking his next target and played up to it. She pretended to cower and put one arm up across her face while she half turned away from him. As she had guessed, he was playing to the gallery, sure he had her. He whipped her across her buttocks, just as the crowd would want. She yelped and staggered, knowing now that he would whip her there again. The sight of the heavy lash carving into the full, fleshy mounds was what they all wanted to see. Sure enough she got another hard lash and staggered again as flashes of pain burst through her. But now, under her raised arm she watched until his arm was fully raised for the next stroke and then she ran.

  Digging her feet deep into the sand she sprinted forwards again. This was her last chance. He should have gone for her legs; got her down. But he had been too confident and now she knew he wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  Tara again darted in front of the horse and then she was round the barrier and pounding along to try for another length. Her breath burnt in her lungs, her heart pounded and her body stung from the sweat seeping into her weals, but still she listened for her pursuer. He was right behind her before she had made a third of a length. She knew he would be aiming for her lower legs this time, which was why she wore the shin pads. A whip wrapped round there would always bring a girl down. Tara headed out from the barrier quite deliberately this time and turned at bay. But this time she faced the rider on her terms. She kept directly in front of the horse’s head making herself almost impossible to strike. It was a good strategy but required calm nerves as the horse reared and the rider urged it on. She waved her arms and shouted incoherently as, step by step, she backed towards the end of the barrier.

  Suddenly the rider wheeled his horse to his right and tried to regain the initiative by overtaking her but Tara simply turned and ran while he was heading away from the barrier. He came back for her in a curve, aiming to block her way and maybe pin her against the barrier itself. But she stopped dead again, took a backhanded lash across her breasts again but staggered away from the barrier, behind the horse. She was sobbing for breath now, almost spent, but the end of the barrier was so close!

  In a shambling, stumbling run which was all she was capable of, she made for her goal. There was no more strategy, it was a question of endurance. The rider couldn’t claim his quarry until she made no attempt to rise. And that meant he had to get her down.

  She was on his right again and as she stumbled blindly forward the blow she had been dreading fell. The whip wrapped around her lower legs, scoring her calves and tripping her. She went down in a long skid and rolled over immediately. The horse loomed over her, dangerously close and she rolled again, somehow scrambling up and taking two more stinging lashes across her bottom as she did so. A she lurched upright she saw the horse standing squarely between her and the end of the barrier. Its rider wasn’t spurring it, he had her where he wanted her. Without thinking she stumbled forwards and then dived straight under the horse. She was under its belly and through before it or its rider had time to react and then she was up. Dazed and exhausted she stumbled forwards again, her hand reaching for the barrier’s end. She heard the rider curse as he turned his mount once more and then the whip caught her round her waist. It drove what little breath she had out of her but she didn’t let that stop her; not now. Her hand grasped the final post and she swung round to complete one more length.

  She lay full length and began to recover herself. Her pursuer treated her to three more lashes criss-crossing her back, to make sure she wasn’t going to get up again. But she could enjoy them now; now that she had given everything. Her defeat had been inevitable and now the conqueror would claim her - out in the sand of the arena in front of a cheering crowd he would take the submission of her sweat and sand-coated body.

  As the spots cleared from in front of her eyes she heard him dismount and shakily she pushed herself up onto knees and elbows, shuffling her thighs apart. Her breasts swung free beneath her and she didn’t need to look to know how hard her nipples were, she could feel them throbbing as she imagined the cameras greedily zooming in on her, focusing on the peeled open prize between her thighs. She yelped in surprise as the rider gave her two more lashes across her buttocks. Then she felt him kneel behind her and the smooth helm of his cock press against her opening. There would be no fondling of her clitoris or breasts, she knew. All that mattered was the sight of his manhood thrusting into her beaten body. And he played his part well. He thrust and withdrew slowly, drawing himself almost completely out before driving for her depths again and she rewarded him with gasps and cries as her tunnel gripped him with every ounce of strength she had left. And as he used her, she craned her head up and saw her own haunches on one of the huge screens. The dusky red of his shaft, gleaming with her juices was plunging in and out between her whip-scored and sand-encrusted thighs. She lost herself in an explosive orgasm, screaming with abandoned ecstasy as he grabbed her hair and pulled her head up for all to see her utter defeat. And when she had finished, he withdrew and went for her anus, making her cry out all over again as she felt her rectum filled by his shaft and at long last by his thickly jetting sperm.

  Tara collapsed forwards when he had finished with her and lay panting, full length on the sand while she listened to the crowd applaud, she heard his footsteps come round to her head and then he hauled her up by her hair. But any hopes she might have had of being allowed to lick him clean were soon dashed. He simply wiped himself clean with the fistful of hair he held and then threw her back down.

  Carlo seemed well pleased with her and she lapsed back into her dream-like state as he fussed around her when she was led back into the dressing room. She guessed she had done enough and settled down to rest in her stall for a few hours before the pony racing finals in the evening.

  Carlo looked at his prize blonde slave standing passively still, harnessed to her trap. Her only movement, apart from an occasional shift of weight from one foot to the other, was a flick of her tongue now and then as she swallowed, which rattled her ring against her teeth. In the rapidly cooling air her breath and her sweat steamed slightly. Carlo ran his hands over her flanks, and she acknowledged his touch with the odd twitch of a muscle beneath her skin. But the skin itself was showing the results of two days of competition; and there was still another day to go and they were teetering on the brink of their first ever defeat and even the toughest slave he had ever come across was showing signs of reaching the limits of her endurance. Weals crossed other weals and spots showed beneath the skin where blood had gathered. In a lot of places there were small scabs forming where blood had been drawn. It was the same for the other team though, he thought, and he had to admit they were the best opposition he had come up against.

  The pony racing had been slow as all the drivers were aware that there was still another day’s competition to go but the Blues had still lost overall. Only Blondie had won. He did some rapid sums and realised that everything would depend on the last day. The Blonde was his top scorer and would be entered in The Cage - the final contest - and that meant she would be rested tonight. The guests would have to make do with squad girls and the other three solo gladiators.

  Tara was only aware of her master’s hands on her lacerated skin and his voice as he murmured his concerns about how the show was going. She was almost dozing on her feet, contented and tired, ready for her stall. Perhaps it was that very state which caused all the trouble. Because suddenly a loud, Irish brogued voice sounded close behind her and a hard hand slapped her backside.

  “Carlo! Give me an update on these fucking bitches!”
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  To Tara it was as if someone had administered an electric shock. The harsh touch and the equally harsh voice breaking in on her tranquillity, had the effect of bursting open the doors in her mind which she had closed under the relentless punishment. She gasped and started as a blaze of fury swept through her. It was Conor Brien! The man who had swept her off her feet then abandoned her. It was the one man in the world she didn’t want to be owned by and the one man she was owned by.

  “Whoa, girl!” Carlo said, reaching out to steady her by grabbing her right breast and squeezing it so the studs in her tit strap dug in and forced her to hold still.

  “I thought you told me we had the best stable in the business!” Conor went on.

  Tara’s mind reeled with sheer fury. How dare Brien talk to her master like that! She tried to twist away from his grip so she could kick out at Brien.

  “Whoa you bitch!” Tara heard Carlo’s voice but for once didn’t obey and kept frisking and pulling. He smacked her across her midriff with the spare length of lead in his hand and squeezed her tit harder with his other hand. She squealed around her bit and had no choice but to subside.

  “Sure I did Mr Brien,” Carlo went on. “But when you’re the best, the others aim for you. But don’t worry. We still got tomorrow and we still got this one. She’s undefeated and The Cage counts four times the points. So even if the squad loses all its fights tomorrow, we can still win if she does.”

  “Ah, I tell you Carlo, that was the best day’s recruiting I ever did.” The hateful voice was right by her ear and his hand was on her buttock again. She shivered in revulsion and twisted even more violently, defying the pain of Carlo’s grip on her breast and dislodging it.

  Carlo reacted fast, he moved to stand directly in front of her tightening her lead with one hand and reaching out to grip her studded thong with the other; then he squeezed again, forcing the studs into the softness of her vulva. Tara’s eyes widened as she felt the studs dig in. Her breath hissed out round her teeth, clenched on her bit. Her nostrils flared and she rose onto tiptoes. Carl kept the pressure up until he was sure she was quiet again. Then slowly he relaxed his grip.

  “You told me you’d thrashed everything out of her, Carlo!” Conor Brien growled. “If you can’t then I will!”

  “No, Mr Brien! She’s okay, just leave her to me. Just let her rest and she’ll be fine.”

  Slowly Conor Brien relaxed. “Okay, but just you remember. I don’t accept failure, Carlo. Not by my slaves or my staff. Understand?”

  “I understand, Mr Brien,” Carlo replied stiffly.

  Tara found herself in a different stall that night but it didn’t bother her; she was too exhausted to care. Strangely though, she was quite calm. She knew now what she had to do. The consequences might be unthinkable and Carlo would be angry and disappointed but nevertheless it was something she just had to do.

  Carlo and Ali made a tour of inspection before the final day’s contests began. It was something Carlo would normally have done alone but after Brien’s outburst the night before, he had confided in the tall Sudanese. They had watched the squad girls turned out, showered and fed and now they watched as the grooms led out the four solo gladiators, and inevitably their attention focused on Blondie.

  “You still going to put her in The Cage?” Ali asked.

  “Got to. She’s the highest scorer,” Carlo said simply.

  “Listen, after what you told me last night I chartered a plane and made a couple of calls. If something big does go off, we can get us....and her out of here fast.”

  Carlo nodded and went to stand by the big blonde as she was tethered by her tongue to the hitching rail outside her stall. As usual he stroked her hair and ran his hands over her, assessing the damage she had already sustained. It was pretty considerable but nothing she couldn’t handle, he reckoned. But after being in The Cage........well it might take a week or two before she was fit for anything, still that was what she was here for.

  He patted her rump and made his way out, following Ali. Even the prospect of the final melee in the arena couldn’t lift the weight he felt on his shoulders and he was glad that the Sudanese had made plans. Blondie and Brien......Brien and Blondie.......what was going on? Whatever it was, he felt that putting Blondie in The Cage with everything to play for was going to crystallise things out.

  The Cage; suspended from the boom of a mobile crane in the centre of the arena with four chains holding it, the metal cage - fifteen feet square - would host the showdown between the two top scoring solo gladiators. They would be naked and there would be no holds barred. But to make it more entertaining the chains would allow the cage to tilt and sway as the girls moved about inside which could give a random advantage or disadvantage to either slave. The top was open and at pre-agreed times, pre-agreed weapons would be tossed in, but only one of each. It would be up to the slaves to obtain and use each weapon to its best advantage before the next was thrown in. The contest would go on until one girl went down and stayed down.

  Chapter 18

  With the patience born of long experience, Tara endured her tethering between bouts of massage and gentle walks and trots round the stableyard on the end of her tongue lead. She could hear the sounds from the pens and the arena and was impatient to get back into the action. After the events of the previous night she remained alert and aware but kept calm. She learned that things were going badly for the Blues and that increasingly the grooms who patted her and fussed over her were chatting about how much depended on how she fared in something called The Cage. That did disturb her. The one thing she didn’t want to do was disappoint Carlo but there was no help for it.

  It was getting late when she was finally led into the dressing room under the arena and was rubbed all over with oil so that she would shine under the floodlights. She had heard how the melee - fifty whip-armed male guards against both squads of slaves had been a great success - the men hadn’t finished with the slaves until early evening.

  The door suddenly crashed open and Conor Brien came to stand right in front of her. He grabbed her chin in one huge hand and wrenched her head up so she had to stare at him.

  “I don’t know what’s going on inside that lovely head of yours, you bitch. But if you can hear me, remember this; there’s always got to be a penalty for losing. And if you lose out there tonight - you’re going to pay a penalty like you can’t even begin to imagine!” He pushed her away, turned on his heel and was gone.

  Her mouth went suddenly dry and her heart pounded with terror but the copper-haired woman’s words came back to her, one night Conor would want her, he would mistreat her terribly and she would love every second. Suddenly her jaw set, she wouldn’t stand for that. She had to go through with it. She had to play the part she had written for herself to the last line and after that she would simply have to trust to luck.

  But her devotion to Carlo had not wavered; he had never betrayed her. He had taught her more about herself than even he realised; he was her true Master, but tonight there was no help for it, she had to fail him just this once before she could truly devote herself to him. She didn’t like that thought at all and when he came to lead her out she tried to communicate with her eyes but he was preoccupied and plainly worried, just taking up her tongue lead and tugging her along into the arena.

  The roar of the onlookers hit her like a physical blow. They were charged up after the feast of fighting, flogging and fucking they had witnessed earlier and now this single contest would not only provide another erotic spectacle but also decide who lost money and who won it. The floodlights bathed the sinister shape of The Cage in glaring, pitiless illumination as she was led towards it. Carlo unlocked a door cut into the bars of one side before releasing her tongue lead. Desperately, Tara tried to get out some words around her ring but she had been mute for so long that only an incoherent gargle emerged and before she knew it she had been pushed inside and the door had been locked. She pressed herself against the bars and did the only thing she c
ould think of. She stuck her tongue out; it was her usual gesture of submission to her trainer and master. But Carlo didn’t even look at her, just patted her haunch through the bars and walked away. Somehow, after all this was over she would make him understand - if she made it through whatever Conor’s vengeance might consist of. But her mind was clear at last and she turned to face her opponent and get down to business.

  A lithe, dark-haired girl had been pushed in through a door opposite her and the two gladiators sized up their surroundings and then each other. Instinctively Tara tested her footing, the floor of the cage was fine mesh, she glanced up and noticed the open top, but if there was a purpose for that, she would find out in due course. She looked at the girl opposite her more closely. She was looking around nervously and testing the bars as if she wished she could escape now and she seemed to be avoiding looking at Tara and suddenly it hit her. The girl was scared of her! Her reputation had grown to the point where the other gladiators were scared of her. Tara laughed aloud at the irony of it all. If she wanted to she could make this no more than a stroll in the park. But she didn’t; and somehow she would have to persuade this reluctant opponent to beat her. Suddenly the cage lurched and there was the whining of a winch as it lifted some six feet above the arena floor. Tara held onto one of the vertical bars and looked outside. Her eyes found the Owners’ box and, yes, there he was! The big Irishman was looking relaxed and chatting cheerfully with the others. She saw Mark Cavanagh, the man she had once worshipped as her owner until she had found out that she was Conor’s property and had scrubbed him from her mind. He looked happy too. But that wouldn’t last she told herself grimly.