THE GLADIATOR

by Sean O'Kane

  They crossed the line to a sympathetic round of applause and Tara collapsed to her knees, chest heaving and slavering round her bit. But, thanks to Carlo’s little talk back at the stable she stayed alert. Patti helped her to her feet and she made sure her legs trembled under her as her tack was taken off. The squeals of protest she made as the studded strap was peeled out of her sweating crotch and the plugs pulled from her two passages, was entirely genuine though.

  “If I hadn’t seen you flog your own slave half senseless, I might have thought you threw that, Carlo!” Conor Brien’s voice boomed out, smugly confident and as arrogant as ever just behind her and Tara relaxed. The plan had worked. But they weren’t out of the woods yet. She had lost, so, exhausted or not, there was a penalty to pay.

  Maybe it was the affection in which the crowd held ‘Blondie’ or maybe it was because they wanted to see a good fight as a finale, whatever the reason, they gave the thumbs up for a tariff of only ten lashes. Tara leant her head against the wood of the whipping post while her wrists were secured above her and prepared to take yet another flogging. It would surely draw some blood; there could hardly be a square inch of her body which hadn’t been soundly whipped already. As she expected the guard who administered the lashes made no allowance for her condition and threw himself into his work with enthusiasm as the crowd counted the tally. She screamed and twisted at the post, hurling herself against the wood as the whip cut into her buttocks and back, then spinning around when she could take no more and exposing her breasts, stomach and hips to the rest of the lashes. When it was over she could feel some warm trickles on her thighs and it was only this which brought some warmth to her belly.

  For the second time that day, Patti had to dab at the cuts on Tara’s body as she lay on the tack table. Carlo, John, Yuri and Ivan stood round and looked on.

  “We’ve got fifteen minutes before she has to go again,” John said eventually. Carlo just nodded and went to stand by the blonde’s head. He held her chin between thumb and forefinger, turning the slave’s face to his.

  “You still there, Blondie?” The tongue ring flicked out, clicked and disappeared.

  “Okay, I reckon you’re going to be up against El Tigre next. She’s young and keen, just got her tongue ring I hear. She’ll come at you fast and low - I taught her that - so be ready to stop her from the first. She don’t know how to back off, that one. It’s her strength and her weakness too, so make her come to you all the time. And think, Blondie,” he tapped the side of his head. “Think good! There’ll be weapons in the pen so make sure you get to them first, then let her run onto them.”

  Tara didn’t want to think. All she wanted was to leave all that sort of thing to her master and sink back into her comfortable miasma. But evidently she would have to carry on for a bit longer. Whatever these contests were about it was obviously important. She tried to relax as best she could under Carlo’s knowing hands as he massaged the muscles of her calves, thighs and arms. The rest of her body was just one sea of residual whip burn. It wasn’t the best of times to go up against El Tigre, she thought. She could clearly remember the girl’s raw aggression from the moment she joined the stable. But losing was simply out of the question. She had done that once to Carlo and would not do it again.

  All too soon she was helped to her feet, her hands were clipped together behind her back and she was led round the stable a few times. She rolled her head to ease her neck and shoulder muscles, trotted a few steps and was pleased to find that somehow she had come through this far feeling fairly good. And fairly good was going to have to be good enough, because Patti took charge of her tongue lead and, surrounded by the four men, she was led towards the training ground.

  They headed straight for the strange new pen she had glimpsed on the way in. Banks of benches had been erected around it and every seat seemed to be taken. From what Tara could make out as they approached, the pen seemed to be made in the shape of a long sort of corridor which then opened out into a small arena. At the near end of the corridor, which was the narrow end, were two doors, one on either side. And at the nearer of the doors stood Conor Brien and his party, which included El Tigre, sure enough, and she was tongue tethered as well.

  Brien stepped forward as they approached. “So you’ve brought your whipped-out old nag along then, Carpenter. Though why you bothered beats me. She never had a chance against three - sorry, four - of my best slaves.”

  Tara kept her eyes lowered and gave no appearance of understanding what was said, but suddenly she felt any tiredness drain from her. Here was the cocksure, arrogant bastard she had spent so long hating. She had beaten him once by deliberately losing. This time she would beat him fair and square. By winning.

  Just as she felt the full surge of her anger pulse through her, Carlo’s hand was on her arm, steadying her.

  “Mr Brien. Blondie here never loses........ unless she wants to that is,” Carlo said. From the corner of her eye, Tara had the pleasure of seeing Brien’s face darken in anger as he recalled her treachery. “But I don’t think she wants to lose today,” Carlo finished.

  “We’ll just see about that!” Brien snarled and stalked back to his group.

  They walked round to their door. Above them rose the banks of seats and some people leaned over calling out encouragement as Tara’s hands were freed and they waited for the starting pistol. One of the big Russians stood by the door waiting to push it open and Carlo stood behind Tara waiting to push her in. She took several deep breaths and forced herself to relax. At least now she could stop worrying about why the men around her needed her to win. She had her own reason. She held onto the mocking, arrogant sound of Brien’s voice, ‘your whipped-out old nag.’ She made herself hear the phrase over and over again. This was the most important fight of her life now. This one would pay for all. Conor Brien was going to be cut down to size, once and for all, and she was going to do it.

  Suddenly, from overhead, the starting pistol cracked. The door was flung open. Carlo shoved her in the back even as she leapt forwards and the fight was on.

  The ‘corridor’ she found herself in was no more than eight feet wide but she had no time to take in any more. The gypsy girl was coming at her, fast and low, just like Carlo had said. Tara half turned and jerked her right thigh up, making solid contact with the girl’s face as she plunged forward. It stopped her dead in her tracks and Tara had time to grab an arm, swing her round and send her careering headfirst into the wooden side of the corridor. She had gained a moment to assess her fighting ground.

  Ahead of her the corridor stretched for maybe fifty feet. In places the ground had been excavated to a level below the training ground and these areas had been filled with earth and water to make mud wrestling pools. But most importantly, at intervals along the walls, hung whips, canes and staves. But only one of each.

  Before El Tigre could recover, Tara raced forwards and got her hands on a flogger with twenty or thirty heavy lashes about eighteen inches long. She unhooked it and slashed it immediately in an overhead sweep, even as she dodged sideways. She had heard the gypsy coming up behind her and as she stumbled past, Tara’s whip landed solidly across her back, knocking the breath from her and making her stumble forwards. Tara was on her instantly, one foot on the back of her neck, forcing her down full length, while she put her whole weight into slashing downwards with the whip. The girl writhed and screamed beneath her, and Tara felt the joy of combat surge through her once more. Blondie was back!

  She got five or six heavy lashes in before the girl managed to grip Tara’s ankle, get her knees under her and half roll away, half throw Tara off. Tara staggered back a little and in a flash the girl was up and coming for her again. But Tara’s head was clear again and she was thinking fast. She had to stay ahead of the gypsy as they fought their way along the corridor. She had to get to each weapon first. However good she felt just at this moment, it couldn’t last forever and eventually the fresher girl would grind her down - if she couldn’t disable he
r first.

  She jumped back, towards the next weapon, and again got in a lash as the girl charged but this time she didn’t stop and got Tara round the hips with her arms, forcing her back against the planking of the side and driving her head into Tara’s midriff. The jarring impact slowed her down long enough for the gypsy to make a lunge for the whip but Tara saw it coming and held her whip hand high, while with the other she reached down between the girl’s buttocks and felt for the softness of the labia. Then she clenched her hand into a fist; squeezing hard. The girl yelped and twisted away. Tara immediately backed further along the corridor, swinging the whip menacingly. This time the girl was more cautious and came on in a low crouch, her thick black hair fell in a mane round her olive-skinned face. Some blood trickled from her nose, where Tara’s thigh had caught her, but her eyes glittered with malice. Slowly, never taking her eyes off her opponent, Tara backed along the corridor, El Tigre dodging and feinting in front of her but never getting round her. Then she saw what she had been waiting for. The gypsy girl’s eyes flicked to Tara’s left and at last she knew where the next whip was. She flung the one she was holding up into the air and dived for it. Her fingers scrabbled for a maddening second and then she had a three-foot long, single lash whip safely in her right hand. But even as she turned she was hit by the flogger, which wrapped itself round her ribs and burned the side of her breast. Obviously she hadn’t flung it high enough and it had fallen back into the corridor. The gypsy’s assault was furious. She forced Tara back, scything the air in front of her and threatening to re-open the cuts and welts her breasts and stomach already carried. Desperately Tara wielded her own whip but it was too long and the girl took the lashes which cracked over her shoulders and onto her back unflinchingly while her flogger could snap fast at Tara’s front every time she drew her arm back.

  She needed a new tactic. Throwing caution to the wind she flung the long whip away and turned the tables by grappling with the gypsy. She went low herself and gripped the thighs, pulling them towards her. With a despairing cry, the girl toppled backwards and Tara fell on her, pressing the thighs she held into the girl’s stomach as she did so. For the next few minutes it was stalemate as they struggled on the ground. The gypsy was slighter than Tara but incredibly sinewy and tough, she wriggled and fought under her, grabbing at Tara’s breasts, punching, clawing, trying to bring her knee up between Tara’s legs.

  But all Tara wanted was the whip. She didn’t have the reserves of energy to get involved in this sort of fight. She let her weight pin the girl and wriggled until she could grab it off the ground where the girl had flung it when she fell. Then once she had it she was up again and lashing out, making her opponent duck and cover up enough so that she could move past her again. And she saw the next weapon - a cane. She restrained the impulse to run for it, the girl would catch and trip her. No, it had to be back to slow, controlled progress. She fought to steady her breathing while the gypsy picked herself up. There was no doubting it now, Tara realised, tiredness was beginning to tell.

  Again the girl had to try and get past while Tara picked her off, lashing her across her thighs, her shoulders, wrapping the heavy leathers round her ribs and hitting a breast whenever she could. Eventually she would weaken but how long could she herself hold out? Already her lungs were burning again. She risked a glance over her shoulder to see how far the cane was. She knew that that would really do some damage but taking her eyes off the gypsy, even for that split second was nearly fatal. Tara was rocked by a terrific impact to her right side as the gypsy flung herself bodily at her. Tara took a step backwards but the ground wasn’t where she had thought it would be. It was inexplicably lower and she lurched backwards throwing out her arms as the gypsy bore her down. Of course, it was the ground sloping down to the first of the mud pools she had seen before! Suddenly her left hand made contact with something and she gripped it fiercely but there was a snapping sound and whatever she had gripped came away from whatever had been holding it. Even as she fell helplessly back towards the mud, she realised that she had got hold of the cane and had snapped the leather loop it had hung by. With one last effort she threw it back over her head and prayed it would land on the far side of the pool. Then there was cold, thick mud under her and the gypsy on top of her.

  It was just what Tara didn’t want; a close quarters wrestling match against a fresh opponent but there was no help for it now. She somehow had to get across the pool first and get that cane. But the gypsy had the same idea. She tried to scramble over Tara, but Tara wrapped her arms round her waist and rolled over, pinning the girl under her and dunking her deep in the mud. In her turn, Tara tried to crawl onwards but the gypsy managed to get a hold on one breast and dig her fingers in hard. Tara yelled and squirmed sideways as the fingers dug into the whip-seared flesh. And then the two slaves were locked in a slithering, writhing struggle. As they became covered from head to foot in the oozing, slippery, brown mire, their hands skidded helplessly over each other’s bodies. Their fingers couldn’t grip any soft mounds of flesh. And so they pounded their fists at each other while they rolled and squirmed together.

  Tara’s ragged breathing was loud in her ears, but at least the gypsy was beginning to blow too and even through her exhaustion, Tara at last felt a refreshing surge of excitement. She knew what a spectacle they made for the onlookers. Two naked female slaves, reduced to two anonymous shining brown creatures, struggling and writhing like lovers even as they punched, clawed and flailed at each other purely for the crowd’s pleasure. When she wasn’t punching her hands roved over the slick, female contours of the body pressed against her, searching for a hold, and through the cool of the mud she could feel the heat from the naked flesh. And as she clawed for a grip on the girl’s firm buttocks she felt the fires of arousal ignite in her belly and for a moment her tiredness retreated. She reached up the girl’s back, got a fistful of the mud-matted hair and wrenched her head back, forcing a space between their torsos. The girl’s breasts, gleaming and swinging on her heaving chest were vulnerable just for a second and Tara got in a punch to each with her free hand. El Tigre shrieked and twisted away. Tara got up onto all fours and began to slither her way forwards. Her ankles were grabbed but she kicked out and thrashed so violently that she broke the hold and struggled on. The dry sand sloping upwards from the mud pool was just inches away. She reached forwards and dug her fingers into it to pull herself clear, even as the gypsy made a despairing lunge and wrapped her arms round Tara’s thighs.

  There was no help for it; she just had to drag both of them clear and hope she could get the cane first. Gasping with the effort, Tara dragged herself on with the gypsy’s weight pulling at her. Then suddenly the sand was rasping at her hardened nipples, she humped her back and felt solid ground under her knees. She rolled onto her back and kicked out at the brown figure emerging behind her, then she staggered to her feet once more and tottered towards the thin shaft of the cane lying a few feet in front of her. Almost laughing with relief she closed her hand around it and turned to face her foe. Now she could really make the girl suffer.

  But El Tigre had other ideas, she was faster to her feet than Tara and running close to the wall farthest away from her managed to make it past her. Tara cursed as she broke into an exhausted, stumbling run after her, lashing out with the cane and managing to bruise the thigh muscles with a couple of well placed lashes. Pale flesh shone through the mud where she struck. She even managed to cut several strikes across the buttocks which jiggled so enticingly in front of her. But the girl ran on, shrugging aside the pain and then lunging for the next weapon. She turned triumphantly and Tara saw she had one of the slender six foot long staves in her hands. But there was no time for caution left. Tara’s reserves were getting dangerously low and she didn’t hesitate; she just waded forwards cutting at the fronts of the girl’s thighs. She retreated but swung the staff and caught Tara repeatedly about the ribs. Tara feinted with the cane and waited for the staff to swing in again, then whirled ins
ide the arc of the sweep, caught the girl’s wrist and threw her.

  But as she pivoted she lost her footing again and both girls went tumbling down into the next pool. This time it wasn’t mud but simply brown water and as Tara felt the refreshing cold liquid splash up over her aching body, she realised that the crowd would have enjoyed the mud wrestling - but they would want to see the naked slaves in all their glory as they fought out the finale.

  Once again, the two girls were pressed together as they floundered. And as they struggled to get their footing, Tara felt the gypsy’s hand get between her legs and reach for a crotch hold. There was only one escape. She braced her feet under her just as the groping hand began to slip its thumb into her vagina and the fingers reached for her anus. She pushed down with all her remaining strength and exploded up out of the water and away from the hold. Her impetus carried her to the far side and she scrambled clear with the gypsy right on her heels. With water cascading from their gleaming, scratched bodies the two gladiators ran, neck and neck for the opening of the arena and the next weapon. Breasts swinging and bouncing, thighs pumping, they raced the final yards and the crowd yelled them on.

  Chapter 25

  From his seat down at the front of the terraces and just opposite the entry to the arena. John Carpenter had followed the progress of the fight down the length of the corridor. Beside him he was aware of Carlo actually biting his nails as the advantage had swung one way and then the other. John couldn’t believe the blonde’s strength and courage but even she couldn’t do any more surely. And what was coming next would inevitably, he believed, see the end of a brave but doomed struggle. On either side of the entrance hung weighted boxing straps. In the arena the two naked slaves would slug it out until one went down.