by Sean O'Kane
The gladiators staggered in dead level and each one saw the strap at her side of the entrance. They separated and with frantic haste wound the straps round their right fists and settled the velcro grips. Then they faced each other and began circling cautiously. Both girls’ chests heaved as they sucked in air, Blondie was bleeding a little from one breast and from several places on her back, where fingernails had opened up weals. El Tigre’s face was streaked with blood from her nose and one of Tara’s cane strokes had broken the skin across her buttocks.
“Steady, Blondie. Steady, girl,” he heard Carlo whisper. “Let her come on to you!”
She did just that, dodging punches and backing off then tripping the girl as she came on again, getting in punches as she went down but not following up - just standing off and letting her struggle up. John realised she was deliberately draining the gypsy - evening out the odds. His spirits began to revive. There was still hope.
Tara’s breathing was slowly coming back under control but the gypsy was blowing harder now as she absorbed punches and had to scramble repeatedly to her feet. Tara dodged another clumsy, swinging punch and jabbed straight and true, fetching a grunt of pain from her as her fist dug into her foe’s stomach. She stopped in her tracks and Tara ducked in, ramming her shoulder between the girl’s breasts, her free hand reached down and slid between the sweat-slick thighs. She didn’t have time for a full crotch hold but simply hoisted the girl up, her hand sinking into the soft labia as she upended her and sent her crashing to the sand.
Again, she didn’t follow through but stood back to let the girl use up more valuable strength in getting up. She put her hands on her knees and drew in deep gulps of air as she watched the bedraggled, sand-encrusted figure struggle upright. She was clearly dazed and Tara moved in for the kill. Two jabs to the breasts went unanswered and then the legs straddled as she staggered and Tara went in. She extended the fingers and thumb of her strapped hand and reached for the crotch again. The long hours of practice paid off once more as with calm dexterity her thumb slipped between the labia and found the moist vaginal entrance. Her first and index fingers slipped further along and curled up between the buttocks, finding the little crater which the guards had opened up through repeated use, and they slipped inside. Then her fingers clenched, holding the septum between the girl’s passages in preparation for the dreaded crotch hold and hoist. For a moment the two girls locked eyes. El Tigre’s were glazed and wide with fear. Tara grinned fiercely and clenched her fingers harder. The girl cried out and Tara tensed to begin the hoist. Then an almighty blow between her shoulder blades knocked her forwards onto her knees and her hold was gone. She looked around in dazed puzzlement.
John and Carlo were on their feet and cheering till their throats hurt as Blondie had slowly swung the fight decisively her way. They had watched in delight as she had gone for the crotch hold. One throw and it would be the beginning of the end. But suddenly a figure vaulted over the barrier just along from where they were, ran out into the arena and delivered a double fisted hammerblow to Blondie’s back. Then he turned towards them.
“No bitch fucks me around twice!” Conor Brien’s voice thundered into the sudden and complete silence. He turned to where Blondie knelt, the gypsy on all fours beside her and he stooped menacingly.
There was a movement beside John and he saw Carlo vault into the arena and begin to run. Yuri and Ivan began to move. John looked over to where Mark Cavanagh was seated.
He gave John a kind of helpless shrug, as if to say, “What will be, will be,” and reached out either side of himself to restrain two of the guards who were moving to join the developing melee in the arena. John nodded his response and similarly restrained Yuri and Ivan.
Tara squinted up into the sun at the silhouette of the big man who loomed over her. So, it had all come to this. Just her and Conor Brien. And she was already spent.
She made no move to get to her feet, just stared up defiantly as he drew one foot back to deliver a rib-cracking kick. But suddenly something flashed across her vision and cannoned into Brien, bearing him away to one side. With a shock she realised it was Carlo. Her master had come to her aid. But strong as he was, he was smaller than Brien. Tara was galvanised into action at the thought that Carlo might need her and she summoned the very last of her strength for one more fight. She got to her feet and looked at the struggle which was now taking place.
Carlo was far too wily to have been caught as Tara had been afraid he might. Once he had got Conor clear of her he had rolled away and regained his feet. Now he was dancing around the bigger man, flicking out punches and kicks, dodging Conor’s potentially lethal, but ponderous, blows. Conor was plainly in the grip of an all-consuming fury and swung wildly, squandering his strength while Carlo calmly picked him off.
Suddenly her admiration of her master’s fighting technique was cut short as she was grabbed round the waist and tripped simultaneously. She had forgotten the gypsy. The two girls went down in a tangle of flailing limbs but now Tara’s blood was up. The sight of her master fighting for her had filled her with fresh resolve and she twisted and squirmed like an eel under El Tigre. They were both so sweat-slicked that neither of them could get a real grip on the other but Tara could sense that the gypsy was fighting desperately rather than with any real plan. She pummelled and clawed at Tara, snarling and yelling her defiance. Tara forced herself to ignore the blows and scratches, biding her time until the gypsy thought she had the upper hand and began to wriggle up Tara’s body, her legs astride her. Tara reached down in a snake-fast strike and once again embedded her fingers in the slippery, warm depths of her opponent’s body. She clenched again and exerted a steady upwards pressure. Both the gypsy’s hands flew down to grasp Tara’s wrist but there was nothing she could do except rise to her feet carefully. Tara followed her up and from a position where she had one knee still on the ground she suddenly thrust upwards with her whole body. Wailing in despair, the gypsy was taken off her feet and for a second pivoted on the hand embedded in her. Then Tara snatched that down. The crowd erupted as El Tigre crashed down at Tara’s feet, legs spread and hands clutching her vulva. With a sigh of exhausted contentment Tara sank down onto her widespread knees over the gypsy’s face, crushing her labia down onto the wide-open mouth and feeling the girl’s warm breath caress her as she panted. And then the tongue got to work. Her hands left her crotch and instead fastened themselves around Tara’s thighs, holding her conqueror down onto her mouth as she paid her homage. Tara groaned in delight and ground her hips more fiercely downwards. She looked up and saw one of the cameras had zoomed in on the gypsy’s face. All that could be seen on the huge screen was the girl’s chin and her cheeks hollowing as she sucked on the clitoris which was pressed onto her. Another camera had zoomed in from behind her and Tara could see her own whip-striped buttocks driving down and squirming as she accepted her tribute from the gypsy girl.
Suddenly Tara’s attention was dragged away from her own pleasure as something cannoned into her right shoulder. For a second she nearly lost her balance but when she was able to look around, to her delight she saw Conor Brien sprawling on the sands of the arena a few feet away from her. She could see he had a bloody nose and mouth, for a few seconds he lay still, his chest heaving and then he sat up groggily. He looked at her and then at Carlo. Then he shook his head and managed a rueful laugh.
“Okay, you’re one tough son of a bitch, Carlo. And Blondie’s one tough bitch.”
Then he briefly held his hands up before getting to his feet and limping off. Carlo waved to the crowd and then held up the fingers of both hands, twice, signalling twenty lashes for El Tigre. The crowd seemed happy with that and it got the thumbs up. Reluctantly Tara climbed off the busily exploring tongue which had gone on swirling and licking with passionate abandon while its owner’s fate had been negotiated. Carlo pulled the gypsy to her feet and led her over to the post which stood at one side of the arena. Obediently she held her hands up for her wrists to be faste
ned and even proudly shook her own hair clear of her shoulders. Carlo took down the whip which hung on the reverse side of the post. It was a mean looking five-foot length of finely plaited leather with a good thick handle. Tara’s heart thudded with excitement as she saw it and she looked forward to watching her opponent scream and writhe her way through her penalty. The last thing she expected was Carlo to hand her the whip.
“We own this one now, Blondie. So really show her who’s boss, eh?”
It was the finest moment of her life. Out in the arena, the centre of attention and with a free hand to deliver twenty hard lashes to another naked slave. She shook out the whip and the crowd suddenly began a chant of “Blondie! Blondie!” The gypsy glanced back over one shoulder, defiance still in her eyes.
“See if you can do it like a man should!” she said.
With nothing but a savage joy in her heart, Tara drew back her arm and then struck with all her remaining strength. The report of the lash’s impact and the slave’s scream even pierced the noise of the chanting.
“Harder, Blondie!” she heard Carlo shout beside her. “Give them a good show!”
The sight of the gleaming body in front of her, still twisting and arching as it absorbed the sting of the first lash made it an easy command to obey and the second lash fell across the buttocks in a full sweep which marked them instantly from hip to hip. Tara made no attempt to keep any count from then on. She just drank in the heady sensuality of her own nakedness, the nakedness of the slave in front of her, the repeated Crack! of the whip’s impacts and the answering screams and frantic writhings.
She was gasping for breath and perilously close to orgasm by the time Carlo snatched the lash from her. El Tigre hung by her wrists, moaning and gasping, her back and buttocks a network of red flaring weals. Without any thought she flung herself to her knees before her master and her trembling fingers fumbled to free the iron-hard erection straining against his shorts. As soon as it reared in front of her face, thick and red, the veins throbbing and the helm already glistening with pre-ejaculate, she plunged her mouth down over it and savoured the rich taste. One hand gripped and squeezed the shaft, the other dived between her own legs and attempted to finish what El Tigre had begun. She didn’t care if she was punished; she simply had to come. And she did, mewing her utter contentment as she knelt on the arena floor and worshipped her master, gulping down every last morsel of his precious seed as it spurted, thick and hot, into her welcoming mouth.
Chapter 26
John Carpenter leaned back against one wall of the stableyard and happily surveyed the scene. Two months had gone by since they had returned in triumph from Conor Brien’s stable. Now the Russian girl - who Madame had found out was named Anya - but who everyone at The Lodge called ‘Ox’, Cherry, Jet and El Tigre all shared a newly built stable block with Blondie. Several of the arena owners were locked in an astronomically high bidding-war for the services of Carlo’s and The Lodge’s slaves on a ‘show by show’ basis. But best of all John himself had attended two auctions with Conor and The Lodge’s training cells were currently playing host to a long-overdue, fresh intake of delightful soon-to-be Housegirls. Really there was just the branding to attend to now so the slaves would be ready to fight for whoever could afford them and everything could settle down again.
Tara looked up at the grey English sky as she wound her fingers around the chains that held her spreadeagled against the outside wall of her stable. Sometimes she missed the endless sun of Conor Brien’s island but wherever her master was, that was where she belonged. She looked down and watched him as he attended to the glowing brazier with the branding iron, nearly white hot, resting in amongst the almost invisible flames. He picked it up and examined it. Tara noted his expression of intense concentration fondly. It was the same expression he wore when examining her at the end of a day’s training, it usually presaged a good thrashing. But today there was something even better in store. She was going to be branded with the combined initials of her master/trainer and her stable. Nowadays she could slip in and out of her slave miasma as it suited her and once she had been brought into the yard and mounted alongside her groom and the other fighting slaves who were to either side of her and had seen the branding irons, she had chosen to stay alert. She wanted to feel the full impact of wearing her brand. Carlo plainly judged the iron was hot enough and an excited stir spread through the men and the Housegirls, who had gathered to witness the spectacle as he approached Tara. She could see the glowing letters, CSL framed in a slender rectangle. She tightened her grip on her chains and gritted her teeth.
John watched too. The letters, which stood for Carlo Suarez and Lodge, would soon adorn all five slaves, seared into the flesh of their left hips. But Blondie was given the honour of being the very first to wear it. There was a very real bond between the trainer and the blonde star. It was just possible that she might appreciate it, he reflected as there was a hiss and a piercing scream from across the yard. The superb body arched in its bondage while Carlo pressed the iron home. Then after a count of four he took it away and the blonde slumped. There was some applause from the gathered members and then the iron was back in the flames and Carlo was sizing up a trembling Patti. John sauntered over and lit a cigar from the coals.
“Everything under control, Carlo?”
The two men surveyed the spreadeagled, naked forms before them. Four trembling, one fainted.
“Just about perfect I’d say, Boss.”
THE END
