With the grace of a cheetah, Ali flung herself forward and bending at the same time, curled the whip low with such accuracy that the biting, flexible cable coiled itself around Chantel’s ankles. Ali gave it a sharp tug, and Chantel was brought down, her remaining whip flying from her hand in the process.
Triumphantly, Ali dragged the prone figure towards her.
The cry went up. “Round one to Mistress Blackheart!”
While the contestants withdrew to opposite sides of the area, where slaves served them with refreshing juices in tall glasses, Leigh was taken down and moved to the next combat zone.
This time, the bout was to take place in an area used by the slaves for their ablutions. Situated behind the stable block where Chantel’s fine stallions were housed, two rows of brick buildings built along the opposite sides of a cobbled courtyard were divided into four small cubicles at each end, with a larger building between. Each of the cubicles was equipped with a flushing toilet inside and a door into which, to humiliate and teach slaves their place in this society, a small, unglazed window had been cut at head height for viewing the occupant. There were no locks.
The buildings between them contained the water tanks and pumping equipment. On the outside were hoses which when fixed over the appropriate tap, could deliver a powerful jet of water.
Along the third side of the courtyard was a row of wash stands and on either side of the arch through which one reached the courtyard were stone seats set in a recess, where one could watch the daily ablutions if so inclined.
As the crowd reassembled around the edges of the courtyard, all eyes immediately focused on Leigh. Erected especially for the occasion, in the centre of the courtyard stood a wooden frame that consisted of two eight feet high uprights, about four feet apart with a crossbeam. Beneath the beam, Leigh had been placed on a stool, which brought her head up to just below the beam. Her hands were shackled to the beam on either side of her head.
As Ali took her place on one side of the courtyard and Chantel on the other, Ali couldn’t at first work out why Leigh had been placed in such a manner. Then she noticed the rope tied to one of the legs of the stool; the starter would pull on the rope, the stool would be pulled over and Leigh would fall and dangle helplessly by her arms. Obviously she’d scream, and that would be the signal. And, as Ali uncoiled the hose which was to be her weapon and Chantel did the same on the opposite side, she realized that Leigh would be directly in the firing line.
Standing beside the wall with her hand on the tap, Ali held the nozzle of the hose in her other hand, and waited. The seconds ticked by. Still she waited.
Leigh yowled in terror as the stool fell away, and immediately she was drenched in the torrent of water from Chantel’s hose as she aimed it at Ali. Momentarily stunned, Ali turned on her own tap and the bout began in earnest. The women dodged from side to side, each trying to soak the other. But it was Leigh who got the full blast from the hoses. In no time at all, her hair hung limply and was plastered to her face as cascades of water ran down the whip-scribed curves her body. The force of the water on her pussy felt as if she were being repeatedly kicked. Screaming wildly as she hung from her wrists, the cuffs biting terribly into her flesh, the powerful jets swung her to and fro.
This had the effect of sending the crowd into frenzied pandemonium; the excitement in the air was so acute that some became hysterical as their allegiance switched from one opponent to the other.
By now, Ali herself was soaked, the expensive hair products doing nothing to protect her slicked-back style as it fell about her face. Unbelievably, Chantel looked as if she’d been caught in nothing worse than a light, spring shower, her sleek blonde hair had hardly a strand out of place.
The cobbles had become treacherously slippery; Ali lost her footing and went down with a fierce cry. Unable to find her feet, she directed her hose at Chantel, who came running full-pelt across the cobbles, splashing about like a six year old in a puddle. The force of the water through Ali’s hose snatched it from her hands and it flew off to snake like a wild thing with a mind of its own, drenching the onlookers, as Chantel moved in for the kill.
Standing over her one-time pupil, she directed the water at Ali’s breasts, knocking her backward.
The cry went up. “Round two to the White Goddess!”
Terribly winded, Ali clutched at her naked, battered breasts as she gasped for air. While she struggled to regulate her breathing, she caught sight of Leigh, limp and lifeless, being carried off to the next location.
Ali took the glass of juice from the slave’s hand and turned her thoughts to what would be the final, deciding bout...
Chains were attached to the cuffs at Leigh’s wrists. While one set of hands yanked her arm upwards and secured it above her head, another pair of hands did the same to her other arm, the result being that her hands were secured about three feet apart. She’d no way of knowing but she’d been chained to a mighty branch that grew out at an angle of roughly 90 degrees from the trunk of a rather splendid tree. Legend had it that this particular tree was over four hundred years old - not that Leigh would have cared even if she had known.
Some distance away stood the most bizarre erection to be found anywhere within the grounds, for that was exactly what it was; a huge erect phallus.
Normally used as a whipping post, its girth was large enough to accommodate three men, with their arms stretched out fingertip to fingertip. It was fashioned in some kind of hard, flesh-coloured material. Perfect in every detail, veins had been sculpted into the structure and there was even an eye in the centre of its huge helmet. And that wasn’t all! As a refinement in the art of humiliation, it had special machinery inside and had been rigged up by means of underground pipes to a storage site some distance away, so that, when a switch was thrown, just like a real ejaculation, liquid made its way up through the phallus. Shooting out of the eye in its crown, it flowed downwards, covering the men who happened to be tied to its shaft with some kind of oil.
Ali and Chantel stood side by side, watching the spectacle as the oil began to fountain out of the top, before beginning its downward journey. Standing to the left of the two women, Nina used a microphone to explain the rules to the eager crowd.
“The object of the exercise is to climb the dick and plug the hole. Fixed to the top of the crown, next to the eye itself, is a large stopper. When this is inserted correctly, the machinery is designed to cut out, so stopping the flow of the semen. However, there are no actual hand or footholds built into the structure, which will obviously become extremely slippery. It is, in effect, a race and the winner is the one who successfully plugs the hole.”
Once again, all eyes turned to the unfortunate Leigh as the dominatrix took a few steps backward and took aim with a long bullwhip. Once again, an ear-splitting scream filled the air as with a loud Crack! the leather lash came slicing down across her back.
Ali had the advantage and sprinted away, leaving Chantel some distance behind, though she made up ground when Ali tripped over a hillock. Both women reached the structure at the same time. Chantel was lucky enough to find a decent size vein to serve as the first foothold, and another above her head. She grabbed it and hoisted herself upward.
Ali spent precious moments circling the monster cock, looking for the most advantageous starting point. There was no way she could climb the thing - it must be all of twenty five feet high, perhaps more. Once she’d started the climb, she mustn’t look down.
Finally, she made her choice. There was nowhere to put her feet, but there was a good ridge of a vein a little way above her head. If she could make a grab at that...
As if her legs were made entirely from springs, she jumped upward, at the same time flinging out her arms. Grabbing hold, her fingers grasped at the vein while her legs dangled. She flung them to the side, where there was another vein she could use as a foothold. But owing to the o
il, it was treacherously slippery and it took a good few minutes to find her footing. Scrabbling and sliding, she made slow progress. She was sweating profusely, her skin glowing, as slippery as the phallus itself. Inching upward, she moved round to her left. She had no idea how far Chantel had progressed, she just had to keep going, upward, ever upward, her body pressed close to the rock hard penis.
Once she almost lost her hold. As she hung onto the slippery vein, her breasts flattened against the warm, oily rigidity, she glanced down.
“Fucking hell!” she whispered aloud, realizing for the first time that if she were that far from the ground then she must be in sight of the top. Gasping, she fought for breath.
Suddenly, Chantel was beside her. While moving upward, both women had also been moving round, one from the left, the other from the right, and they were both making for the same vein on which to put their foot. Chantel gave Ali a shove, and an all-out fight got underway as the two women clawed and lunged, their bodies glistening. While clutching on for dear life, they fought like wildcats, Chantel ahead on points.
But suddenly, Ali made a grab at Chantel’s hair. Chantel screamed. Ali yanked her head back, back, until at last, Chantel lost her hold. With a cruel smirk, Ali released her grip and watched, as with an ear-splitting scream, Chantel fell toward the ground.
While some of the spectators surged forward to catch the fallen Goddess safely in a blanket, Ali pressed onward. There was a large overhang at the base of the bulbous head. She had to lean slightly backward to make a grab at it. With her breathing as ragged as if she were about to come, she completed the manoeuvre safely, and hauled herself upward, and at last she was horizontal again as she made a supreme effort to drag herself on her belly up the curve of the crown.
And then there it was just a short distance away - the big, black bung, attached by a chain beside the hole in the centre. Stretching her arms as tautly as she was able, she made a grab for the summit. But as she raised herself on all fours on top of the phallus, she discovered that it was not all over yet. She had misjudged the force with which the oil was gushing as it shot from the eye. It caught her on the side of her ribs and sent her sliding sideways back down helplessly. Visions of the contest being declared a draw and having the whole thing to do all over again raced through her mind. She couldn’t do it! And Leigh couldn’t take much more either. And it was the thought of Leigh, just how close she was to finally possessing her utterly - as well as the chateau itself - which made her make one last desperate lunge upwards, and she felt her fingers close round the chain which anchored the bung.
Hand over hand she began to claw her way back up. One more effort, and then one more until finally she was back at the crown. This time she was ready for it and knelt astride the hole in the centre of the massive slit. The oil hammered up into her quim, making her gasp with pain, but although it was pushing her up, it wasn’t pushing her off. Grimly holding onto the chain she reeled it in until finally she held the bung itself. Raising herself slightly she rammed it down between her legs.
The oil was capped! Collapsing in an exhausted heap, Ali heard the shouts rising up in a wave of euphoria as the entire crowd now switched their allegiance and paid homage.
“Mistress Blackheart!”
“Mistress Blackheart!”
“Mistress Blackheart!”
Then, when the cheers had slowly ebbed away, she became aware of an unearthly silence.
All at once, a blood-curdling shriek filled the air as, down below, the victor’s mark was burned deep into the tender flesh of Leigh’s pale inner thigh. Ali smiled contentedly.
The End.
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