Into The Arena (17 page)

"Oh!" the woman exclaimed, "she's quite wet!"

"Of course, she's a slave. She's in pain and loving every second of it."

The woman withdrew her finger and she reached up to fondle Tara's breasts with her whole hand. And despite gritting her teeth she felt her treacherous nipples harden under the touch.

"And I'll bet she'll need to take a bit of whipping before she gets into bed with an old hag like me," the woman said and laughed throatily. "Well Charles did say he was going to give me a very special anniversary present." Then she moved away with the Boss to examine Channel who was next in the line.

Now another man stood before her, he was only in his thirties and was accompanied by a pretty, dark haired woman of the same age. She was staring up at Tara with wide-eyed wonder.

"Touch her," the man told her. "She's not going to bite. Not from where she is now anyway."

The woman gave an irritating giggle and Tara flinched as she felt her stretched taut breasts fondled again.

"You can see by the nipples how much she likes the pain she's in," the man observed. Tara had to bite her tongue at this second reminder of how she was betraying herself. She wouldn't mind betting this stupid man was one of those who would never have dared approach her before she was enslaved. The woman gave her annoying laugh again and wriggled a finger into Tara's vagina. The trouble was that these contemptible idiots who would probably never be dominant enough to own their own slaves were humiliating her so badly that she knew her sex was gushing its appreciation of her own pain and degradation. She loved and hated her owner with all the tangled emotional intensity of a true slave.

"God, I haven't had a pussy since I was in boarding school," the woman said. "And it's so juicy! Just think, you'll be able to watch her lick me out after you've whipped her."

"That's the idea. After the shows she'll be battered, bruised, hot and horny, and all ours to play with," the man told her.

"I want to see the black one. She looks gorgeous!" And they moved along the line, leaving Tara helplessly in the grip of confused pique that she should be deprived of any more humiliation. Her head hung forward in despair as she realised just how deeply she was a slave.

For what seemed an eternity the hanging girls were pawed and groped, until at last the whole group gathered on the lawn and the Boss chatted happily with them while their pre-dinner drinks were topped up by the household girls.

At long, long last they moved off down the colonnade and Tara heard male footsteps behind her. An arm encircled her waist and lifted slightly, just enough to free her arms and she cried aloud as she tried to lower them. But then Carlo was laying her carefully down on the marble and massaging her shoulders with every sign of genuine concern. A tall African man in a flowing white robe was attending to the others and between them they soon had all the girls sitting up and rubbing at their own aching limbs. Carlo was plainly furious though.

"I told him not to leave them so long! What kind of show are my girls going to put on with dislocated shoulders eh?"

"Relax, Carlo," the tall black man told him. "They're okay. The Boss knows what he's doing."

Carlo relapsed into mutters as he helped each girl to her feet and set about checking in detail every sorely tested muscle and joint, just to be sure. Tara was perfectly aware that his concern was purely professional and had nothing to do with her personally, but it was good to feel his strong, expert hands on her body again.

Once he and the man he referred to as Ali had clipped their hands together behind their backs again and this time added chains linking their collars, he was a bit more cheerful.

"They're a good looking bunch. Fine material! Now I want them to see something."

"Boss said to take'em downstairs."

"We will, in a minute," Carlo assured him, and with a hard smack on the lead girl's bottom he led the coffle down the colonnade.

At first it seemed as if they might be going back to their barracks, but Carlo led them past them and the training ground, on past the tall stadium itself and out towards the fields. The low buildings which Tara had caught a glimpse of earlier seemed to be stables, but they were led past these as well and eventually came to a gate. Beyond it the Boss and his guests were standing, still attended by the girls with their neat little tunics and each holding a tray of cool drinks. Carlo led Tara's coffle to a long rail which looked like a hitching rail for horses and he had all six girls stand with their backs to it. Then he and Ali passed along behind them, unclipping their wrists and re-joining them so that each wrist was on a different side of the horizontal rail, tethering them.

The main group seemed to be looking out over the field for something. It sloped up slightly to a crest and as yet nothing was in sight.

"Keep your eyes peeled my bitches," Carlo told them, walking up and down behind them. "You will see my best animals now! My best work!"

And with that he left them to join the main group with Ali in his long robe following.

For a moment nothing happened. But then, faintly at first, but growing louder, there were the unmistakable cracks of whips at work and then things which looked like plumes bobbed into view, and over them Tara could see the blur of whips. But suddenly as the land flattened out the whole spectacle unfolded and Tara couldn't restrain a gasp of total amazement.

Three pony traps came careering over the hill towards the onlookers, running in the lanes Tara had seen earlier. But the ponies pulling them were human ones. And female as well. Tara stared, her throat suddenly dry, never had she imagined such a thing could be done. The girls were running furiously in elaborate harnesses which seeemed to criss cross their bodies, their hands gripped the shafts of the lightweight carts which held a single driver who was wielding the whip. It was clearly a race and each driver was equally determined to win, regardless of the cost to the 'pony'. The whips slashed at shoulders, breasts, thighs and backs. The lashed ponies sometimes threw their heads back and made the plumes on their bridles dance. As the traps came closer, Tara could hear the drivers yelling encouragements as they wove complicated patterns in the air with their whips and scored networks of thin red stripes on their ponies' gleaming flesh. Whether it was oil or sweat Tara didn't know but the superb female figures before her shone with it. The slight rumble of the wheels on the dry ground became louder and louder and eventually even the snorting and gasping of the ponies between the whip cracks could be heard. In a storm of noise and dust the traps reached their audience and then in an obviously rehearsed move the three drivers, now neck and neck, wrenched on their reins. The ponies' heads came sharply round to their right and they wheeled in perfect formation in a tight circle before the applauding onlookers. Tara could see how the girls' mouths were dragged sharply over and realised that they must even have bits in there, just like real ponies. But as they wheeled, the final touch of realism almost brought a cry from her. From between the tightly muscled and scarlet striped buttocks of each girl a real tail wagged and swung.

The drivers stayed in their seats as the ponies stamped and cavilled against the tight reins, the dust settled around the traps and the audience approached, still clapping delightedly. The Boss had stage managed their entrance superbly and Tara was left replaying the moment the ponies had burst over the crest of the hill, their feet pounding, their thighs pumping and the cruel whips playing maddening tattoos on their skin as they raced for the line. She realised that her own heart was doing its fair share of pounding, the girls were the most devastatingly erotic sight she had ever encountered and she stared at them now, straining for a view among the crowd which surrounded them. In the cool of the evening there was even the faint suspicion of sweat steaming from their oiled bodies. They occasionally tossed their heads as hands stroked and groped them. Tara tried to drink in every detail of the harnesses but found that her eyes kept going back to the breast harness. All three girls had the same arrangement, two-inch wide leather straps encircled each breast and buckled tight against the inner curve. From near the top of the strap another one led up to the deep collar which kept their heads held high and proud. The strapping made the breasts stand out high and firm in neat domes of nipple-crowned flesh. And, Tara realised with a jolt deep in her stomach, they kept them steady for the drivers' whips, even as they ran.

She couldn't deny the pangs of envy which she felt as she watched the crowd admire them and heard the enthusiastic commentary the Boss was giving, detailing feeding and exercise regimes and explaining the finer points of the harnesses, which frequently brought squeals of horrified delight from the females in the group. But Carlo returned to stand behind them once more.

"These are the very best!" he crowed. "They don't just race in pony carts either! No, these beauties do pursuit running, as well as log pulling and single combat. They even go up against the men! Of course they lose - but they really know how to lose. Out in the arena, it is a fine sight!" he sighed happily.

Tara continued to gaze at the girls. They were tall, just like she was and powerfully built for girls, but she could imagine how carefully they had been fed to keep the breasts and buttocks full and feminine. Carlo's words washed over her but she pricked up her ears at the word 'arena'.

In her mind's eye she envisaged an expanse of sand under a bright sun and two naked females struggling and fighting until one was utterly defeated. Or a single female, bloodied but unbowed as she fought and inevitably lost to the power of a well-muscled man who would exact the full price of defeat when she at last went down. And all the time a crowd cheered and yelled as they wallowed in the vicarious excitement of the spectacle being enacted for their pleasure; fixing all their attention on the figures before them.

It was a thrilling image of decadence and savage eroticism.

And at last she had an image for what had always been at the back of her mind in her darkest fantasies. It was a fantasy so extreme that she had never allowed herself to have it - had probably dismissed it as so impossible it was not even to be dreamed of. But here and now it was a reality. The Boss - her owner - was making it a reality. And she knew now what part she wanted to play in it.

She hardly noticed Carlo unclip their wrists and begin to lead them away, but she kept her head turned towards the field as she followed reluctantly, and noticed the way the Boss's hands constantly strayed to pat a flank, or stroke a breast or buttock as he talked tirelessly about his favourites.

Carlo also took one last look and halted their procession.

"Those are the best of the best. They win big money! The Boss likes them so much he gives them their daily beating personally, whenever he is here."

Then he seemed to turn himself back to the job in hand and pulled them along. But Tara's mind was replaying his last words and her heart was thumping.

Chapter 12

Patti Campbell stood in front of her mirror. From the gym she had come back to her room for a long shower before dressing for dinner and now she was examining herself critically. At thirty years of age, it was an ever-increasing struggle to keep herself as her master wanted her. But on the whole, she thought, she wasn't doing so badly. Her legs were still long and shapely, the thighs firm and smooth. Her stomach was still flat and her waist trim; sure her hips and bottom had filled out a bit but she felt that only added to her mature attractions. There was simply more of her arse for him to thrash, and it was still tight and smooth. Then there were her breasts. She cupped them lovingly and stroked them. They still stood proud on her chest with virtually no sign of a crease beneath them. And God knew they had taken a fair hammering over her years with Mark. He loved them, and whether he wanted to beat them, stroke them or punish them with tit presses, needles or wax; they were always ready for him. She grinned at her reflection, "High, wide and handsome," she whispered in that soft lilt which she knew he also loved. But the Scottish lowland upbringing which had bequeathed her that particular asset had also bequeathed her a level head and a practical approach to life.

She had met Mark Cavanagh five years previously. He was a high flyer, a whizz kid, two years younger than she. In a whirlwind takeover which had had the financial papers gossiping for months, Mark had moved in on the company, whose MD she was then personal assistant to and quite simply taken over. She had arrived for work one day to find her erstwhile boss had gone and Mark sitting behind his desk instead. He hadn’t wasted a second and in a hectic few weeks had broken her in to his way of doing things. It had been an eye opener. In his business dealings he flew close to the wind but seemed to live a charmed life and she soared, breathless, in his wake. A month or so later he had asked her out to dinner and she had ended up in his bed. The sex had been very good; but entirely conventional. However, midway through the following morning she had entered his office to find him frowning at a document she had prepared. He had taken her breath away completely by saying that he was fed up with her sloppy presentation and had decided that he was going to take her in hand. She was to raise her skirt and bend over his desk for a spanking.

Whenever she thought of that moment on which her whole subsequent life had turned, she was still excited and aroused by the sheer nerve of the man. He could have had no idea of what her reaction would be. She might have slapped him, resigned on the spot, gone to some tribunal or other. But as she dithered and spluttered he had stood up and added; "Then before I fuck you tomorrow night, you'll bend for the cane. Now lift your skirt."

It must have been the powerfully sexual nature of that final command which cracked her. But whatever it was, she found herself stammering idiotically and even apologetically that it was too tight to raise over her hips.

"Then take it off woman!" he ordered irritably. "Quickly, I've got other work to do."

A moment later she was standing before him in only the shirt she had worn the day before and her knickers and high heels. She had never forgotten the strange thrill of that first spanking. How it had hurt and excited her, and how he had stopped every now and then to answer the phone, then gone back to beating her backside till it was an inferno. But when he had finished he took her right where she was, jerking her backwards and forwards on his desk as he pleasured himself inside her molten loins, and from then on she had never looked back.

Now she had every material possession a woman could want and a sex life that kept her constantly satisfied as well as, perversely, craving more and she was still deliriously in love with her master.

But it was there that her native common sense made her stop and consider. Since Mark had taken up with that mad Irishman, Conor Brien, the arena circuit had come into being and along with other projects had made Mark super-rich. But now he was surrounded by slaves, here at the house he had twenty serving girls, and then there were the fighting ones, the gladiators. Of course a slave couldn't presume to tell her master how and where he was to take his pleasure but eventually, she knew, a younger, fitter slave would take his eye and she would be 'retired'. She was quite sure she would be treated well, she knew Mark liked her, but it was her pride at stake. She had plenty of money put away - wouldn't it be better to sort out her own future rather than wait until she became that saddest of all things - a slave whose master had finished with her?

Only a couple of weeks ago, the very day he had returned from his last trip, she had seen the truck carrying the latest recruits for the arena arrive. She had looked down from a balcony and seen them; tired and dusty, being jolted about as they went. But one had had her head up, a big blonde girl, she recalled, strikingly beautiful and built like an athlete. She had been looking around, alert, unbowed by whatever Carlo had dealt out during the voyage - and she knew Carlo well enough to know that that would have been plenty.

She also knew that Mark liked a challenge; and everything about that girl had shouted at her that she was going to be exactly that.

Still, since then things had gone well enough. She had had Mark's undivided attention for a long night of exquisite pain and pleasure, then Ali had beaten her again, out on the lawn while her master had enjoyed his sundowner before dinner - and watched as she had thanked Ali for his work on her by fellating him.

She told herself to snap out of it and get on with preparing for this evening. But even as she began to sort through her wardrobe she realised that she had come to a decision without really noticing. She would carry on as normal, but would keep a close eye on how things developed and if necessary she would jump before she was pushed.

By the time she was ready, dressed demurely in a simple evening wrap with nothing beneath it, high-heeled sandals on her feet and a discreet slave bracelet around one ankle, she knew the guests would have completed their tour of inspection and dinner would be served shortly. There would be some displays afterwards which would be filmed and distributed over the net because the circuit was expanding. Previously the owners had contented themselves with pitting individual slaves against one another and betting heavily, but then Mark and Conor had experimented with web sites and found a huge interest there. Hence the development of full blown arenas at each owner's headquarters, the barracks, the staff and all the paraphernalia that went with training whole squads of slaves. It amazed her that there seemed to be so many compliant girls.

Girls like her she reminded herself ruefully, as she finished brushing her pride and joy, the thick coppery tresses that fell in shining waves to her bare shoulders.

She played the gracious hostess for most of the evening with practised ease and Gerd and Elena played their part as well. The guests were a mixed bunch, some of them were clearly experienced in the SM world, others clearly not so, but all were deeply impressed by what they had seen and were very excited about the prospect of a full show in only a few weeks' time.

Mark had arranged the dinner to reflect the Roman theme of the gathering; the huge dining room with its polished wooden floor had been rearranged. The tables were now set close against one wall with the main table facing the room and two others coming out at right angles from it at each end. Plenty of wine flowed during the meal and plenty of liqueurs followed, Patti keeping up a constant stream of small talk, even while her master's hand found its way to the opening of her wrap and buried itself between her legs. She clenched her thighs on it and carried on, but noticed that several of the other women were looking more flushed than alcohol alone could account for. They were ready for the displays.

As ever Mark timed it perfectly, waiting until one or two of the women were looking very distracted.

He announced the start and added that the serving girls were of course available and could be enjoyed in any way the guests chose during the fights and subsequent events. If they failed to please adequately, they would form part of the display. Everyone cheered and the first slaves were brought on by Carlo.

It was obvious that the evening was scheduled to build slowly, the first contest was nude wrestling, a staple of the girls' routine but it would whet the guests' appetites for harder contests to follow. Patti had seen the naked girls wrestling a thousand times before but it was a sight which never failed to arouse her and now she shifted in her seat and opened her legs to allow her master's fingers to reach under her and achieve a teasing penetration as, out on the floor the two girls crashed together.

Carlo's training had been as immaculate as ever. The contestants appeared to put real spite into their holds and throws and soon the big room echoed to their cries and yells and the crashes of their bodies landing on the wooden floor. The guests all hammered on the tabletop and added their yells to the noise until the first crotch hold heralded the beginning of the end. When one girl teetered on the impaling fingers of the other and shook her head in mute appeal, waving her own hands impotently, a breathless silence fell. All eyes watched the chopping hand rise and then fall. And the recipient's shriek was drowned by the shrieks of the females in the audience who flinched in excited sympathy. And as the girl tottered around in the wide space between the tables, the soon-to-be-victor stalked her, applying any hold she cared to, tormenting her nipples and breasts, always being careful to display her actions to her audience. Twice more the devastating crotch hold was executed, driving the audience into a frenzy, before the girl went down and the victor squatted over her face to accept her submission.

There was a short interval before the second contest during which glasses were replenished and congratulations given to Mark. Patti noted that the household girls were also being put to the test during this pause, virtually every tunic was being felt around underneath as they served drinks, and one was even called on to fellate a guest who had no compunction about taking his rampant erection out in full view of everyone. There was good-natured applause as the thick rod disappeared between the soft lips of the kneeling girl and the man solemnly raised his glass to Mark. He had withdrawn his fingers from Patti's sex while he talked to his guests but as the second pair of girls was led on he sank them back into her moist depths and she groaned with appreciation because it was boxing next. She herself had been the first slave to wear one of the devilish corsets the slaves were wearing. Carlo and Mark had devised them and both of them had screwed her while she was wearing the first model, propelling her to the vision-blurring heights of multiple orgasms. She tightened her thighs around Mark's questing fingers, the better to enjoy them and recalled the feel of the terrible little studs on the inside of the corset as the men's weight had borne down on her, tied and helpless on her own bed.

Carlo was busy showing off the design and the two contestants stood patiently while he showed the guests how the nipples and breasts lay snugly on and against the wicked points inside, and he invited them to note how the outside of each corset had long vertical rows of studs stretching from the half cup bodice right down to where it finished on the stomach. And each one meant a little point held against the wearer's skin. But he wasn't finished - and even Patti sat up and took note at the new twist which had been added. Each girl wore a leather thong and as Carlo pulled the small triangle away from the girl's crotch, everyone could see that they too were studded. Finally he had them inspect the boxing gloves. The contestants' knuckles were wrapped in leather strips which had heavy metal reinforcements sewn into them. The corsets were of thick leather and extra weight was needed for the girls' blows to register. Patti thought the black girl looked very sinister, her chocolate skin almost merging with the dark leather, which, on the other girl made a marked contrast with her comparatively pale skin.

Once he had finished showing off the costumes, Carlo waved the contestants together. This time the guests were much more subdued as the girls circled each other with understandable caution, keeping their bodies turned sideways on to their opponent, to avoid an uppercut. And both girls kept their fists held high to guard their breasts. For several minutes they lunged and dodged and feinted and then the white girl managed to land a punch to the black girl's midriff. Everyone heard her grunt as her corset did its work and she doubled over for a second. The white girl took full advantage and landed a couple of swings to her sides, her blows looking oddly slow with the weighted gloves but every one of the onlookers could feel their impacts. The black girl staggered back, weaving desperately and then swung her own punches. She swung wildly but got lucky, one fist made contact with the white girl's right breast.

Patti came, writhing on her master's fingers as she saw the ripple run through the meat of the breast and recalled the exquisite bolts of pain the points sent shooting through the body. The white girl yelped and twisted but bravely held her ground and the two girls came together, trading punches to each others' ribs and trying to dig their fists down for a finishing uppercut. It was the white girl who landed the all-important blow and the black girl's thighs clenched, her knees buckled and her guard dropped. As she bent forwards the white girl was presented with a perfect target and she jabbed, left and right, straight and true to her breasts. The black girl collapsed in a heap and Carlo stepped in to count. She staggered up at eight and courageously went back on the attack. But she was weakened and stood squarely in front of her opponent instead of sideways. The white girl was able to pick her off and soon had her down again.