THE PRIZE (20 page)

Chapter
2
2

The third and final day dawned with a sea mist keeping the temperature down until after nine o’clock. By that time the crowd had taken its place and the sun broke through as the comp
è
re announced the first events. The crowd rose and cheered as one, greeting the outset of a day of climactic release, an unrestrained orgy of female combat and sex lay ahead of them.

The final day of all the shows was always the busiest and long before the guests were stirring in whoever’s bed they found themselves, the stables were scenes of frantic activity. At the Bakhtar arena the slaves were accommodated in long rooms under the terraces about midway up the stadium. Each team’s tacking up/dressing room/surgery was located down at ground level on either side of the tunnel that led out into the arena.

Quite apart from concerns about which stable won or lost, each trainer knew that how well his slaves performed in the climactic finale could determine whether or not he had a job by the end of the day. Both men strode nervously up and down as the slaves were roused, fed, washed given a further quick massage and set to loosening up exercises. Commands were snapped as one or other of the guards reported an unexpected stiffness in a slave here, or a lameness in one there; some injuries only appeared overnight. Some pain killers were allowed but there was no point in running a lame slave and spoiling her performances for months ahead, so sometimes the trainers had to reorganise at the last minute. The long narrow rooms were full of the shouts of the men as they encouraged their charges in their warm up routines or shouted reports about slaves’ responses to medication. Peter and Paolo had laid out the day’s roster on one of the massage tables and were poring over it.

“Number Three’s got a badly bruised foot, Number Seven’s okay so we’ll put her running in the back pair on the chariot,” Paolo said. “We’ll play Two and One in the studded whip duels along with the Blonde. That should warm her up ready for the Cage.”

“You cleared that with Carlo?”

“Sure. I’ve moved the other two CSL girls down to the tack room already.”

“Good. Now if Twenty-two’s fit, slot her in for the squad’s studded whip line up. And put in Thirty, Nineteen, Eight and...........” He looked up and shouted over to one of the guards. “How’s Forty-three?”

The guard glanced up at the slave he was working on. “Put her in for whatever, Boss. She’s got lots left in the tank!”

Miriam gave her trainer a proud smile.

“Okay. She’ll lead the squad in the studded whips! Now, any slave not been washed, fed, had a shit?” There was a general shaking of heads. “Right, let’s get ‘em downstairs and I want the chariot teams tacked up in five minutes! Hassan make sure the irritant for the butt plugs is good and hot!”

There was similar activity in the opposing stable but eventually the two squads and their minders were making their way down to where the show would begin for one more time. And every girl there knew that their masters would not accept anything less than complete dedication. None of them expected to end the day able to stand. But deep in every female belly lay a hot moistness caused by the thought of all they would go through before they were allowed to collapse.

The only oasis of relative calm was where Blondie had been stabled on her own, out at the back of the hotel where her owners and her trainer were staying. Carlo Suarez, who was one of her owners as well as her trainer and John Carpenter, her other owner watched as Patti, the blonde’s copper
-
haired and devoted groom, led her out of her stall on the leash which ran from her tongue ring.

“She’s fed well,” Patti reported in her gentle Scottish accent. “Seems well-rested, her eyes are clear and her hair is good and shiny. Doesn’t seem to be limping.” She led the slave around the stable a couple of times under the careful scrutiny of the men. Even by her exalted standards, Blondie had had a good day, the day previously. In the pursuit running she had set a record.

Pursuit running was, typically of the arenas, simple and brutal. A naked slave was released from one end of the arena, the long centreboard having been put in place. When she was half way along it a mounted rider would begin to pursue her. His objective was to bring her down with his whip, her objective was to complete as many lengths as possible before going down.
The horsemen didn’t have it all their own way however, the arenas were small enough to make it difficult for a horse to turn as quickly as the fleeing slave so it wasn’t uncommon for an experienced slave to make eight or nine lengths.

This time, although the opposition had known that the Prince had hired in Blondie there must have been some confusion over the exact running order of slaves and riders, resulting in the mismatching of the best slave on the circuit against a relatively inexperienced rider. Blondie had taught him a lesson. She had made no fewer than fifteen lengths before he could get her down - and even then it had partly been her own tiredness which had overcome her. The crowd had been treated to an exhibition of Blondie’s unique blend of reckless courage, intelligence and athleticism. She had dodged his lash with consummate ease even as she ran full tilt and had managed to infuriate and unsettle the horse by throwing herself under its belly, risking the flying hoofs; running by its head just out of its blinkered vision, but so close the rider didn’t dare use his whip; doubling back so fast that the horse had nearly fallen and then sprinting ahead while it regained its footing.

Once he had pinned her though, he made her pay. The horse had reared over her as she lay, finally exhausted, on the sand at its feet and the whip had sliced down time and again. On the giant video screens hung from the arena roof, the crowd had watched her take a full flogging rather than the accepted minimum needed to keep her down.

Carlo had watched in delight as she had employed every trick he had drummed into her in practice sessions in the grounds of John
Carpenter’s SM
club The Lodge, far away in England. Beside him, John had gone delirious, as had
most of the crowd as the compè
re had announced that a new record was being set. But a disapproving hush had fallen as they had all watched how much punishment she had taken. Carlo alone had been unperturbed and had calmed John down.

“She can take more than he can dish out. Don’t worry!”

When he had lashed his victim until his strength had failed he had claimed the traditional prize and the crowd relaxed. Usually the riders took the slaves from the rear, it made a good show as the naked, dusty, whip
-
scored slave had been filmed lovingly from all angles, orgasming while the man drove into either of her presented entrances. However this rider dragged Blondie to her knees and went for her mouth. Carlo approved as it gave the audience a chance to see how adept she was at using her thick tongue ring to worship an erect cock. And to the crowd’s delight she threw herself into fellating with all the enthusiasm she brought to her combats. She took what seemed like an age and gave the cameras every chance to close in on the way her pierced tongue trailed lovingly up the shaft of the phallus and she ran the metal along the slit of the meatus. The helm gleamed huge and purple up on the screens as her lips finally opened wide and she began to take him in. John and Carlo smiled smugly as a male sigh went up around them, every man there wishing he was out on the sands with Blondie kneeling before him.

Carlo reflected, as he watched her lips caress the man who so recently had given her such a spiteful thrashing, that there wasn’t one single aspect of the arenas that Blondie didn’t fully understand. Up on the screens she was letting him come out of her mouth for a second and rubbing her face up and down the gleaming shaft, holding it respectfully with one hand, before sucking him back in and beginning to guide him gently towards his climax. No slave had suffered more than she had in the arena; no slave was more devoted. There was no one to match her.

In the hotels the guests were taking their time over breakfast or were taking strolls out on the street while the sun burned away the last streamers of mist. Amelia yawned luxuriously as Brian poured the last of the coffee.

“I don’t know if my puss....sorry.......cunt can take another day!” she exclaimed.

“The last day that’s the best. You get the finals of the chariots...and they really lay on the whips! You get studded whip duels and any cruelty freak will go ape over those! Then you get the final melee, all of the squad girls plus most of the guards. And if that’s not enough....”

Amelia was grimacing and clutching her lap. “I won’t last!” she cried in mock despair.

“Don’t worry, I’ll pace you. You won’t want to miss the Cage!”

Amelia leaned forwards, her face flushed and excited. “If I beg you not to let another man fuck me. Don’t listen!”

“It’s a deal!”

Ayesha champed on her bit. As it was the first time she had been put to running lead, she had never had a bit on before, it tasted horrible, although the steel had been covered with some rubber so she could bite on it. But at least there was the familiar pain in her breasts from the studs on the tit straps. The guard had fitted them carefully, ensuring that the wicked little points sat exactly where they had the previous day. A camera had whirred beside her ear as he had slowly tightened them forcing her to stamp her feet and groan behind her bit. The rest of the squad sat on the bench seats around the walls while the chariot team was tacked up. Over on one of the treatment tables, Hassan was stirring up something in a bowl over a spirit stove. Fragrant smoke arose from it but Ayesha knew all too well that what he was cooking up was not destined for her mouth. He took the bowl off the heat and stirred it some more, before calling out to the trainer that he was ready. Six pairs of eyes watched him stride over with five of the guards, pick up the six pear
-
shaped steel objects and begin to dip and swirl them in the mixture.

“Bend them over,” he called, after he and the others had blown on the goo-covered plugs a few times. With reluctant obedience and in answer to a downward tug on her reins, Ayesha and her companions, the hired-in Cherry beside her, put their hands on their knees and presented their backsides. From outside cam
e the muffled tones of the compè
re and cheers from the crowd as six well-whipped pairs of buttocks were presented on the giant screens. A cameraman behind her asked if the trainer wouldn’t mind standing a little more to the side. Then there was the warmth of the coated plug at her rear entrance, it paused for a moment and she tried to relax but then it was suddenly pushed and its rounded snout smoothly violated her anus and lodged snugly in her rectum, the flange at its base reassuringly gripping the sphincters. There were more muffled cheers but by then Ayesha’s concentration was taken up by the fact that the damn mixture was starting to work. It was maddening, an internal itch there was no way to scratch. Having a dildo rammed up her cunt and a studded strap holding the awful ensemble in place only made it worse. She knew it was deliberate, in a few minutes all twelve slaves harnessed to the chariots contesting the finals would be enraged beyond all reason. They would race till they dropped and fight to the death just to get the harnesses off.

They hardly needed leading out to the tunnel where the chariots waited. They were straining at the leash quite literally.

In the echoing gloom of the tunnel she pranced impatiently while all of them were shackled by one wrist to whichever shaft they were pushing. She and Cherry were joined by an inside rein, the outside ones were fed back to the driver who wrapped them round his waist and then at last they were driven out into the bright sun. Her vision restricted by her blinkers and the certainty that to look around would earn her a sharp cut with a whip, Ayesha stared straight down the track. The crowd was a seething mass of bright colour. Up on one of the screens one of the opposition slaves was gazing wide-eyed into the zoomed-in camera lens, her strapped breasts heaving just like Ayesha’s were. There was no fellow feeling. Making sure their masters were happy was all that mattered to either of them.

“Get ready,” the driver’s whipman called and as she had been trained to do she dug her feet into the hard
-
packed earth as deep as she could to try and get the all important first advantage. The starting pistol cracked and it seemed as if all hell broke loose. The crowd rose in one roaring movement; the drivers and their whipmen yelled; the whips sliced across the girls’ shoulders and backs and the chariots began to rumble. At first the slaves
pumped
their legs as if trying to start bobsleighs, then as the inertia was overcome they settled into more normal running. At the same time the whips slowed as the drivers
assessed
the situation. All Ayesha could do was bite her bit and try not to let the whip unsettle her breathing. Nothing was showing beyond her right hand blinker so she assumed they must be leading. Her arms stretched out in front of her, knuckles white on the crossbar, Ayesha pounded along towards the turn waiting for the jerk on her rein.

Dimly she heard the compèr
e’s voice...........

“The red’s driver’s going for a block! He’s going to try and take out the purpl
es on the first bend!” the compè
re announced and Amelia sqealed and bounced up and down beside Brian. “Stop him!” she yelled. “Whip them up! Make them go faster!” She was yelling at the purple team’s driver as they saw the red’s chariot, drawn on the inside lane, start to move out to try and make the purple’s rig crash into the side fence at the first turn. For a second the Prince’s driver didn’t seem sure whether to outrun the manoeuvre or to turn in and engage in combat.