THE GLADIATOR (13 page)

She practised pursuit running and loved every second of it.

Chapter 14

Mark Cavanagh had felt out of sorts ever since Patti had so treacherously left. At first he had wanted to fire Ali for having actually had the effrontery to help her but eventually wiser counsels had prevailed. Gerd and even Conor had calmed him down. If, as Ali said, he had stumbled across her trying to escape, then he had thought quickly and well. If he had returned her to him he would certainly have marked her permanently in his rage, this way at least he had got a good price for the bitch. Still it all left a bad taste in his mouth; Ali insisted that she had given him no reason for her wanting to escape but he was left with a lingering distrust of his old friend. It was Conor who had suggested that with so many stables developing now, they were better off keeping Ali where they could watch him closely. He knew a lot about how this stable, the most successful on the circuit, ran.

That thought kept him relatively cheerful at any rate. Their slaves were undefeated, the only ones to hold an unbroken run of success and the money was pouring in. They could charge whatever they liked for internet access to videos of the blue stable’s contests and equally the charges for attending the shows in person were now truly astronomical - but still demand outstripped supply.

In the weeks following the chaos of Patti’s escape and the rehabilitation of the big blonde, he and Conor had attended several meetings between the ever-growing number of stable owners and the shows were developing rapidly. Adding the dressage had been the idea of an American owner, who pointed out that by displaying the cream of the slaves in a more blatantly sexual way, they could charge more for use of them in the evenings. A Swedish owner had then suggested that they be shod to add more grace to their deportment and both he and Carlo had been surprised at the way the slaves had responded so well to the subtleties of dressage. He supposed that beneath it all they were still female and liked being displayed. It had also been decided that the shows should be extended to three day events. Some owners had protested that that would push the slaves too far but Conor had reminded them of the increased revenue it would create and of the seemingly unending supply of submissives they were tapping into in Africa, Eastern Europe and the Far East. If a few slaves became too worn out to compete they would fetch good money on the market and could be easily replaced. At the last meeting he and Conor had attended, the owners had agreed on a number of new contests that could be held in the evenings at the owners’ houses and only the very wealthiest guests would be allowed to buy their way in. The best of the slaves would compete in weight lifting by nipple and labia; the size of dildo and butt plug they could take and other more ‘intimate’ spectacles, unsuited for the broad canvas of the arena but guaranteed to make money. Finally Mark himself had unveiled what Carlo and he had developed; The Cage. This was intended to be like the grand melee the squads fought in at the close of the shows but it was for the solo fighters. By a complicated allocation of points during the show, the best two solo gladiators would go head to head in a final climactic struggle. He had watched as the owners had heard him out in delighted silence, broad grins spreading over their faces as they realised what a savagely erotic spectacle it would make and just how much more rich they were going to become.

Now it was just a fortnight till the next show. Conor had gone back to his estate in Ireland where he kept his own complement of domestic slaves and had left Mark and Carlo to make final preparations. They were seated at dinner and were surveying their four finest slaves who were spread out in full X shaped suspension in their frames, facing the dining table. They had been examined for strains and sprains and although all four were well and truly whip striped, they were still due their daily ritual of a final beating from their trainer and from Mark himself.

“I reckon we follow the usual routine, Boss,” Carlo said, sliding his chair back as the household slaves cleared the table. “Ease off from now on, just basic fitness training and dressage for these ones. Assault course running and general stamina work for the squad.”

“Yeah, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” Mark agreed. In fact bringing the star performers into the house on more occasions, it was more convenient than walking down to the stables, had been the only change they had made to their winning regime. He stretched languidly, still feeling a little jet lagged from the last meeting in Hong Kong. “You take the two on the left, I’ll beat the other two. And if we’re going into the pre-show routine, I might take the blonde downstairs for a last session tonight.”

“Sure, Boss,” Carlo agreed. “Mind if I join you? She’s something to see when she comes these days.”

“No problem. You know Conor’s thinking that in between shows we could do kind of one-off combats. Just for side bets between owners. He reckons that blonde’s the best on the whole tour and she could earn very nicely in between the big events. What d’you think?”

“Sure thing. The more that one fights the better she likes it......and the better she fucks!” He dismissed his unease. She still threw herself wholeheartedly into every fight and every test he set her and she came ever more eagerly and ever more ferociously under the whip. So what could go wrong?

He and Mark stood up, taking their whips from where they hung on the sides of the frames and positioning themselves behind the slaves. Carlo was attending to one of the brunettes and the black-haired slave. She had nearly as good tits as Blondie, he thought, he would take her down to the dungeon as well. Two pairs of stretched, cropped and hot waxed tits were better than one any day.

Patti Campbell was sweating.

John Carpenter lounged against the dungeon wall and looked on with interest. It was the first time even he had been allowed into Madame’s sanctum, deep in the cellars under The Lodge. That he was there at all was a mark of how serious the situation had become. They had returned from the show at Mark Cavanagh’s arena to find unrest among the members growing at an alarming rate. Occupancy was down and one or two subscriptions had lapsed, even some of his oldest friends were openly expressing their doubts about how long The Lodge could continue without new Housegirls to refresh the members’ jaded palates. What had been just the faintest outlines of a plan to rectify things had suddenly become their only lifeline. Patti Campbell was the key to it all. If there was any chance at all of finding a way into Cavanagh’s stable - any slight crack in the edifice - then she held the key.

Madame had been working on her almost non-stop since their return and the constant punishment sessions coupled with complete isolation from the members and the other girls - which meant absolutely no sex - were beginning to tell. At first it had seemed hopeless, she had told them everything she knew and that appeared to be that. But Madame was certain the girl was holding something back.

Patti had been stretched out on a table, her arms were tied full stretch behind her head, the wrists bound to the legs at that end. Her own legs were spread and stretched so that her ankles were tied to the table legs at the other end, the edge of the table cutting into the backs of her thighs just below the buttocks. Her position thrust her breasts up very nicely and exposed the cunt very well but it was not the most punishing bondage he had ever seen. However the girl had been there for nearly a whole day and was beginning to crack under the patient and knowledgeable torment. Madame was walking around her, flicking at her with a multi-bladed flogger, making the sweating body writhe but never allowing her to reach the peak she was plainly desperate to attain.

“So tell me again. Why did you escape?”

“I told you, Madame!” the slave moaned. “I was scared of Conor.”

“Patti, when I start on the needles in your tits, you’ll probably wet my nice dungeon floor. But there won’t be any orgasm for you. You’ll be paraded in disgrace and returned to solitary confinement and then we’ll do it all over again. And again. And again. Until you tell me the full truth.”

Madame paused to let the whip’s lashes trail over the heaving breasts. Patti tried to arch herself, offering herself for the whip. But Madame was implacable and lifted the whip away. Instead she moved and caressed the engorged labia with the lashes.

Quite suddenly the girl broke.

In a sob-racked babble she told Madame how she had been jealous of the blonde and how she had set her sister-slave up to cover her own escape.

This was news indeed. Madame’s eyes glittered in fury as she listened and John realised why the girl had held out so long. All the Housegirls worshipped Madame and she was very hot on loyalty between them. Patti Campbell was in deep trouble but before the interrogation went down that track, John stepped in.

“But what convinced you that the blonde would want to escape? Everyone says she loves what she does.”

There was a slight pause and he held his breath.

“Because she hates Conor Brien. I saw it in her eyes when he was at an arena. She really, really hates him.”

John breathed out and exchanged glances with Madame, they stepped out into the low-ceilinged corridor and conferred. It was, just possibly, the break they had been looking for. Reputedly the best fighter on the circuit retaining enough of her individuality to openly hate her owner.

“It all depends on how far they broke her spirit in the arena when we saw her,” John said.

“She is exceptionally tough that one. And if I’m any judge of slaves,” Madame replied, “I’d say she’s bonded with her trainer now alright. But she goes very deep and it could be that in the right circumstances, her hatred of this Conor will re-surface.......”

“And we’ll need to be there when it does. I’m going to call Ali and tell him to stick close to that trainer and the blonde,” John finished for her.

“And in the meantime, I’m going to give that wretch in there a taste of what she condemned the blonde to,” Madame said in a steely tone which boded very ill for the girl in question.

Chapter 15

Tara knew perfectly well when the next show was imminent. As before the whole estate seethed with activity and apart from basic feeding, hygiene and grooming the slaves were left in their stalls. She paced around at the end of her chain, impatient to get going but dreading those awful crates that had been used previously. In the event though her fears were groundless. The venue they were travelling to was much further away and the slaves were transported in relative comfort for the long flight.

They were taken by trucks out to the airfield where a small fleet of twin prop planes awaited them. Down each side of each plane’s fuselage ran a simple bench seat and the girls were sat on these. Their wrists were clipped together and their hands pushed down between their legs. Then a long chain was run through the loops on their ankle restraints fed up and through the loops on their wrist restraints and padlocked to the seats’ steel legs at either end. Four guards travelled in each plane, the rest going in separate planes and some in the estate’s helicopters.

The journey was very long and equally as tedious as there were no windows. Tara used the time to sleep and conserve energy, waking only when they touched down several times for refuelling. Occasionally one of the guards would approach a girl and have her fellate him while the others looked on enviously but it seemed like an eternity before they landed one more time and the guards began to unfasten the chains.

They emerged into sunshine as brilliant as that which they had become accustomed to at home. But here there were palm trees and in the distance a sea of the most brilliant blue Tara had ever seen outside a travel brochure. She squinted around her until her eyes adjusted and hazarded a guess that they might be somewhere in the Caribbean. The airport buildings consisted of little more than corrugated iron-roofed huts. But the fleet of trucks waiting for them was modern and well cared for.

Her impression about their location was reinforced by the fact that the guards from the host stable were mainly black but wherever they were it didn’t matter greatly to her. Her newfound calm acceptance of her life left her free to exult in the building excitement she felt at the approach of yet another show. And this time she would be one of the star performers, but not in the way she had been for the last show. This time she would be doing what she had been born for and Carlo would be watching her all the way.

They bumped along unmade roads for maybe half an hour before the truck pulled off onto smooth tarmac, passed under an arch of white stone and entered the estate.

Smooth lawns stretched out for acres on either side of the road, here and there ornamental fountains played and stands of palm trees provided shade. Already there were a few guests taking late afternoon drinks and talking. As always they were beautifully dressed, the women in long, cool dresses or short revealing ones, all of which were tailored with the quiet elegance which bespoke quality and huge price tags. Perhaps, long ago, Tara might have reacted with shame and envy to her blatant nudity in front of these elegant peacocks but now she simply registered them and immediately turned her attention to seeking out Carlo. He was all that concerned her.

The trucks drove past a long, hacienda-like building and then passed under another arch before coming to a halt in a vast courtyard surrounded by single storey buildings. Here they finally stopped and their own guards supervised the unloading and distribution of the slaves to their various barracks. Tara and her three stablemates were led by their tongue rings into the shade of a long but high roofed building with a stone floor. It echoed as the guards exchanged comments and the grooms fussed over their charges. Down at the far end of the long stable block Tara could hear horses stamping and whinnying at this disturbance to their routine.

She was ushered into a stall by her groom, chained to the wall as normal and left alone as the girl set about unpacking all her tack and the whips Carlo employed on her and hanging them up on the wall opposite the stall. Tara calmly set about settling herself on her straw and resting as much as she could.

As the climate was so similar to the one they were used to, the visiting team was given just one full day to rest after their journey and in the evening after that the parade and the dressage took place.

As the sun began to set in blood-red splendour over the sea on that day, Carlo made his way down from the main house to supervise Blondie’s tacking up for the parade with unsettled spirits. He had had a curious conversation with Ali only a few hours before. He had been inspecting the opposing team’s tack and whips and when he had emerged from the barracks he had found Ali waiting for him. He had always liked the tall Sudanese, he always seemed cheerful and had an eye for a good slave almost the equal of Carlo’s own, the two had settled into a companionable stroll across the beautifully tended lawns where the dressage was to take place and where already a white-fenced ring had been constructed. For a while they had been silent but then the Sudanese had broken it.

“How’s Blondie doing?”

The question startled Carlo. “Fine! Why do you ask?”

Ali shrugged. “Don’t know, just a hunch that’s all.”

“What sort?” Carlo stopped and faced the taller man. “Come on Ali, what’s eating you, eh?”

Ali chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. “She goes real deep that one,” he said at last. “I was at quite a few of the Doc’s sessions too, Carlo. And just like everyone else I saw you beat the crap out of her in the arena. But I wonder, can you really beat everything out of a girl like that?”

The thought that his carefully constructed sequence of punishments might not have been entirely successful made Carlo react aggressively.

“She’s fine! I say, she is fine. And when Carlo says a slave is fine - she’s fine!” He turned to walk away but Ali reached for him and held him back by one arm.

“Listen Carlo, my friend. Right now that slave is the most valuable property on the whole circuit. She’s worth more money than you or I will ever see.” His voice was low and urgent. “You know what it’s like with Conor Brien. It’s like working for an unexploded bomb. Now if anything should happen - anything at all Carlo - he would trash her. He would take your best slave - the best you ever trained - and trash her.”

The two men stared at each other for a second but it was Carlo who looked away first. Ali relaxed and gave his customary brilliant grin. “Just keep your eyes peeled, Carlo. That’s all I’m saying. For the sake of the stable, for your sake......and maybe hers too.”

Then he turned and strode away.

Conor Brien and the big blonde; suddenly Carlo felt as if he was caught between two millstones which were inexorably grinding towards each other. In their own ways each of them was somehow larger than life. He shook his head in disbelief, he would never have believed he could think about a slave like that.

Tara came hurriedly to her feet as she saw Carlo approach and open the half door to her stall, placing her hands neatly and expectantly behind her back, parting her legs ready for her tack to be fitted. But she was surprised to find her master was not his usual brusque and assured self. He clicked his tongue and ‘shushed’ her as usual, stroking her hair and feeding her a sweet with his other hand but there was an odd note of anxiety in his voice as he stroked her breasts and flanks, making her quiver with pleasure.

“Gonna be a
good
show this one. Best one ever, eh, Blondie?”

His hands had reached her lower stomach by then and slowly they made their way between her legs, his fingers splaying her labia and seeking out her rapidly erecting clitoris. As the devoted pony she was, she leaned towards him and rested her head on his shoulder, letting her tongue ring, her treasured symbol of servitude, slide against his neck. To her utter amazement he slid his fingers up into the hot moistness of her vagina and began stirring her, as if he was about to take her. But he never, never did that prior to a show.

He withdrew his fingers and stepped behind her, pushing down on the small of her back to make her bend forwards. In a haze of delighted uncertainty, she obeyed instantly, hoping against hope he might break his rule but terribly afraid he was just playing with her prior to lubricating her butt plug.

But no sooner had she bent than she felt his familiar, thick shaft press against her labia and let them suction open slowly until her vagina drew him in and clasped his length. She moaned in complete happiness and he began a leisurely thrusting rhythm, all the time talking to himself, describing how he would lash her in the pony races, his hands still stroking her hips and buttocks. She wriggled more firmly against him in response and his hands began to trace the lines of imaginary weals that the upcoming combats would score on her back and she eagerly rotated and ground against him, loving every second of this unexpected treat. Then, quite suddenly, he grabbed her hair and began to pummel himself into her, catapulting her into an orgasm so sudden that she cried out. She barely felt his sperm splash out into her before he had pushed her away roughly and she nearly fell. But it was as if whatever had been preoccupying him before had been dismissed from his mind and suddenly he was his usual self, bustling round her, slapping her rump to hurry her up, cleaning her vagina out with his fingers and making her lick them clean. Then at last with her blue plumes nodding proudly, her thighs wiped carefully clean of any trace of sperm and her nipples pierced and chiming as she moved; she was ready.

At first all eight ponies and traps were paraded around the outer perimeter of the ring, allowing the guests to reach over the rail and assess each slave. Tara was well used to this and suffered the hands to squeeze her breasts, massage her thigh muscles and slip between her legs to grip and pinch her labia as they plumped out around the bisecting strap. As usual she was not interested in understanding what was said and in any case much of it wasn’t said in English, but she felt there was an odd sort of respect in the way she was handled this time and there was an undeniable note of pride in her master’s voice as he answered questions put to him.

Then the event got under way properly. First came the individual rounds and Tara strained every fibre of her being to please Carlo better than she had ever done before, taking mincing steps in her high heels, making her tail sway, veering to right and left with no jerk to her trap whatever. When the order to ‘Trot on’ came she lifted her knees practically to her chest with each step and set every bell on her harness ringing so loudly she got a spontaneous round of applause. And at the end, when she backed the trap carefully between the poles set for it, without touching either one and then went on one knee in homage to her audience and bowed her head, she got an even louder cheer. One by one they were put through their paces. One slave on each team hit the poles on the reverse section but as Tara stood watching outside the ring, still harnessed to the trap she felt that her stable had the edge - just.

In the team event, the blues were drawn first. Again they walked on, trotted on, heads held proudly high, knees lifting in unison and to the same height. Again they veered smoothly to left and right, and came back to an immaculately straight line abreast. But when it came time to wheel in formation, she realised how painstaking Carlo’s preparation had been. Somehow he must have found out the dimensions of this ring in advance because he had been rehearsing them to exactly the right radius. Tara always ran the outside when the team wheeled, her longer legs made it easier for her to make the extra pace without seeming to hurry, while at the inside of the line the black haired slave who was the shortest, turned almost on a sixpence. Tara flashed by the excited faces of the crowd lining the ring for two complete circuits before, exactly as rehearsed, the inside trap turned and stopped dead, the second described a tight circle to bring it round to stand beside it, the third described a slightly larger one and fetched up beside the second and Tara, Carlo’s whip resting on her left shoulder, her left rein maintaining just the right pressure, wheeled round behind them and drew up beside the third, Carlo reining her in at exactly the right time to re-form the perfect line abreast. Four whips touched the backs of four right thighs in perfect unison and four placid ponies went gracefully to one knee.

The opposition, in purple plumes, were good, but their trainer had not had Carlo’s imagination and it was to the blue team the judge came. As the trainer’s pony, it was to Tara’s right breast that the rosette was pinned, the judge pinching a small ridge of flesh and passing the pin through it. There was good-natured laughter from the crowd as she fidgeted enough for Carlo to have to flick her with his whip while she was decorated.

Back in the stable there was jubilation.

The four slaves stood in a line close together tethered by their tongue rings to a rail outside the stable while the grooms rubbed them down. Dressage was a new event but once again the blues had emerged victorious. The grooms were still only allowed their ragged shirts and Tara was vaguely aware of the guards’ hands being slipped up between their legs and their giggles as they towelled her down. She gazed steadily ahead at the white stucco of the wall her ears only attuned to Carlo’s voice, her body waiting for his touch. And sure enough he made his way along their line, stroking, petting, calming as he went until he came to her and then his fingers slid up into her.

Tara had enjoyed the warm feel of the girls around her, her fellow slaves’ thighs and shoulders rubbing with hers, but one touch from Carlo and she was desperate for more. She dipped her head forwards to take her tongue ring in behind her teeth and swallow before she drooled too much but then his hands were on her, stroking the curves of her flanks and haunches and making her skin shimmy with pure pride.

But suddenly there was the sound of a man’s voice which she didn’t like. It was loud and bursting with arrogance and suppressed violence that instinctively she recoiled from. It seemed to belong to some remote bit of her past. She was vaguely aware that she
ought
to know whose voice it was but she didn’t
want
to know, all she cared about were the slow, proud caresses of her true master. They didn’t stop; his hands kept sliding over her buttocks while some conversation went on and she was content with that, shaking her head and frisking flies away. But the strange man’s voice wouldn’t go away, it had awoken something deep inside her and disturbed the dreamlike state she had existed in since her punishment had been completed. And when the groom led her to her stall that night she wouldn’t settle until she had had some lashes from the buggy whip. Carlo didn’t deliver them but the thought that it was his whip was enough and once the groom had lashed her back four times she was content to settle down.