PROLOGUE
Basking in the heat of the
sub-tropical afternoon, two men, both carrying the intangible air of great wealth,
leaned on a low concrete parapet, their hands casually straying over the bodies
of the two girls who attended them. The girls were dressed in simple, very
short, white tunics and had high-heeled, strappy sandals on their feet. They
stood, one girl by each man with their hands behind their backs and their legs
far enough apart for the men to explore and fondle what lay between the long,
tanned thighs. The strained expressions on the girls' faces betrayed the fact
that they had endured the casual explorations sufficiently long enough to be
near their climaxes but neither one dared to make any sound which might disturb
the concentration of the men.
And what they were concentrating
upon was taking place beneath them. The parapet ran in a circle about forty
feet in diameter, and while on their side it stood a mere four feet above the
ground, it dropped fifteen feet sheer on the other to form a pit. On the sand
covered floor of the pit, two girls were fighting and the men studied them
steadily and appraisingly. Professionally.
The girls were naked apart from
leather triangles at their crotches, held up with thin laces over their hips.
Their lithe bodies gleamed with oil and streamed with rivulets of sweat as they
fought under the hot sun. The contest was a combination of boxing and
wrestling, a sport that would have been familiar to the Romans. Each girl wore
strapping over her knuckles and from the way their arms swung when they
punched, and from the recipient's grimace and grunt of pain, one could deduce
that the straps were weighted. But wearing the straps didn't prevent use of the
hands as boxing gloves might and frequently the combatants came together and
wrestled.
The men watched critically as
female thigh muscles strained and superbly honed buttocks hollowed and clenched
with effort as the girls pressed breast to breast, the soft masses squeezing
out sideways as they pressed into one another. Hands clawed and dug into buttock
flesh and occasional blows were traded to ribs. For a long moment the
combatants held and then the contest became a real catfight as eventually hair
was grabbed and heads were pulled back. The small arena echoed to the thuds of
solid blows landing on flesh and the grunts of exertion and pain as the bodies
grappled and the arms swung, delivering blows which left livid marks instantly.
The girls' free fists continued
to windmill as they wrenched each other's head back but one girl got lucky and
landed a punch to her opponent's breast. The men watched as it flattened back
almost to the rib cage, the girl screamed and twisted away, losing her hold.
The other girl followed up with punches to the stomach while she still held her
opponent's hair. For a while she led her victim about, continuing the
punishment until the battered girl was staggering blindly and then she
delivered an uppercut which felled her instantly and had her writhing on the
sand.
The victorious girl knelt down
over her defeated foe's face and slowly parted her knees until her shaved
crotch settled over the loser's gasping mouth, then she reached forwards and
clawed her fingers into the slightly flattened breasts before her. Immediately
the body arched and a muffled squeal of protest came from between the victor's
legs as the bruised flesh was squeezed cruelly. Then the men watched as the
pink tongue came from between the loser's lips and began to caress and explore
the engorged labia above it.
And while the tongue swirled and
lapped busily, the victor turned and held up her right arm towards the men who
glanced at each other and then held out their own arms - with the age-old
gesture of the thumb pointing down. They watched for a moment longer and then
the blond, more heavily built of the two men threw a multi-lashed whip to the
victor.
The victor stood up and retrieved
the whip while the defeated girl licked her lips and glanced anxiously up at
her masters.
"Twenty lashes," the blond man
said.
Pausing only to watch the first
few of the of the whiplashes scythe down onto the prone girl, turning to his
companion, he dismissed the girl at his side with a resounding smack to her
rump.
Shrill cries and whip smacks
echoed up over his comments as he turned away.
"It was a good fight, but we
need to add something more before the audiences tire of it. We need more of a
spectacle."
His companion, and number two in
their joint enterprise, comfortably over six feet tall himself but of slenderer
build, pulled his gaze reluctantly from the pit where the victor was now plying
the whip enthusiastically across the body which squirmed and yelped on the sand
before her. Withdrawing the hand which had been rummaging between the thighs of
his attendant girl, he dismissed her also.
"You have something specific in
mind?"
"We all know the fights have been
a good money spinner. The punters pay a fortune to see single female combat to
the blood. But we could widen the scope. Invent new contests for the slaves. And
this is my main point, have more of them. We could put up a whole squad of our
slaves against a squad of another owner's - mass combat. And I've a few more
ideas I'll tell you about over dinner. But above all what we need is real
arenas."
"It'll cost millions."
The bigger man laughed,
"Christ! We've got millions. Not only us but the others as well.
And if we start planning now, in a couple of years you and I will be deeper in
clover than we ever dreamed we could be."
"Okay, I suppose you're
right. We made a good killing with that last show and if we expand on the scale
you're suggesting............well it could make our oil revenues look like
monopoly money. I think we should call everyone together for a meeting to
discuss it."
"Right! Do it now and arrange
the meeting in London. In the meantime I'm going to take a look at a little
place that's caught my eye. After that I want to fly back and do some sniffing
around in the dear old UK."
Down in the arena, the gladiators
were led away on collars and leads, both destined for the showers and then
grooming. Bruises, cuts and all, they would be required by their masters for
further sport later on. And their masters were two of the super rich - the
makers and breakers of governments and countries - they were two of The Owners.
Chapter 1
The chequerboard fields of the
English countryside wheeled and spun dizzily beneath Tara as she plunged from
the plane. Her ears were filled with the roar of the wind and a gaping pit
seemed to open up in her stomach as she gave herself to the void. She screamed
in excitement at the thrill of abandoning her body to the frail web of nylon
slung on her back, at the sheer exhilaration of willingly stepping from the
plane to see what happened next. It was nothing like the practices in the
hangar at the airfield far below. It was the best thrill yet. Her suit drummed
and hammered at her in the tornado of her falling and she spread herself on the
air to make the descent last as long as she could before having to open the
parachute. White water rafting, bungee jumping, snowboarding; she'd tried them
all, loving to pit herself and her body against whatever the world could throw
at her. But this was the best.
It was almost as though the thump
of the parachute opening which jerked her sharply as it braked the career of
her free-fall, was pulling her back to earth and she sighed in disappointment,
as safely now, she swung gently down. But she would be back, oh yes. Just as
soon as she landed, she would book for the next course, and the next, going
higher and higher each time. Prolonging that exquisite feeling of complete
abandonment she had experienced while she rejoiced in her fitness and strength
as she plunged and soared in a world inhabited only by those who shared the
secret. She felt she had joined a sort of brotherhood, people united by their
willingness to fling themselves into empty space and risk everything for the
sheer thrill of that very risk.
She managed the landing with no
problem, her strong thighs giving under her, absorbing the shock as she rolled
and then came back up to start unbuckling her harness.
In the changing room Tara used
the primitive shower. She waited till the other two women had gone back into
the changing room proper before she succumbed to the excitement that had been
building in her ever since she had landed. It was a deep visceral need,
blatantly sexual, centred right in her groin. She had no idea why, but after
she successfully completed every challenge she set herself, she was left with
an aching void between her legs. And nothing would do but that she fill it with
whatever came to hand. She desperately needed a rock- hard penis plunged in to
the hilt and reaming her to the very neck of her womb, but she seemed fated
never to find what she needed. In despair she had watched time and again as her
less attractive friends had walked off with men she fancied. But at five feet
nine inches in her stockinged feet, a mane of honey blonde hair, 36D breasts
which needed a bra only to steady them rather than support their proud curves,
and her long legs......Her legs! She had almost come to hate them. How many
times had she seen male eyes travel slowly up from the slender ankles to the
graceful curves of her calves then up again to the smooth-skinned and long
thighs, the prominent buttocks and trim waist, only to watch them conclude that
she couldn't possibly be for them, and turn away. She had decided sourly that
the bulge in their trousers was in inverse proportion to their courage.
She had resorted to self-help and
masturbated freely and without guilt. Now she spread her legs as the warm water
cascaded over the curves of her body and reached down to start rubbing at her
frantically erect clitoris, splitting her engorged labia with her fingers and
feeling how the inner lips had unfurled and filled. She bucked her hips forward
to meet her own thrusts and groaned out loud in delight as she heard the other
women vacate the changing room and leave her safely alone. As always at these
times she came quickly, the orgasm not being satisfactory, merely adequate
until she got home and could settle down to using one of her biggest dildos.
She stepped out of the shower and
went into the changing room to towel down and dress. She was giving her crotch
more attention than it strictly needed, the towel rubbing hard between her open
legs when the door crashed open and a man entered.
Tara whirled to face him,
instinctively holding the towel in front of her. Terrified, she nonetheless
took in the fact that the man was big, about six feet four, and broad
shouldered to match. She reckoned he was in his mid-forties, his face
weather-beaten and bordered with a neatly trimmed beard.
Quite unconcerned he strode to
the centre of the room and surveyed her as she cowered behind the small towel.
His gaze was steady and appreciative and his stance; wide legged, fists on hips
seemed to suggest he owned the room rather than being an intruder.
"Did you enjoy it
then?" he asked with an unmistakable Irish burr in his accent.
"What?" She was
appalled at the frightened squeak which emerged from her lips.
"The jump, girl! Did you
like it?"
"Yes! I....look this is the
ladies'!"
"Good," he nodded
thoughtfully, totally ignoring her stuttered protest. "Knew you would of
course. I've been watching you."
Suddenly Tara was aware of having
seen him a couple of times, out of the corner of her eye, just part of the
background when she had come for training sessions.
"I'm taking you out to
dinner tonight," he announced with absolute certainty. "I'll meet you
out front." He turned on his heel and was gone, leaving Tara staring open
mouthed at the door.
Who the hell....just who the
bloody hell did he think he was!? Her thoughts roiled in fury as she dressed.
Just marching in here and practically ordering me out on a date. The arrogant
bastard!
She dragged a brush through her
hair with unnecessary force in front of the mirror, but stopped short when she
recalled her earlier thoughts about her problems with men. Whatever else he
was, this man wasn't frightened of her beauty. But his arrogance! Well, she
decided, two could play at that game.
Tara marched out of the changing
room, safely dressed in jeans, sweatshirt and leather jacket. But very aware of
the tingling warmth in the pit of her stomach.
He was waiting for her in the shabby
foyer of the old aerodrome, standing again four square in the middle of the
floor, exuding utter self-confidence which hot-wired Tara's anger, curiosity
and arousal all at the same time. She set her jaw and strode up to him.
"Right, you arrogant shit,
whoever you are. I'll let you take me out tonight, but we'll go via my flat. I
need to change."
He merely grinned at her and met
her angry glare.
"I've got a feeling you'd
look beautiful in whatever you chose to put on.....or take off," he said.
Tara's jaw nearly dropped at his
calmly lascivious rejoinder, but she managed to snap it shut and strode out
with a curt, "Follow me!"
In the car park she climbed into
her open-topped MGF and surreptitiously watched the strange man ease into an
impressive Mercedes coupe. Tara gunned the motor and pulled off, grimly
determined to drive with all the aggression she could muster. She burned rubber
out into the traffic, ran a set of lights at red, lane swapped and cornered the
responsive little car to its limits. As ever a moist warmth spread up from her
crotch as she drove, or did anything right to the edge. She rode the car as if
it was a spirited horse, curbing it with the gears, spurring it with the
accelerator. But all the time the Mercedes grille stayed in her rear view
mirror. The man was at least as good as she was. It could prove an interesting
night, she thought, and by the time she squealed to a halt outside her flat,
she was aware that fresh knickers were definitely required.
Without a backward glance at the
grey Merc, she walked in and up to her first floor flat. But as soon as she was
in she looked down through the lace curtains at her bedroom window. He was
leaning nonchalantly against the car, waiting. God! He was a big man. As she
riffled hurriedly through her wardrobe she hoped that her dildos weren't going
to be needed.
She discarded any long dresses,
or trousers and settled on a short summer number in dark blue with spaghetti
straps at the shoulders, a low cut, tight bodice and short flaring skirt. Under
it she pulled up a flimsy thong and then slipped into high-heeled sandals with
sexily thin ankle straps. Hastily she sprayed perfume down the front of her
dress, then hitched up the skirt and sprayed a little around her fluttering sex
lips, gasping as the cold spray hit the heated flesh and stung bitterly. A
quick rasp with the hairbrush again and she was running back downstairs.
Belatedly she realised that the flat was a complete tip, undies and old TV
dinners were strewn everywhere. Tough! If they came back to her place, he damn
well wasn't going to be looking at the decor, she decided.
But she never did return.
Inside the front door she paused
to collect herself, smoothed down her dress, fluff up her hair and regain her
cool. But she would see how cool he kept when faced with the amount of breast
and thigh she was displaying. Then she walked out to meet this strange man and
briefly she realised that she felt as she had earlier, just before she stepped
out of the plane and threw herself into the unknown. There was the same feeling
of abandonment to whatever fate held in store. Her heart pounded with
excitement.
To her delight the man gave a
soft whistle of appreciation as she strode towards him, hips swaying and silky
smooth breastflesh rippling with each step. She felt the warm evening air
caress her upper thighs under the scant covering and bring some welcome cool to
her molten crotch. She allowed him to help her into the car and settled back
sensuously into the leather upholstery, deliberately letting the skirt ride up
as far as it would.
The man grinned his infuriating
grin again. But she could tell by the straining bulge in his trousers that she
had scored.
"I'm taking you somewhere
you'll like," he said quietly.
And drove her away.