Prologue
Conor Brien laughed in sheer exhilarated
delight as the chariot accelerated down the home straight. Beside him the
driver shouted and swung his whip high above his head to bring it slicing down
across the sweating backs of the two pony slaves directly in front. Beyond them
were four more slaves running alongside each other, tethered to a wide crossbar
and pounding along the floor of the brand new track. Conor swung his long
driving whip across their straining backs and rippling buttocks as the whole
rig jolted and shook with its own speed across the ground. A warm wind played
in his face as he turned slightly, hanging on to the handrail for dear life but
with adrenalin flooding his veins, to look at the competing rig. The naked
thighs of the slaves pulling it flashed up and down as they pounded alongside.
He took a slash at them with his whip but their driver was keeping them out of
range. Mark Cavanagh, Conor's number two in command of both his arena and his
business empire, and acting as whipman in the second chariot, laughed in his
turn and flicked his own whip at the straining front row of slaves, making
contact this time. They threw their heads back as the whipcord stung them but
surged forwards and Conor turned his attention back to his own team. He threw
the whip repeatedly in roundhouse strikes, aiming to go over the slaves'
shoulders and tickle up the tightly strapped breasts. His aim was true and in
its turn his rig surged onwards and now the turn at the far end of the newly
constructed circus was looming. The four men braced themselves in the two
flying chariots; Conor ready to lean out to his right and balance the rig as it
skidded round the tight turn. Beside him the driver yelled and jerked at the
right hand reins wrapped round his waist. The front four slaves' heads snapped
round and the chariot veered to the right. Now Conor got off two slashes at his
opponent's slaves, around their bits they squealed as the cord bit at their
flying legs, the sounds resonating and reverberating around the empty terraces.
Mark tried the same tactic and then the chariots were alongside each other. The
air was filled with rapid fire smacks and hisses from the whips, the twelve
straining slaves squealed and shrieked around their bits as they struggled with
their foes and with the whips, their backs shining in the sun and sporting fine
networks of welts. Sweat and saliva flew in a fine spray as the battle for
space to turn in heated up and the end of the centre boarding came ever closer.
All four men were yelling incoherent encouragements to their teams as Conor's
driver dragged on the reins again, trying to force his team round and slam
Mark's into the boarding. The outside two slaves of each of the front ranks had
armoured sheaths on their forearms and the closest two were flailing at each
other desperately. Then suddenly both chariots cleared the boarding and just as
his driver was about to jerk the reins hard right again and try to stop Mark's
team from driving them far too wide one of the front runners lost her footing.
She went down in a cloud of dust and with a despairing scream, immediately the
slave running beside her was brought down and the front crossbar dug into the
sand and spun the rig about its own axis, the driver was dragged forwards over
the handrail and the chariot smashed helplessly into Mark's team and the slaves
went down in a tangled and rolling heap. Conor himself was thrown clear over
the front handrail but landed safely on soft female flesh which squirmed and
wriggled under him as he lay panting and dazed for a moment. Then he pushed
himself up to a sitting position, using the delightful cushion of a buttock
under one hand and the breast of a groaning slave under the other.
Beside him Mark too was sitting up, grinning
happily, one hand playing between the legs of a sprawling slave, stroking the
plump labia which were bisected by the thin strap of her harness.
"Good as far as it went, me bucko," Conor said,
standing up and dusting himself off. "But we still need to work on the
surfacing. It's got to be firmer."
"We could give them spikes to run in," Mark
suggested, reluctantly taking his hand away from the girl and standing up to
join his boss.
Both men looked down at the squirming mass of
tangled femininity, shackled by their wrists to the crossbars of the chariots,
they had had no choice but to collapse into the maelstrom of thrashing limbs as
the chariots crashed. The two drivers were gradually sorting through the
twisted traces and hauling up each slave as she was freed. There appeared to be
no more damage than a few scratches and scrapes to the superbly toned and
tanned bodies, naked apart from bridles, bits, tit straps and crotch harnesses.
"Nah," Conor said eventually. "There'd be too
much damage in a collision and you know what it's like nowadays, the costs of having
them laid up are fierce, what with the vet bills and all."
Mark nodded his agreement and called across to
one of the drivers.
"Gerd! Spread some more gravel, roller it in
and then run two more teams. Fresh ones. I want to see how it holds up at full
speed. You up for another race, Conor?"
"No, I've got some calls to make. But if the
surface holds good, we'll have some fun later. I need to call Fitzgerald. It's
time I called in that favour I did him last year."
"Yeah, you're right. Snake's about ready I
reckon, so it's high time we went for the big one," Mark said and turned back
to sorting through the wreckage.
Conor walked back down the length of the
circus. With the advent of the six slave chariots and their new design the
speeds they were capable of had forced the owners of the modern arenas to begin
to adopt the design of the long, narrow circuses the Romans had used to race
their chariots in, the arenas being too short for the rigs to achieve their
full speed and provide the spectacle they were capable of.
But even as he left the circus and the echoing
whip cracks and bit-muffled squeals behind him, his thoughts turned from
pleasure to business. Snake, the most dedicated masochist any of the men on
Conor's island estate had ever seen was nearly ready to play her part in the
spectacle he had been planning for over a year now...
She had taken to the arenas with an almost
feral ferocity. In some ways, he supposed, it was understandable, before she
had been trained for the arenas she had been kept as a partly wild animal on
his island. In almost her first appearance in his colours she had seen off the
great Ayesha and since then she had gone on to achieve an unbroken run of
victories in studded whip duelling, whip duelling, boxing and wrestling that
had the world of the arenas once again beating a path to his door, as they had
once when he had owned the great Blondie.
Even now he could scarcely bear to think of how
she had been snatched away from him. But the time was approaching when he might
be able to do something about that; and Snake was vital to his plans. But then,
so were some other people.
Chapter 1
From the outside, the house just looked very,
very expensive and for the most part that's what it was, the kind of house a
wealthy hotelier would own in a very expensive part of London. However Sir John
Fitzgerald had made some interesting additions to the basement. Instead of a
vinyl cover for the swimming pool, he had had a special plywood cover made in
sections. It was sturdy enough to take the weight of the select gatherings he
hosted there, as well as tough enough to withstand the weight of a body falling
on it. Currently that was what it was coping with. A roped off ring occupied
the centre of the space above the pool and around it an avid audience was
watching three naked women wrestling. It was clear that two of the women were
trying to operate as a team but the third was far too good for them. She was a
tall, black-haired beauty, well-proportioned and long legged. Sir John watched
her with a sort of predatory intent as he had over five thousand pounds bet on
her to beat the other two inside ten minutes. At the moment the big stopwatch
on the wall stood at eight minutes.
The large, airy room echoed to the shouts of
encouragement from the audience, all of whom had money riding on the outcome.
All three women were dishevelled and panting in the heat - Sir John had found
it advisable to ensure the heavy, double drapes were drawn across the windows
onto the atrium - the two who formed the duo were both scratched on their faces
and across their breasts. In the heat of the battle, most of the rules had gone
out of the window, to the delight of the onlookers and as many punches and
raking of clawed fingers had been traded as proper throws. All in all it was a
great night's entertainment and as long as his slave, Ayesha, won in the next
two minutes it would be perfect.
As he watched, his tall, black-haired slave,
caught one opponent in a headlock and as her ally approached, she dropkicked
her, one foot catching her between the breasts, the other on her chin. She went
down and was out cold immediately so Ayesha set about finishing off the other
one.
Her two opponents had been good enough
amateurs, but she was a product of the Bakhtar arena and was a hardened veteran
of their training methods. Sir John knew that and began to relax. Ayesha would
watch the clock and provide a good show before finishing her opponent off. As
he watched she released the headlock, applied an armlock and then threw the
woman against the ropes, the crowd cheered as her large breasts wobbled, but
then she was staggering forwards and Ayesha simply bent down, let the other
woman half trip over her back and then stood up. With a despairing wail, the
woman somersaulted high in the air and then landed heavily, making the floor
bounce and causing shock waves to ripple through her amply fleshed body. Sir
John looked up and caught her master's look of fury. The wretch would need all
her flesh, he thought, she was going to take a thrashing for having failed him.
The whips were beginning to fall across the
backs of the vanquished slaves as Sir John collected his winnings, Ayesha
kneeling obediently at his feet when his private secretary informed him that
there was a call for him. He took it in his study, having clicked his fingers
to indicate that Ayesha should crawl after him and serve as a footstool while
he talked. As it turned out, she herself was the subject of the call.
"Yes, I've got her right here, Conor," Sir John
said, moving one foot so that it could rub the side of one of Ayesha's full
breasts as it hung beneath her chest. "Well today's Saturday, so if you could
give me a fortnight to say my farewells to the slut, I'll deliver her then and
make the other arrangements. You know I'm grateful for the help you gave me in
purchasing her, I won't let you down on my side of the bargain."
He put the phone down and stared thoughtfully
at his slave as she knelt, impassive as always, awaiting his bidding. Suddenly
he took his feet off her back and sat forwards, gripping her right breast hard
and then squeezing still harder. Ayesha's eyes clenched shut, she gritted her
teeth and her breath hissed from her lips but she made no move to escape.
"You know that Conor Brien helped me buy you
when your first owner got bored with you?"
Ayesha nodded, tears oozed from her closed eyes
but whether it was from pain at her breast or from mention of her beloved first
owner, Sir John neither knew nor cared, but her tears always pleased him and he
smiled now as he leaned closer.
"You screwed my wife and planned to ruin me,
you bitch! Even though you worked for me! Well it's been a pleasure having you
all to myself but now Conor needs you to be somewhere else. In two weeks' time
I'll deliver you to where you're needed my beauty. But if you thought I'd
punished you for what you did to me, you ain't seen nothing yet. You've got
some real punishment coming your way!"
Back in the main room of the basement the two
defeated wrestlers were on their knees before the male members of the
gathering. Their masters plainly felt that the thirty or forty lashes they had
taken bent over the ropes of the ring weren't nearly enough to atone for their
failings. Each man stood behind his slave with a strap and was bestowing yet
more on his already striped property as she sucked on each cock presented to
her mouth.
"Hollow your cheeks, bitch! Beg him for his
spunk in your worthless gob!"
"Get it into your throat! And don't you dare
spill any when he comes!"
All the while the two men made the slaves'
tasks all the more difficult by the application of a steady rain of loud smacks
but still they struggled to obey, hollowing cheeks obediently and swallowing
quickly, then moving on to the next man.
"My friends!" Sir John said, leaving Ayesha
kneeling beside one wall and striding into the centre of the gathering. "I'm
sorry to curtail tonight's fun but I'm afraid I have some urgent business to
attend to and I must ask that we cut the party short."
There were groans of disappointment from all
sides and even the two defeated slaves looked crestfallen as they got to their
feet - there was a lot of unsucked cock in the room. But in less than a quarter
of an hour the room was empty and Sir John stood over Ayesha. She looked up at
him calm and unafraid, her earlier tears now dried on her cheeks. He hated it
when she wasn't afraid of him, she had always seemed to be able to put herself
somewhere else when he was punishing her and that robbed him of some of the
pleasure he felt was his due.
But he had plenty of time in which to wipe that
damned impassive look off the bitch's beautiful face and he was going to do it.
"Bring the camera to the attic," he told the
secretary. "I want to film every minute of this. We'll start with the Spike and
work from there."
Under the special sound proofing in the eaves
and behind the double, leather padded door, Sir John had built a room dedicated
to delivering the most blistering assaults of pain-laden pleasure a submissive
woman could dream of. And before he was finished, Ayesha de la Tour was going
to experience them all.
The Spike was simply a long pole with a butt
plug mounted on the top. It reared up from the floor at a steep angle just in
front of a cross beam, set in the wall, with shackles for wrist restraints
mounted on it.
Sir John leaned against the padded leather of
the inner door after he had closed it and watched Ayesha walk over to where the
Spike waited for her. She walked like a model, putting a sway in every step so
that her gracefully curved hips and the shapely buttocks atop the long thighs,
held the onlooker's eye and hot-wired the male libido. Still she seemed
unperturbed by the constant stream of threats he had treated her to as they had
made their way up through the house.
"Better get it good and lubricated," he told
her as she stood facing the apparatus, and obediently she dropped to her knees
and began to lick and kiss the blunt, pear shaped steel.
"You are despicable," he told her. "A slut who
licks where her own arse has been. The lowest of the low. You don't even put up
a fight."
She carried on licking until the steel was
running with saliva and on the command she stood and faced away from it.
Deliberately it had been made too high for a girl to wriggle herself onto, so
while Sir John began to select the range of whips he would start work with, the
secretary caught her round the hips and lifted her. While he took her weight,
she reached down behind her and, as she had been trained to do, guided the plug
with one hand while with the other she held her anus as open as she could. Sir
John stopped to watch her as her hands fumbled behind her and then she
stiffened for a second before gasping as she was lowered slightly and the blunt
head of cold steel began its progress into her. She grimaced and her hands
fluttered ineffectually around her backside as she was slowly lowered further
and then her face relaxed slightly as her sphincters were at last able to close
somewhat around the stalk. The two men then took her hands and pulled them
apart and behind her to clip her restraints to the rings on the board behind
her. That left her bent sharply backwards from the waist and by the time they
had spread and shackled her ankles similarly, spread wide and behind her, she
was bowed painfully out, away from the wall, mounted immovably on the Spike.
Ayesha carefully kept her expression neutral as
she was mounted with her limbs spread and shackled behind her, right at the
threshold of pain even before the beating began. The butt plug thrust her
pelvis forwards and its deep intrusion was uncomfortable in that posture, even
to a girl as used to buggery as she was. It also meant that the oncoming breast
and cunt whipping would be utterly unavoidable; she would just have to stand
and face every lash full on. But it was only right and proper. She had wronged
Sir John and knew she deserved everything she received from him. But it was her
first master, Peter Lang, the Prince of Bakhtar's trainer who had revealed to
her how wicked she had been and who had allowed her to redeem herself by
serving him and it was still him she worshipped. Sir John was merely the
instrument of her true master's will being worked out on her body.
She watched him laying out the whips. A good
sturdy flogger to start with, followed by a crop and a small martinet to finish
with. Inwardly she nodded her approval, it would hurt and she was under no
illusion that Sir John would stop there. However strong her determination to
serve her master was, her stomach fluttered and convulsed in nervous excitement
as she faced Sir John's cruelty.
Her position made it hard for her to keep her
head up so by the time Sir John had stripped off his shirt, dipped his fingers
into her plug-narrowed vagina and finally taken up the first whip, she had let
it hang back and was looking at the ceiling when the lashes began. Her breasts
rippled and flattened, her nipples sending shards of bright pain deep into her
as the heavy leathers thudded home. She had taken five before she could even
draw breath and no sooner had she been able to gasp in a couple of lungfuls
than Sir John began to whip her stomach. Here she could at least call on her
strength to clench against the impact of the lashes but still she couldn't
restrain the hoarse cries which escaped her each time the stinging leathers
thumped her.
"Twenty lashes," Sir John announced, standing
back and taking a rest
Ayesha shook some hair out of her eyes and
watched as he put down the flogger and took up the crop. She braced herself.
The flogger had not been too bad and had served to begin to excite her but by
changing to the crop this early in the session, Sir John was deliberately
condemning her to feeling most of what was to follow as pain before the
pleasure kicked in.
The breath exploded from her and she vainly
tried to curl up as the first lash cracked across her stomach, the path of the
shaft etching itself across the insides of her eyelids as a scarlet line.
Crack!
This time he landed the lash so that the keeper
slapped at her hard. She couldn't keep the high pitched yelp inside her as it
stung her. Five more lashes rained down in quick succession and she writhed on
her mounting and gritted her teeth against the screams. But then it stopped and
Sir John's fingers were inside her suddenly, twisting and stretching her vagina
as it was compressed from behind by the plug. The pleasure was exquisite as it
warred with the hot furnaces in her skin and she moaned helplessly. Every time
she was made to dance in the hellish light of pain and pleasure, Ayesha never
lost her surprise at how easily her masters could make her move between the two
opposites. She opened her eyes and saw Sir John looming over her. He was
smiling maliciously and she knew what he was about to do, and knew too that he
would want to look into her eyes while he did it. She kept her gaze steady as
she felt his cock stroke across her lips and come to rest at her entrance, then
it was pushing in and vying with the steel in her rectum for room inside her.
The resultant eroticism for a well-trained submissive was huge and Ayesha
exploded almost instantly into orgasm. Even as the pleasure became too much and
she had to close her eyes and let her head fall back, she knew how much
pleasure he would take in making her orgasm time and again while he moved from
punishment to ravishing pleasure. Deep inside her she felt him thrust and
thrust again, sensitising every last centimetre of her vaginal tunnel and then
rasping and squeezing it. By the time she felt him begin to spurt hot tides of
sperm into her she was almost unconscious from the delirium of successive
orgasms.
They gave her time to recover before they
started in with the crop on her breasts and by the time the secretary took her
while Sir John stood behind her belabouring the backs of her thighs she had
completely lost herself in the labyrinth of conflicting sensations and could
only orgasm until she couldn't climax any more.
The following morning as Ayesha lay in her
small bed, chained by both wrists to the bed head, conducting a mental survey
of her various welts and bruises, she heard Sir John speaking on the phone
downstairs. She heard him use the word 'marathon' and she sighed. That was the
word he used when he summoned friends to make a party up for a hard session.
Wherever it was she was going to go afterwards, she would arrive well and truly
marked.