Bound for Glory

  SILVER MOON

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  This edition published 2012

  The right of Sean O’Kane to be identified as the author of this book has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 and 78 of the Copyright and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.

  ISBN 978-1-908593-47-4

  All characters and events depicted are entirely fictitious; any resemblance to anyone living or dead is entirely coincidental

  THIS IS FICTION. IN REAL LIFE ALWAYS PRACTISE SAFE SEX

  Also by Sean O’Kane in Silver Moon

  Church of Chains

  Taming the Brat

  Tales from The Lodge (with Falconer Bridges)

  The Story of Emma

  Bad Blood (with Francine Whittaker)

  Slavemaker

  The Arena Series

  Into the Arena

  The Gladiator

  The Prize

  Slave’s Honour

  Last Slave Standing

  Girl Squad

  Naked Ambition

  Lost Property

  With thanks to Francine, ‘d’ and Hilary, to name but a few!

  Bound for Glory

  By

  Sean O’Kane

  Prologue.

  Kath felt the man kneeling behind her reach his climax, his strong hands clawed at her welted hips as he rammed himself home. She heard him shout as he emptied himself into her and once he was done she collapsed gratefully forwards onto the soft pile of exhausted female bodies on the sand of the arena floor while all around her the roar of the crowd beat on her ears like a physical force. She licked her lips as she panted for breath, her mouth tasted of men. Her chin and cheeks were crusted in their emissions, she could feel her thighs and her groin were slicked with the evidence of their pleasure and beneath her another female body squirmed weakly. Kath smiled lazily as she opened her eyes and saw a breast beside her face, the nipple hardened and standing rigidly to attention. She had no idea who it belonged to but managed to summon up enough energy to lift her face and take it into her mouth. Its rubbery texture was delicious and so was the pungent taste of fresh sperm on her tongue. From somewhere beneath her came a soft moan of pleasure. She felt a hand slide up between her own thighs and she groaned herself as she felt the fingers slide easily into her flooded vagina and begin to swirl inside her and stimulate it all over again.

  Slowly and furtively the pile of defeated slavegirls began to pleasure each other as best they could. It was a lesson the arenas taught all their slaves; take every bit of pleasure you can, wherever and however you can. Kath’s own hand reached for the anonymous girl’s other breast as she suckled and nipped at the morsel in her mouth.

  It had been a typical finale to a show that had gone on for three days. It had been held at the Proteans’ arena in the English West Country, the arena that had broken the mould and become the first officially sanctioned one in the developed world, it had even been founded by covert government activity and then sold on to a consortium. The away team had been from a stable whose arena had just opened somewhere in the north – as far as Kath had gathered from titbits in the grooms’ and guards’ conversations. The entire squads had been thrown at each other in one huge battle royal; over two hundred naked furies had scratched, hair-pulled, wrestled and flogged each other for the crowd’s delight for nearly an hour and then the men had been let loose on those who were still standing.

  That had always been Kath’s favourite part. Standing naked, nearly exhausted and welted from head to toe, facing men who were coming fresh to the fight. It was gloriously unfair and cruel and thus deeply arousing and typified the arenas’ attraction for the crowds. The guards, from both stables, didn’t care which team the girls belonged to, they were concerned only to take their pleasure with them out there on the floor of the arena, the actual winning team had been decided by that time anyway. So from then on the girls fought and were defeated purely for the pleasure it gave their conquerors and the crowd. Kath loved knowing that she would struggle in vain against the fit and strong men, putting up a good show as she went down to inevitable defeat. And they would take her however they wanted, maybe they would take a whip to her before they enjoyed her. She, like the others delighted in that, seeing their images up on the giant video screens, as they knelt before their conquerors, beaten and submissive. She loved seeing the oiled bodies of the men as they ran out, the hard plates of muscle gleaming even in the weak English sun. Their rampant cocks strained and wagged at their groins, some were strapped to make every penetration just that little bit more memorable for the girl on the receiving end. Some were pierced, the metal again threatening and promising in equal measure.

  A hand began to knead her left breast as the noise from the crowd subsided into steady applause. Immediately she ceased her own exploration of the anonymous breasts and lay still. Experience had taught her that she had to keep still at this point. Fortunately the hands that been playing with her also belonged to experienced slaves and they too ceased their movement.

  The managers and trainers were coming.

  From under her eye lashes, Kath looked to her left and saw her own manager’s highly polished brogues stop just beside her. She was familiar with them and the shine was familiar to her too – her tongue had helped put it there on many occasions over the years.

  She knew they would be waving to the crowds and taking the applause for a well staged games. Her entire body was aglow from the battering and lashing it had taken over the previous days, she was completely wrung out and had been used thoroughly in every way a man could use a woman – in the evenings as well as just during the days; an arena slave earned her keep in the dungeons as well as in the arena – and yet she would have joined in the applause had she been able. It was what made her feel most alive. She could not remember or imagine a time when she wasn’t – or wouldn’t have wanted to be - where she was just now; lying spreadeagled, naked, defeated and submissive at her Master’s feet.

  “That was a good show, Bob. You won it well, but I was pleased with my lot. It’s only their second games,” Kath heard the visiting manager say.

  “You put up a good fight and it’s got me thinking. I reckon it’s time I bought in some fresh blood.”

  The manager’s right foot moved out and probed thoughtfully at the girl Kath was lying on.

  “Some of mine have been with the stable since it opened.”

  There was a low whistle from the other man. “Must be almost twenty years isn’t it?”

  “About that. I’ll talk to the bean counters and see what we can afford. If we sell now, we’ll get a reasonable price; leave it much longer and they won’t fetch much at all.”

  The men moved off and left Kath to listen to the pounding of her heart. Tears squeezed out from her eyes. He couldn’t mean it! Could he? She was one of the ones who had been with the Proteus stable since it started. Had she really been with it that long? In the endless round of training, sex, combat, sex, competition and sex, being crated up and flown all round the world, she had lost all track of time. And the heavy tongue ring which they all wore and which made speech virtually impossible made the separation from the rest of the world even more complete.

  They couldn’t possibly cast her adrift now could they?

  Desperately she raised her head and looked around for her lover. A few feet away a dark skinned head looked up from the other side
of the now-stirring pile of women. The black girl stared back at Kath with the same look of utter terror that was in her own eyes.

  The manager of the Proteus stable was nothing if not decisive and Kath and her lover found themselves chained in the back of a truck with the other four original members of the stable only two days later.

  “You’ll get a decent price,” he had told them as they stood before his desk, hobbled by a chain from Kath’s left ankle to Sharon’s right. “You’ve worn well.”

  He came up to them and tweaked their nipples hard. “Nothing sagging, no scars to speak of. And I think you’ll do as a pair, it’ll make you more of a novelty item for a private collector – or maybe I’m just a sentimental old fool!” he said with a broad smile before dismissing them. The two exchanged glances as the door closed behind them. At least wherever they were going, they were going together. They were put in a holding cell and in the narrow cot they made love with a frenetic energy born of stark terror. At last Kath lay between Sharon’s widespread thighs, her head pillowed on one, the pink inner flesh of Sharon’s engorged and open sex before her, the taste of her on her lips. They had tongued and finger-fucked each other until they could come no more and as her body slowly relaxed, Kath’s thoughts began to wander. For the first time in – could it really be twenty years? – she thought about the outside world. Vaguely she recalled something about being a journalist and being taken on some sort of residential course that had led to the arenas. But there was no detail. There was the face of a woman though. She seemed to have been a lover of some sort from that distant and irrelevant time.

  The journey to the auction room took surprisingly little time and again she and Sharon shared a cell before being taken out the following morning and mounted for inspection. To her dismay, Kath realised that she was to be sold that very afternoon. The girls were mounted spreadeagled inside giant hoops of steel. These were hung from the ceiling of a long, low room that might have once been a barn. Her training collar and cuffs were removed – just as they were before a show – then her mouth was forced open as far as it would go and a ring gag was inserted behind her teeth, forcing her mouth to gape open at its fullest extent. She had worn these before, usually when she was hired out in one of the arena’s playrooms for a group of men who just wanted to come in her mouth as they played with her. It had been excitingly casual usage back then, making her feel slutty and wanton. Now it was hateful. The only saving grace was that as she and Sharon were being sold as an item, they were hung next to each other.

  The punters were nothing if not thorough. Stretched out as they were the slaves could do nothing except endure the most rigorous explorations of their bodies. And not just the skin tone and muscle tone were examined. Every cavity was explored and evaluated. Kath had her teeth tested and yanked, just to ensure they were her own. Her breasts were palpated and twisted and kneaded. Her nipples were pulled and twisted until she had to give an incoherent scream from behind her gag. Her tongue was pulled out through the ring gag by its own ring and its colour commented on. Her vagina was spared nothing but after the first penetration her nature betrayed her and despite everything, no lubrication was needed. Some of the punters had dilators and she squealed as she felt herself opened until she was really scared. Beside her, Sharon’s extraordinary elasticity was commented eagerly upon. Kath knew it well, she frequently fisted her when they shared their narrow bed in the barracks and now she found she was furiously envious of all the attention it was getting. To try and distract herself she began to pay attention to the buyers and, she found she could recognise the arena buyers quite easily. They were the ones who started with skin and muscle tone and only tested the sexual equipment afterwards. Mostly they just looked at her and Sharon and made comments to the effect that they were in extremely good condition for veterans, and moved on looking for younger stock. It was only those who could afford to buy for private use who looked at them in any detail. Kath just couldn’t conceive of what being privately owned might be like, but it seemed that that was the only outcome which was even remotely likely.

  Eventually, sore and stiff, they were taken down and returned to the holding cells to await the sale itself.

  Chapter One

  “The auction starts in two hours, Sir. We have plenty of time. Will you be purchasing a girl at this one?”

  Clive Mostyn settled himself in his ministerial car as Humphries, his chauffeur, closed the door and then took his own seat behind the wheel.

  “You know quite well that as Home Secretary of His Majesty’s Government I have to declare any more than two slaves and pay for their upkeep myself, Humphries!” he said.

  The chauffeur grinned at him through the rear view mirror. “I’ll take that as a ‘Yes, if anything catches my eye’ then.”

  Clive smiled back. Humphries had been with him for years now and had seen the government’s policies on youth crime and inner urban anarchy develop in tandem with the arenas’ climb towards legitimacy. The one had supplied the raw material for the other and now young female criminals could expect to serve ten years or more in an arena while young male criminals were put to work building the arenas themselves, or laying railway tracks, or building roads.

  The Proteus project had been the key to it all. Once it had been established that girls from a variety of backgrounds could be taken and trained to perform in the arenas, it had just been a question of time before the state had found a way to make it happen regularly – and to profit from it.

  Inevitably there were more prisoners than there were spaces in arena stables and so it had slowly become acceptable for the well-off to boast the services of convicted girls – and sometimes young men – around their houses. Of course it was all done in the name of training them to become useful citizens, and that training often meant discipline while ‘useful’ often meant serving in bedrooms as well as in dining rooms. It was a measure of how quickly British society had adapted to the system that the press had very quickly cried out for MPs to declare how many ‘citizens’ they were training and how much they were claiming in expenses for them. That was the full extent of the moral outrage.

  “I’m just attending this one for sentimental reasons. Then we’re going on to a lab that’s been doing some very interesting work,” he told Humphries. The chauffeur raised his eyebrows at the thought of his boss doing anything for sentimental reasons but keyed the post codes into the navigation system and kept his thoughts to himself.

  As the car moved off to the accompaniment of a specially generated facsimile of a piston engined car’s exhaust note to warn pedestrians of its otherwise soundless presence, Clive Mostyn switched on his tablet and began to read the morning’s papers.

  ‘Mosser’s Rozzers Let Loose!’ the first headline he came to screamed at him, but then it went on in more measured tones; ‘Home Secretary Clive Mostyn’s new urban snatch squads swung into action last night in four cities. The new squads do not need to apply for search warrants when in hot pursuit of suspects and can enter any premises they suspect of harbouring a miscreant, by whatever means at any time of the day or night. They can also arrest, charge and imprison – under the government’s new ‘fast track’ justice scheme – anyone they believe has been guilty of anti-social or criminal behaviour within twelve hours. Early reports indicate that over a hundred young offenders have already been apprehended and sentenced…’

  Clive grunted in satisfaction. In fact the figure was nearer two hundred, he knew. Of those, seventy-five were female and they would be up for purchase by the arenas or anyone who could afford them before the day was out. There were now twelve arenas up and running within the UK alone, and they attracted the crowds and loyalty that football clubs had enjoyed until a few years ago.

  He leaned back and closed his eyes, they had come a long way since the days of the Proteus project.

  The auction was being held in central southern England, at a large old house with extensive farm buildings that lent themselves well to housing the slaves
. He was ushered to a seat behind the smoked glass of the corporate entertainment gallery of the auction hall. He had barely had time to savour the coffee he was served with before the auctioneer, sitting behind a desk at the edge of the stage announced the start of proceedings.

  From the stage a long catwalk led out into the audience. The buyers would have had a good chance to examine the merchandise beforehand but to see how they moved allowed a more detailed examination of the condition of the stock. Each girl had a chip embedded at the nape of her neck which gave a complete record of her performance in the arenas; how many points she had gained for her team, how many times she had lost and been put to the whipping posts in the arenas, what injuries she had suffered. What it didn’t necessarily tell a prospective purchaser was her disciplinary record, that was still at the vendor’s discretion and what punishments she had been subjected to was not always obvious, so a chance to see how she moved could tell an experienced eye a lot that the chip didn’t.

  A pretty girl in a short, white shift dress came on leading a naked slave. Both girls would have been sentenced by the courts for something or other, but the girl in white probably had wealthy parents who had been able to buy a less arduous sentence. The arena slave was on a leash that led forwards from her bound hands behind her back. That meant it ran between her legs and to the hand of her minder. She was a tall girl with thick black hair that hung to her shoulders. She was long legged and clean limbed, moving with long, graceful strides on her three inch-heeled, black court shoes. The clacking of the shoes on the boarding was the only sound as the potential bidders settled down to the serious business of the day.