Slave's Honour Read online

  At last Carlo decided he’d seen all he needed. Instead he began to question her about grooming duties. Nervously she stuttered and panted her way through her answers as Carlo’s questions began to range across subjects like diets and stable routines, mucking out, strawing down, keeping the slaves warm, treating cuts, but always she was capable of answering.

  Finally he was satisfied, Brian entered her as extremely interesting and they went for lunch.

  On the way back to the house he told Brian that what they would be looking for in the ring was any sign of lameness, firstly; but secondly he wanted to see how the girls held themselves as they were paraded on leashes in front of cynical men who were bidding for their bodies. He was looking for a degree of pride, he said. Any slave who could defiantly reassume some dignity after the morning’s display, had to have something about her. And that was what he was looking for - as well as the qualities they had already assessed.

  Chapter 9

  When they returned, their ponies making the third run of the day and needing noticeably more whip, a ring had been created with wooden panels in the centre of the floor and the slave racks had been dismantled. The ring was big enough for all the potential buyers to crowd round and a passage had been made at one point on the circumference which led to a door to the outside. When the auctioneer had mounted his dais and banged his gavel for silence the first lot was led in. One of the household maids did the leading, smiling and posing in her beguiling uniform. The slaves’ leashes ran from their hands tethered behind their backs, through their legs and from there to the maid’s hand. Each slave was led slowly around the outside of the ring, allowing the buyers to see the girl’s movements and assess her fitness. Purely as an afterthought it allowed plenty of men to get a quick feel of the maid.

  It turned out to be a long afternoon.

  Brian had never thought he could be bored by slavegirls but after two hours of slow processions followed by endless bidding, even his enthusiasm was waning. To make it worse, Carlo hadn’t made one bid. He had let several of their ‘possibles’ go past.

  “She’s got something wrong with the left ankle!”

  “That one walks like she’s had all the fight knocked out of her.”

  “What they’ve done to that one shouldn’t be allowed. She’s only upright ‘cos she’s drugged!”

  His whispered asides drew curious looks from those around them.

  But then at long last the German slave - Trouble - was led out and Brian’s interest revived. He could see why she was called that. She glared round her defiantly, daring any man to utterly subdue her. He might thrash her into partial submission, her look said, but the whip wasn’t made that would curb her entirely.

  Carlo bid and secured her for a reasonable price, there was only desultory interest and the sum was modest by arena standards. Brian’s mind immediately began formulating regimes to break her in and he told Carlo so. The Spaniard grinned.

  “We don’t do nothing, my friend! We put her in with Blondie. When Blondie finishes with her, we put Jet in with her. That one is looking for a team where the females are really fierce. She hates men, you can see it in her whole body. She will fight good for us once she has a girlfriend. You’ll see.”

  An hour later the black girl was led out.

  Brian watched as Carlo took a long calculating look at her.

  “She’s favouring the right leg,” he whispered to Brian. “Take a good look at her now she’s got her back to us.”

  Brian did as he was told, trying not to notice the way her splendidly jutting buttocks quivered with each step. She moved with the languid ease born of natural athleticism, long strides from long legs… ….but now Carlo mentioned it, wasn’t there just the slightest variation in the rhythm of that stride? Sure enough, if Brian looked very carefully he could see that the right leg was taking marginally shorter steps.

  “Could be a muscle strain or a ligament, could be an old break.” Carlo shrugged. “Either way, I’m not going to gamble.”

  Brian watched a little sadly as she went to a Far Eastern stable for a reasonable price. He had been looking forward to getting her between the shafts of a trap and at the end of a whip.

  His face must have betrayed him, because Carlo nudged him in the ribs.

  “Don’t let your prick rule your wallet,” he said. “Now let’s have a look at this one…”

  The next lot was being led in.

  She was a slave they had marked down as a possible. A brunette with a stunning figure, originally from Canada according to her label, though Brian thought she had a bit of Italian in her as well. She had the kind of breasts more usually associated with pleasure whores than with gladiators and yet she was well-sinewed and graceful. However her record was not good. Her stable was selling her on because she was ill-disciplined and openly rebellious. She had repeatedly tried to escape and although she could be passionate sexually, she was as good as useless in the arena. She had actually only been fielded as part of a squad once. Brian was baffled by Carlo’s interest in her, apart from the fact that she was clearly going to be very cheap. Even as they watched she was pulling and twisting against her leash and alone of all the slaves so far she was ball gagged and bore traces of the crop having been recently applied to her flanks. Plainly the auction was not improving her discipline

  Carlo had his chin on his hands, resting on the top of the boards and was grinning broadly.

  “What’s the story, Carlo?”

  “She is beautiful isn’t she?”

  “Yes, but she’s no use to us, surely?”

  “She will be once you’ve finished with her.”

  “What!?”

  “She is a present to you, Brian. You will be so proud when she marches out into an arena and the announcer says she is owned and trained by the CSL stable,” he said happily.

  Brian just stared at him as one of the guards had to step into the ring to help the maid lead the struggling brunette round.

  Even the auctioneer sighed into his microphone. “Who’ll start at ten. Ten thousand?” There was dead silence. “She’s got the makings of a beautiful bed slave gentlemen. Look at the tits on it! Ten thousand? … …… ….Nine. Any bids at nine?”

  Carlo began to whistle softly, grinning irritatingly at Brian.

  “Do you trust me Brian?” he asked.

  “Yes, you know I do,” he answered with an exasperated sigh.

  “Wait another thirty seconds then bid five thousand. Don’t ask questions just do it.”

  Brian watched the auctioneer become increasingly desperate and the brunette get harder and harder to control.

  “Nine?” the auctioneer called. “Eight and a half?”

  Brian looked at the supremely confident Spaniard beside him, then turned back to the ring.

  “Four!” he called.

  The auctioneer glanced helplessly across at someone in the crowd and then shrugged. “Going at four thousand!”

  Carlo looked up at Brian. “I’m impressed. Three, and they would’ve withdrawn, I could feel it. She’s a beautiful creature and they would’ve found a use for her. Four was good! I tell you later why I want you to have her.”

  “Gone!” the auctioneer sang out. “Sold to the tall gentleman in the red polo shirt.” Brian felt a multitude of curious gazes turn his way and the guard finally tired of trying to subdue the brunette, slung her over his shoulder and took her away.

  “Lot number 167!”

  Carlo was suddenly all alert concentration. The slight, graceful figure of the groom was being led out. Still perched on her high-heeled sandals, the Indian girl introduced a note of glamour into proceedings which had been up to then no more than a cattle market.

  “A pleasant addition to any stable, I think you’ll agree gentlemen. And although a groom cannot contribute directly to income or success in the way a gladiator can, a good one can make sure your stable is presented at its best at all times!” the auctioneer called out as the girl, brown eyes wider than eve
r was led around. “Now who’ll start us off at twenty-five thousand… …..?”

  Brian watched Carlo look around. Then he waved his hand.

  “Twenty-five I’m bid!” the auctioneer called.

  Suddenly another hand waved and Brian saw it was Conor Brien. The auctioneer, a smile back on his face called the new bid.

  Carlo straightened up and glared across the ring furiously. He waved at the auctioneer who called another increase. Brian watched as a flurry of bids were exchanged as the Indian groom’s worth was battled over. At a price in excess of ninety thousand Conor Brien dropped out. Carlo smiled triumphantly but at the last moment a third bidder stepped in. Carlo bit his lip and Brian could see him rapidly doing his sums. He made one final bid. There was no response and CSL was the owner of the pretty Indian groom. Brian glanced across at Conor Brien and was surprised that he didn’t look as furious as he might have been expected to, given the bad blood between him and Carlo.

  Outside in the clear and slightly chilly air of early evening, their ponies struggling up to a final, tired, whip-driven trot, Carlo explained why he had bought the brunette.

  “Blondie was the same the first time I saw her,” he said. “Proud, angry. Did you notice the stable she comes from?”

  Brian shook his head.

  “It’s owned by a syndicate. They’ve got three now. Head guy’s in the carriage two ahead of this one. That girl has been a tiny cog in a huge, gladiator-making machine. And she doesn’t like that one bit. What she will like is being noticed; any girl does. But not every stable can afford the time. CSL can. So when we get home, I want you to take charge of her. Keep her with you all the time, do anything you want - even take her to bed. But I think if you personally take her on, make yourself her master, we might have one very good fighter there.”

  Brian was deeply flattered. He realised that once again Carlo was placing full confidence in him and he was still deep in thought as the traps pulled in at the barracks for the men to make their choice of slaves for the night. He was pleased to see that his request had been observed to the letter and his gladiator was squirming on the board again, her tits being cruelly squeezed by the drying leather. A guard gave him an enquiring glance and he nodded, then watched as she took another caning before being released. He made a mental note, as he took her lead in his hand and they set off back to the house, that the brunette would one day writhe as prettily and as submissively under similar torment at The Lodge.

  Senor Salazar made their final evening at his estate one to remember. The dining tables were arranged around three edges of the huge room and while the men ate they were entertained by a series of contests between his gladiators.

  As the hors d’oeuvres were served two good looking slaves elegantly clad in lacy basques, stockings and high-heeled court shoes put on a display of cane duelling that whetted the men’s appetites for the evening ahead.

  Cane duelling had been a popular sport amongst the slave owners before the arenas had really got going. It was a little too slow and subtle for the big stage, but for a small gathering it provided excellent entertainment. The two slaves, one all in black, the other in white, were led out by a guard who acted as umpire. A white circle had been marked out on the floor and the two contestants had to walk around this, flicking at each other with their canes. If they put any part of their foot inside the circle then the umpire would halt the contest and deliver immediate punishment in the form of full-on strokes with the cane. The winner was the slave who kept her feet, the loser was the one whose knee first touched the floor.

  At first the action was slow as the two fenced, their heels clicking loudly on the polished floor, the canes making ‘Thwick! Smack!” noises as the shafts blurred in the air and landed with flesh rippling force on thighs, buttocks, breasts and backs. Brian, along with his companions applauded as one or other girl made a particularly satisfying strike. As the marks became more apparent on the slaves’ bodies the maids pouring drinks and serving food got handled more and more frequently. Brian had his fingers inside a slightly built girl with spectacularly fine legs and was already making her spill wine as she tried to serve him when the first penalty was declared. The girl in white had nearly overbalanced while leaning in across the circle to try and cut at her opponent’s buttocks. She had seen the stroke coming and with a dainty pirouette had avoided it. The girl in white had to bend over, spread her legs and hold her ankles while she took two hard lashes from the guard in front of each of the three tables. Brian could plainly see the engorged state of the cunt as it was presented, nestling just below the buttocks. The guard delivered hard strokes and made the skin whiten on the quivering flesh before the tramline formed. When the contest resumed it was plain that she was severely weakened and the men cried on the girl in black to finish her off - but whether it was out of good training or because she knew her owner was watching, the girl in white didn’t go down until she was hardly making any response to the incoming strokes, her stockings were in tatters and her harsh panting was punctuated by her screams as the cane repeatedly sank into her flesh. The umpire called a halt when she finally went onto all fours and after the applause had died down Senor Salazar waved the two slaves forward and invited the guests to enjoy them however they wanted before the next course was served.

  There was a lengthy interval as the two made their way around the tables. Fortunately for them, a lot of the men were busily engaged with the maids but Brian made sure he had finished with the maid he’d had bent forwards over the table, by the time the black clad victor reached him. She was flushed and smiling, her face shiny from the overspill of multiple fellations, her heavily lacerated flanks also gleaming with male discharge. Brian plunged his hand up between her legs as she tottered towards him. His hand sank upwards between slicked and rubbery lips, into the familiar hot turmoil of a well-fucked submissive, fresh from having been publicly degraded. As the maid straightened her scant uniform and moved to the next man, Brian pushed the gladiator to her knees and luxuriated in the feeling of his shaft slipping into yet another mouth eager to accept his sperm.

  When at last the soup and the main course were served, the guests were entertained by a series of wrestling and boxing bouts. Salazar had deliberately chosen from amongst his bigger breasted slaves for the wrestling and they put on a fine show, making the room echo to their grunts and squeals as they wriggled frantically on the floor, fingers scrabbling at breasts and groping urgently between straining thighs for a hold. There were some spectacular throws, even onto the hard floor and the slaves were applauded as they shrugged off the landings and staggered up again.

  Boxing contestants in the arena normally wore internally studded corsets with weighted boxing straps wrapped around their fists. But on this occasion the slaves were naked. Their host explained that he felt for close up entertainment, nude was best. Brian had to agree. Although the punches weren’t as devastating as they would have been had studs been next to the skin, the speed of the marking and the way the breasts shook and swung more than made up for it. The final contest came to an end right on cue with a flurry of uppercuts delivered by one slave between the legs of her opponent. The first left the recipient helpless, but as the men cheered the victor on, the loser managed to totter her way through another three before going down, just as coffee and liqueurs arrived.

  No doubt Salazar had rigged it like that but to Brian’s mind that made it all the more arousing. The losing slave had been told exactly how she was going to lose and when. Then she had had to go out and fight her way towards it. By the time she had been dragged away by the guards she must have been very close to climax - he hoped she got it.

  As he had watched and cheered and applauded skilful moves, Brian had found his mind turning to the girl he was already thinking of as his brunette. He had often seen the close bond that existed between Blondie and Carlo; forged out on the arena sands under the whip. The big blonde spent most of her life in a kind of distant torpor, emerging from it only when there was w
ork to do or Carlo was around. It was like watching a man with a favourite horse or dog. She would walk as close to him as she could get, her eyes never left him and any time his hands weren’t busy with something and she was close by she would rub herself against him in the hopes that he might take his pleasure with her. He always punished her for that behaviour but it never made any difference. In fact Brian loved watching the expression of wild ecstasy on her face as she was flogged by him. She was always obedient with Brian too, but he always got the impression that it was only because she knew he worked for Carlo.

  The thought of the big breasted brunette worshipping him like that was a beguiling one. As he savoured his brandy and let the conversation about other slaves wash over him, he realised that the first thing he needed was a name for her. Her previous stable had only given her a number, fortunately they had not got around to branding or tattooing her. A name would be important if Carlo was right. And he usually was about slaves.

  He thought of those large, soft breasts being pressed urgently into his waiting hands, those long thighs rubbing against him, mutely begging him to make use of the sweetly fragrant entrance between them. Suddenly he found that a determination he hadn’t known he possessed had gripped him. He would break her to the bit; quite literally. However much she fought him, he would be her master. He would name her and she would become what he made her.

  His thoughts took him away from the laughter and noise around him as he pondered what he should call her. He took another deep drink of brandy and realised that he was getting quite drunk but one thought swam upwards in his growing confusion; that brunette had been put in a huge stable and subjected to whatever training methods they employed but she had refused to break. No matter how lost she must have felt. The word ‘lost’ suddenly seemed to grow in importance and something from his schooldays resurfaced. There was a woman in a Shakespeare play wasn’t there? Called ‘Perdita’ - it meant ‘the lost one’.