Slave's Honour Read online

  “How many of them are golf holes, Sir Thomas?” Carlo called back, smiling.

  “About five!”

  In the ensuing laughter, Brian took his drink and when Patti had recovered enough to look up and see the next lash coming, he resumed.

  “Thirteen!”

  The whip’s deceptively soft hissing as it swung and Carlo’s count with Patti’s answering muffled growls were the only sounds in the courtyard as Brian, using steady, controlled power, increased the density of the welts. The marks of the knots became darker as the punishment neared its climax, the stripes of the frayed lash-ends more livid and finally as the count reached twenty-four, the skin below the right breast split. Brian swung in the last lash across the sex again and opened up a final trickle of scarlet from Patti’s left hip then it was done.

  “Very good. Very good indeed!” It was John Carpenter himself who came up behind Brian and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Opened her up just at the end! Very neatly done, Brian. You’re a fine judge of the whip and over the next couple of days you’ll be called on to help judge whipping flesh.” He was referring to the auction that he and Carlo were due to attend and Brian felt his chest expand with sheer pride. He was fully accepted into the company of the men he most admired.

  As was the custom after a post whipping the men left Patti for a couple of hours before taking her down and watching her as she hauled it back to its place in the corner of the tack room.

  That evening Amelia had a guest’s room disk attached to her collar while she served in the Dining Room so Brian was only able to have her quickly, bent over the arm of a sofa, in the Common Room afterwards before she was called for service in the dungeons and then the guest’s bedroom. He felt tired anyway and the next morning he wanted to run the arena slaves hard before leaving them in John Carpenter’s and Patti’s care, so he turned in early and was amused to hear, as he crossed the stableyard, loud and passionate moans coming from Patti’s quarters as someone, maybe Carlo himself, tested his assertion that she would fuck like a madwoman after a thrashing like the one she had endured.

  Chapter 7

  Raika groaned in helpless pleasure as she felt another push from the man standing between her raised and spread legs. His cock speared deep inside her and sent waves of exquisite sensation pulsing out from her vagina. He reached down and grasped her breasts roughly, mauling and crushing their softness, pinching the turgid nipples and making her gasp with the pain, even as she strained her ankles in their cuffs as she struggled to get more movement inside her.

  “She’s a willing enough screw, I’ll give her that,” said the big man standing over Raika’s head. From between her spread legs, her owner laughed smugly.

  “She’s been traded so often that she knows her place perfectly.” Her master smiled down at her with not a trace of affection. “On the end of her master’s cock,” he finished and thrust into her again so hard she grunted in shock.

  “Or at the end of his whip,” the big man with the accent, Irish she had hazarded a guess when he had first appeared in the stable that morning, contributed from above her.

  Raika felt it was only right and proper that she should be discussed like this; lying prostrate beneath two men, her body open and available to whoever wanted it. It was a good body. She was proud of it and it constituted her one and only possession in the whole world. She was not much above five foot tall, with silky, dusky skin and long glossy black hair. She was leggy and slim where it mattered but with good sturdy hips and generous buttocks. Her breasts were her pride and joy though. Full and well rounded, they rode proudly on her chest with plum coloured areolas and nipples at their peaks. There was no sign of a crease where their undercurves met her chest and when she lay on her back they formed smooth but firm and symmetrical hillocks. Men seldom failed to take any opportunity to enjoy them, either by fondling them or whipping them or subjecting them to intricate procedures in dungeons. She had learned to take pleasure and pride in the many ways men found to seek their own pleasure with her body.

  Raika tensed her back against the wood of the table on which she lay and involuntarily she tested the restraints which held her hands down at her sides. The big Irishman had moved round to her side and now held a flogger. He was looking at her breasts speculatively.

  “If Suarez is looking for a groom for the CSL stable, as I’ve heard he is, then he will be wanting a girl who can take cock and whip,” he said softly. “And I want to make sure he gets her.”

  “Be my guest,” her master replied, thrusting into her again and smiling once more, his teeth brilliantly white against his black skin.

  Raika cried out as the Irishman brought the leathers smacking down onto her breasts, making them wobble as well as starting a thrilling burning and stinging inside them. Simultaneously her master began to accelerate his rhythm of thrust and withdrawal. Helplessly she spiralled into the darkly ecstatic sensation of being a naked woman entirely at the mercy of men who would let nothing stand in the way of their pleasure.

  She had been brought up in Northern India, among the foothills of the Himalayas. Her father was a groom to a string of polo ponies and she had spent all her childhood in stables. She still had no idea of what sort of trouble he had got into but at the age of nineteen she found that he had given her away to pay off some debt or other. It was far from unheard of for a girl to be bartered in that way, so she had set out to make the best she could of things. Very quickly she learned that a girl in her situation was fair game for any man, let alone the one to whom she belonged. Her first owner had been a fat jeweller, fond of watching while his guests enjoyed her. He introduced her to the whip when she failed to please and after a couple of years sold her on. She had passed from master to master, becoming accustomed to cruel usage and eventually finding that if she accepted her lot, it brought a strange landscape of pleasure with it. Her first orgasms were brain shattering experiences, it felt as if a damn had at long last burst inside her and she began to actively seek out ways to please men. Her value increased as she discovered her ability to orgasm under discipline and eventually she had been brought here where she had found fulfilment of a sort.

  Here there were human ponies and once she had got over her initial shock, she found that driving them and preparing them brought back happy memories and she discovered a new talent. The slaves raced and fought in her master’s arena and she helped groom them and feed them and muck out their stalls. She was too slight to be much use in the arena itself but her flair for grooming and understanding her charges soon became apparent and she had settled in happily under a regime which saw to it that her talents were fully used in the stables while the guards made sure her body was kept fully employed as well.

  Bucking and twisting in a fury of masochistic delight Raika climaxed as her master erupted inside her and the Irishman mercilessly lashed her helpless, tender breasts.

  She gasped and panted her way back to consciousness in time to see the Irishman nod to her master as he pulled out of her.

  “She’ll do,” he said.

  “I want to pick up a new groom,” Carlo told Brian as their plane levelled out in the brilliant sun above the clouds. “If we’re getting two more fighters, I want a groom in attendance at all times. Patti could do with the help if she’s got seven to look after.”

  “What specialities are we looking in the fighters?” Brian asked.

  “This isn’t a public auction. This is strictly between stables, that’s why John isn’t coming, it’s not one of the auctions covered by the wager we won with Brien. Owners from time to time get rid of surplus stock and buy in new stuff to strengthen squads. There’s a meeting of owners and trainers before the auction and there we’ll see how the shows are likely to develop. Let’s keep our eyes and ears wide open eh? Then we can assess what skills are going to be in demand,” Carlo replied thoughtfully.

  Brian settled back and ran through the discipline regime he and Carlo had left for everyone back at The Lodge.

 
If they followed instructions and ran each slave every morning in front of the weighted trap, made them haul logs through the thick mud down by the river, worked them hard in the training ring and made them run the assault course every day, then they shouldn’t come to any harm before he and Carlo got back. He was looking forward to his first chance to see behind the scenes at an arena when some of the CSL slaves were hired out and he was anxious that his charges might be allowed to slip from peak condition. He and Carlo discussed the slaves’ diet happily for an hour or two then settled down to doze as the plane droned on towards South America.

  In the middle of the following morning they stood, where their taxi had dropped them, mopping the sweat from their brows, in front of the sprawling hacienda which was home to Alberto Salazar, their host. A beautiful girl with high Mongolian cheekbones ushered them into the cool, tiled interior and then out onto a terrace with views of his massive estate and, most importantly, his arena; the bulk of which loomed about a quarter of a mile distant.

  Their host, swarthy and tall, with shiny black hair and open, friendly features, greeted them warmly and was soon deep in conversation with Carlo. Brian had a chance to look around while they talked. Drinks were being served by girls dressed bizarrely - given the location - in French maids’ outfits. Their tanned skin made the white stockings of their uniforms especially attractive to his mind and he felt his cock begin to stir as he watched men fondle and grope at them with careless arrogance. The men were all owners accompanied by their trainers. Immensely wealthy, they carried themselves with absolute self-belief and confidence. They laughed and joked together, one large man on the far side of the room caught Brian’s eye. Weatherbeaten features, neatly trimmed and greying beard, broad shoulders. That had to be the famous Conor Brien, widely credited with starting the whole arena project and deadly enemy of his own boss. Fortunately, just as Brien seemed to become aware of Carlo’s presence, Salazar called everyone into the cavernous dining room for a conference.

  Beneath two huge, glittering chandeliers stood a long dining table surrounded by exquisitely carved chairs with nameplates in front of them. The men’s shoes sounded thunderous on the polished wooden floor and their voices echoed under the tall ceiling, particularly the laughter as they saw the wrist-suspended slaves hanging above the table from chains descending from steel hoops in the ceiling itself. Their naked feet dangled about two feet above the mirror-like polished wood of the table. Brian counted ten slaves. They were clearly gladiators, toned, fit, strong and on this occasion, hooded.

  “Please take your places, gentlemen!” their host invited. “And of course during the meeting, feel free to use the maids as you please. As for the other….decorations. We will enjoy them over lunch.”

  Brian kept a wary eye on his boss and Conor Brien but clearly whoever had laid out the places had been well aware of the animosity between the two and they were at opposite ends of the table.

  Salazar opened proceedings by addressing them all and summarising the success to date of the modern arenas.

  “So, my good friends,” he concluded. “It is now that we must take stock; yes, so far so good, but we can do more! Share your ideas with us all, I beg you!”

  So saying he sat down and looked around expectantly.

  Someone to Brian’s left cleared their throat and spoke in an American accent.

  “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m getting some real high flyers, real movers and shakers coming to the shows now. I’m talking Senators and Congessmen here! And some Congress women!” There was a ripple of amusement as the gathering considered what usually happened to women in the arena crowds. “Now I reckon if we can get the crowds more involved somehow,” he went on, “it’s gotta be good news for us.”

  “I agree!” An African spoke up. “At my last show I had half the government. If we can keep on giving good value, we can even get the crowds to press the governments to make us legitimate in some parts of the world!”

  “I’ve been toying with the idea of numbered seats… …..” Voices began to join from around the table as conversations started on the terrace were now aired publicly.

  “Sort of a lottery….”

  “Yeah, and the prizes are up there!”

  More laughter as the men looked up at the dangling forms.

  It was quickly decided that at future shows numbered tickets would be kept careful record of, rather than seat numbers, and as punishment floggings were announced for the losers in any contest, out in the arena, the MC would make a draw, the winner - or winners, of which would be invited down to help deliver the punishments.

  “I’ve been thinking about the punishments,” a quiet voice announced once that course of action had been decided on. Brian glanced along the table and saw a hawkish looking Arab had spoken. It was Prince Hassan of Bakhtar, Brian could remember glimpsing him in the owner’s box at his arena, where he had first met Carlo and begged for a job.

  “For a long time now I have felt that they hinder the pace of the day’s entertainment….”

  Brian listened keenly as the Prince expounded his ideas. He had witnessed some of the Prince’s ideas at first hand.

  Up to that time, the Prince reminded his colleagues, after each event a tally of lashes to be administered to the losing stable’s slaves was offered to the crowd. If the tally got the thumbs down, it was increased until it got the thumbs up. In that way the slaves had every incentive to put on a good show, so that in the event they lost, there was a chance that a well-pleased crowd would be merciful. The Prince wasn’t intending changing that but what he was suggesting was that the punishments should be noted and then staged at the end of the day’s show.

  “It will be like a whole new event,” he explained, appearing not even to notice that his hand was up under the miniscule skirt of a maid on his right. “The crowd can settle down in the evening to enjoy the spectacle of cruelty that they themselves have devised, and now, some lucky ones will get to take part in it,” he concluded.

  There was a cheerful chorus of agreement as the men contemplated the sight of a whole day’s punishments being deliciously dished out in one big helping under the floodlights. Oiled and gleaming bodies twisting and writhing under the lashes out in the arena, before being publicly enjoyed by the guards. On the terraces there would be outright orgies as the crowd watched on the giant video screens.

  Once that had been agreed a large man with short black hair and a thick moustache took the floor. Carlo explained that this was Osman, the man who had introduced the studded whips into the shows.

  “You know my friends, when it comes to cruelty, the Romans wrote the book. I’ve been doing some research and although what I read sickened me, I think there is something we can use…..”

  He went on to explain how during some games, performers such as minstrels and choirs would be hired to sing and perform in the arenas before the games began - at least that was what they thought. Once the performance was under way however, wild animals would be released and the crowds howled with laughter at the subsequent slaughter.

  Brian and Carlo exchanged horrified glances but Osman was holding up a hand, aware of the murmur of protest running round the table.

  “Relax, my friends,” he said grinning widely. “I am not proposing anything so barbaric. Merely that the crowds might enjoy a sort of cruel practical joke. Suppose a man wants to give his sub, slave, mistress or whatever a special present. He buys them both tickets to a show at an arena and for a price he buys her a chance to deliver some punishment down in the arena itself, but once she is down there… …….” He spread his hands expressively and sat back.

  The other men grinned broadly as they contemplated a happy, waving woman walking out onto the sands, believing she was going to play a part in the show. The video screens would show her expression in close up as she realised what part she was going to play - and there was no way out.

  The owners and their trainers sat back, laughing and talking as they absorbed progress
so far. The maids came round again, Brian helped himself to a blowjob from one then Salazar called them to order again.

  “Gentlemen, we still have much to discuss before we can relax fully. Now I think we should aim to have the squads up to seventy girls by the end of next year….”

  Suddenly the owners’ attention was riveted back on matters such as the cost of food and bedding, the wages for extra guards and trainers, new barracks and bigger stadiums. Arguments began in earnest and it was late in the afternoon before they broke for lunch. Several new events had been agreed, including an extension to the log pulling contests. In addition to the ‘sprints’ with two or three gladiators hauling three or four relatively short logs, it had been agreed that full tree trunks should be experimented with and an adequate number of slaves decided upon to haul them, lengthwise, using long ropes slung over their shoulders. The feeling was that it would make for a fine spectacle of straining femininity under heavy whipping. The Prince of Bakhtar’s trainer - Peter Lang- suggested a further use for the defeated team after each show and was able to show how it would increase revenue flow.

  Brian had seen something similar to what the Englishman was proposing in Bakhtar and had to admit it was one of the most intensely exciting things he had ever seen. However, beside him, Carlo shook his head dubiously and voiced his concerns to the meeting about the prospect of increasing ‘turnover’ in the stables; if events became too harsh then the frequency with which worn out stock would have to be sold on and new slaves bought in and trained could result in increased expenditure rather than increased profit.

  “You’re going soft in your old age, Suarez,” Conor Brien growled from the other end of the table.

  Instantly, Salazar butted in before Carlo could reply. “Gentlemen, I suggest that at the next show we give Peter’s idea a trial and assess its impact on the slaves concerned from there. Agreed? Good, drinks are served on the terrace and we will return for lunch in a few minutes.”