Authors: Sean O'Kane
GREAT NOVELS OF
EROTIC DOMINATION AND SUBMISSION
NEW TITLES EVERY MONTH
This edition published 2011
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.
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)
The Arena series
Into the Arena
Last Slave Standing
Bound for Glory
The training ground was a mass of tanned and sweating, naked, female bodies, dust caked them to the knees as they went through the carefully choreographed moves their trainers were drumming into them – with the aid of their whips if necessary. There were a hundred fit and lithe girls twirling, dodging and feinting, using light training whips that would do no real damage if they struck flesh. The guards and trainers carried the real items however and every now and then the training ground would echo to the report of a lash being delivered to this or that malingerer, or to a girl who had lunged at her opponent and gone off balance when she should have held back and waited for a better opportunity.
The girls were organised into two lines; one line held the light whips, the other one was equipped only with the light plastic shields they would take into the arena with them. Offensive and defensive skills were being honed as the squad was mercilessly driven on under the sun as it neared its zenith.
The Countess Sadia de Groncourt turned from enjoying the view and walked off her balcony and back into the shade of her office as a whistle sounded and the slaves groaned with relief, sinking down to rest for just a few minutes. She knew her trainer in chief – Angel – would be stalking among the prostrate bodies, her riding crop tap-tap-tapping against her thigh as she surveyed the heaving breasts and quivering limbs; looking for any signs of weakness above that which was to be expected.
They were the Girl Squad. The first and only female owned and trained squad in the modern arenas. Some of the guards were male but all the training, dietary and discipline regimes were under hers and Angel’s command. They were preparing for their second event which was due to be held in an arena in Indonesia in three weeks and the pressure was on.
They had announced their arrival on the scene with an emphatic win over the Prince of Bakhtar’s stable and the world of the arenas was still reeling from the shock.
Sadia smiled at the memory as she took a sun hat from off her marble topped desk and strode downstairs.
It was customary in the finales of the three day events to let the entire squads loose on each other in one climactic spectacle of naked feminine struggle. And once it was clear which squad was winning and points could be awarded accordingly, the male guards would be allowed to enter the fray and take down every last girl in the arena.
In the Bakhtar arena the men had had a tougher than usual job as the female guards and trainers from Sadia’s stable had joined the slaves. Even her beloved Angel had stripped off and thrown herself into the fray and Sadia felt a gentle tide of moist warmth at her groin as she recalled her lover’s magnificent body, shown on the giant video screens, going down struggling to the end under the tide of hard, muscular male bodies. The only way Angel took any pleasure from sex with men was if the man in question was stronger, fitter and a better fighter than she was. The arenas were about the only places they existed.
Still, she had looked terrific with big, hard lengths of cock stretching her lips – at both ends….
Sternly Sadia brought her thoughts back to the here and now. She had a meeting over at the arena which was now nearing completion and needed Angel to accompany her.
The slaves were being urged back onto their feet as she reached the middle of the training ground. The guards, both men and women moved among the bodies, prodding with their boots and flicking with their whips as the groaning, sweat streaked girls staggered back to their feet.
Angel saw Sadia coming and waved to one of the men.
“Take them for a run and fill the Punishment Pits if any of them look like they’re slacking!” she called.
The groans immediately ceased and the slaves faced up to the next task determined that they weren’t going to be put in the pits. A line of ten, eight feet deep pits covered by heavy metal grilles set into the ground ran along one edge of the training ground. Any girl put in them immediately became the lowest of the low and the rest of the squad would take every delight in delivering golden showers of scorn throughout the days of her imprisonment.
As Sadia came up to Angel she saw number ninety-seven – a dark haired girl with pretty tip-tilted nipples – was near her. Ninety-seven had been one of the very last to be bought before the successful first event and Sadia had always felt a sentimental fondness for the girl, as if she was some sort of good luck talisman. Angel simply saw her as one of the smartest slaves in the squad, able to think on her feet and be at home in the arena and the squad almost like no other.
Sadia reached out a hand and clicked her fingers. Immediately the slave came to her and settled her feet well apart, putting her hands behind her back.
Like all arena slaves she was clean shaven and Sadia’s fingers slid easily into the moist crack, the lips parting and the vaginal entrance accepting its owner’s penetration eagerly.
“Let’s not keep the president waiting, Angel,” she said, ignoring the slave and just letting her fingers idly stir the thick juices of the cunt.
“Okay, but I’d like to get back for the afternoon session. I want to shave another two seconds off the mass log pull times.”
Sadia sighed in pleasure but regretfully withdrew her fingers from Ninety-seven’s cunt and wiped them on the girl’s stomach. To hell with all the paperwork that waited for her attention in the office. She would settle herself on the office balcony with a long cool drink and watch the mass log pull practices. There was a superbly erotic charge to be had from the feeling of power it gave her to watch all one hundred squad slaves, bent beneath the rope which was chained to the great log behind them. Then on a signal from Angel the whips would begin to crack and smack and the line of submissively bent and devoted slaves would sway from side to side as their feet fought for purchase in the loose dirt and dust and then with the whips driving them on relentlessly the line would begin to move forwards, gathering pace as it went.
At the far end of the training ground, the line would be halted while the shackles were moved to the other end of the log and the process would be repeated until Angel was satisfied.
It was a magnificently cruel spectacle. And probably for that reason it was a favourite with the crowds, particularly when the cameras caught close-ups of the lines of sweating, struggling slaves, breasts swinging beneath torsos, shapely thighs straining, backs and buttocks prettily decorated by the lashes. The orgies on the terraces during the mass log pulling races were amongst the wildest that took place during the events.
Sadia and Angel strolled arm in arm through the gate of the stockade that enclosed the training ground and turned towards their arena. The squad of running slaves, with its escort of jeeps, was now no more than a cloud of dust out on the endless scrubland that surrounded the stable. Sadia turned her attention to the building that would soon be at the heart of the whole enterprise. At last the skeletons of scaffolding were coming down and the shape of the arena could be seen properly.
It differed from most of the others that had sprung up in the last few years in that its roof was a closed dome. Mostly the arenas were in warm climates and had open roofs, but here, in Eastern Europe, during the winter it would have to serve as an undercover training area. In the huge car park that stretched out on one side of it, the fleet of luxurious coaches, especially bought in to transport the crowds from their hotels in the city that lay just the other side of the mountains was already ranged. Every vehicle was resplendent in yellow and black livery – the Girl Squad colours. And every vehicle was adorned with a large picture of a naked slavegirl carrying a small shield and whip. Sadia’s stable was one of the first to be actively encouraged by the government of the country it existed in and could afford to advertise its presence. As they approached the arena and could hear the hammering coming from within, a line of three black limousines drew up, the green and mauve national flags fluttering proudly on their wings.
Men in dark suits and sunglasses jumped out and stood guard as the president himself emerged from the middle car in time to meet the two women. He was a tall, well-built man with thick black hair, greying at the temples and greased back from his forehead. He bowed formally and kissed their hands.
“My dear Countess and my dear Miss Smythe! What a pleasure it is to greet you again when all is going so well!” He smiled and gestured to the arena. “For our part, three of the hotels are ready now and the other two will be ready in a fortnight’s time. And I can see that you are making splendid progress here too.”
“That is wonderful news Mr President,” Sadia replied. “And indeed, we have just to fit the seating in the arena and complete some odds and ends, then lay the artificial surface for the racing track. As agreed, the arena will have to serve for chariot racing until next year. Then we will add the circus. But we will be ready for our first home fixture on time.”
The president beamed at them. “That is all good news! And may I congratulate you on your magnificent win in Bakhtar, it has really placed our little country on the map,” he told them as they began to stroll towards the arena.
“Thank you,” Sadia said. “However, neither myself nor Miss Smythe here is complacent. The Orange stable we fight in three weeks’ time will be going all out to beat us. I’m afraid the rest of the arena world does not share your enthusiasm for the Girl Squad.”
“I have complete faith in you!” the president told them and the two women exchanged glances behind his back as they approached the outlying buildings of the arena and the conducted tour began.
The first buildings were unremarkable looking; long, shed-like constructions in the lee of the arena proper, but once entered, they revealed sunken floors divided into many pits by walls built up to ground level and topped by walkways with railings; and there were also wide banks of terraced seating surrounding each pit. A door was let into one wall of each pit to allow competitors to enter and leave – or be carried out through.
These were the pens, where squad members would wrestle, fight with whips or box while the elite solo fighters would have the arena floor to themselves. The crowds liked a chance to get close to the action at times. But as a precaution against anyone getting over-enthusiastic, each pen was roofed in with close mesh, plastic wire.
“There are passages built underground from the holding cells and changing rooms so the slaves can be moved around easily,” Angel explained.
Then there were the barracks for the visiting team and their staff quarters and kitchens.
Only once those had been inspected did the party enter the darkness of the tunnel that led from the outside, under the terraces to emerge onto the arena floor.
“Each team’s dressing room and changing room opens off this,” Angel explained in her clipped, precise, home counties English tones.
As they entered the home team’s room, Sadia pointed out where the cameras were and what the ‘dressing’ consisted of. A sample chariot racer’s tack had been left hanging on one peg and she took it down for the men to examine.
“On the day, the butt plug is coated in a special brew that I cook up for the lazy bitches. It keeps their minds focussed on getting to the end of the race just as fast as they can!” Angel told them as the men’s big hands explored the crupper strap with its twin shafts and the studded tit straps and the complex bridle. Doubtless they had all seen them used on downloads but the reality was something of a revelation.
She also showed them a studded whip and saw the expressions of respect as they tested the tines and felt the weight of the length of heavy hide.
“It is indeed a tribute to your skills that you get slaves to face each other with these things,” the president said.
“Oh it’s just a case of them knowing for certain that what Angel will do to them if they don’t will be far worse than anything that might happen in the arena if they do!” Sadia explained to general laughter.
Next came a look at the medical provisions – a bench with stirrups at one end and behind it shelves full of liniment, needles, surgical thread, plasters and bandages.
“The Owners’ Council has decreed that all stables will provide medical facilities for both teams and have a full time vet on its staff. Ours starts next week,” Sadia explained.
The president frowned.
“But isn’t that an unnecessary expense? I mean they are just slaves and one can always buy more.”
“Angel is inclined to agree with you,” Sadia replied, smiling fondly at her trainer and lover. “But I agree with the Council. In the long term it means fitter and stronger stock which will fetch better money at auction. And it also means that more patching up can be done during an event with no lasting damage. So the bitches can be worked harder.”
The president smiled and bowed.
“I realise these things are more complicated than they appear. Thank you for explaining.”
From the dressing room they trooped out onto the floor of the arena itself.
Down the centre of it stood a long fence and the slaves had been trained in chariot racing down here before the Bakhtar games, when it hadn’t mattered that the seating wasn’t yet fully ready.
Now, up by the roof, actinic light flared periodically as welding went on and heavy steel clanged and clanked hollowly as the terracing was worked on.
Sadia patiently took the men through every detail that was needed to stage an event and followed that up with a tour of the dungeons – the audience could hire a slave by the hour to play with in the evenings - and the training facilities. They were just in time to see the squad return from its run and watch as ten unfortunates were deemed to not have given their all and were consigned to the Pits for a few days. Then lunch was provided at the house and by mid afternoon, when the sun’s ferocity had abated somewhat, the party left.
There was no request made to sample the bodies of the slaves and Sadia made no offer. It simply wasn’t needed. That evening, twenty-five of them would be shipped off to the state brothel for a week. It was part of the arrangement. A regular supply of slaves would be available to the president and whoever he wanted to share them with at the brothel, but within the boundaries of the stable itself; training came first.