Last Slave Standing (17 page)

Chapter 15

The next morning, Patti was moving stiffly but was still able to take charge of the medicals and the chipping. By the time Chrissie arrived with her black bag, all the slaves had been cleaned, showered and fed. One of the couches used in the dungeon for needle play had been wheeled in and stood beside the dildo poles, the stirrups were raised and spread in readiness and the slaves were pacing nervously, they were familiar with the strains and stresses a slave could be put through when fastened down onto it and Chrissie’s black bag didn’t help. Up at the big house some of the members were experts in the more extreme forms of sexual torture and they often came equipped with black bags.

“Internals and overall examinations first; then chipping,” Chrissie announced, snapping on surgical gloves. “We’ll start with the stall on the extreme right, Patti.”

The two exchanged secretive smiles as Rose was led out by Raika.

Chrissie took blood and urine samples, manipulated all the joints, palpated the breasts, felt every tendon and flexed the necks before moving to the internals. With each slave’s legs raised and parted, the calves and ankles strapped snugly into the stirrups, Chrissie was able to slip the steel noses of the dilator into the vulva and screw it open with no problem.

“In straights, it can take bloody gallons of lube to open ‘em up,” she commented as Cherry’s vagina gaped pinkly for the onlookers. With the rectal channel, the slaves objected a little more and even Brian winced at how far the doctor insisted on opening them. It didn’t help that the waiting slaves could see what was in store however, even though Chrissie was quite happy with what she found.

“The arses are in remarkably good condition, considering what gets shoved up them. I hear there’s ginger in that stuff you coat their plugs in for racing, Carlo?”

“And some other stuff,” he agreed happily.

“Well, I reckon between Patti’s diet and regular workouts on the poles to keep ‘em tight, they should be okay for some years yet.”

After the third examination, which was Purdy, crying out as her cunt was stretched to a size that amazed everyone, although Chrissie remained perfectly calm. It took Brian and Carlo to carry the victims to the couch and strap them down.

“Stupid sluts!” Brian swore as he kept his weight across Jet’s chest while Carlo shackled her wrists. “It’s a sodding picnic compared to the amount of flogging they get in a log pull!”

It was late morning by the time the whole stable had been done and everyone could take a break before starting the chipping.

Chrissie put a companionable arm round Patti’s shoulder. “They’re a credit to you. As fit a bunch of beautiful slaves as you could wish to meet,” she said and kissed her full on the lips. The grooms burst into fits of giggles. Patti blushed furiously. Brian and Carlo exchanged amused glances. It was going to be fun to see how she fucked with a man now that she had a lesbian lover with a strap-on.

The chipping was simplicity itself in comparison, the main thing was to ensure that the correct details were entered onto the correct slave’s chip. The actual implantation simply meant the slaves were tied face down on the couch, their hair was lifted high off their necks and the chip was injected at the nape of the neck, then Chrissie checked on her scanner that all was reading well. After each show the data would be updated and after a year or so a new chip would be needed, but no one doubted that before long a chip that could contain a lifetime’s data would be developed.

Brian found it a strangely exciting thought as he passed along the line of stalls when all was finally done, dispensing treats. From now on these gorgeous creatures would not only be
treated
as valuable livestock, they actually
were
livestock – existing only as the sum of their achievements at the end of a whip or the ability to take cock in all three holes. A system to dictate that that was all they were, now existed. Their real names had now completely disappeared, all that remained were their stable names – and after CSL went up to fifteen, it was doubtful they would last long. Soon even Blondie would be just CSL\01. But somehow that utter objectification was exciting in itself. He would no longer flog and fuck ‘someone’ when he disciplined the slaves or took his pleasure with them – not that they had been considered as people for a long time, but at least they had had pet names. He imagined a future in which he or Carlo would hand out a ticket to an anonymous guard with ‘CSL\01; 30 lashes. Process, return to stall’ on it – or CSL\02; circuit training; ten lashes for every second of target time missed. Deliver to solitary if more than fifty lashes awarded.’

There was a kind of dark fascination about it – as though that was the logical conclusion to what the arenas were about. But he worried as well. They might only be slaves but he enjoyed knowing their individual quirks and characteristics that no amount of whipping would beat out of them. He comforted himself with the platitude that time would tell. Amelia on the other hand was wildly excited by the idea.

“Imagine just sinking into submissiveness and never having to come out – ever!” she breathed as Ox’s chip was scanned. “You could leave your name, your
self
. If you didn’t want to exist as a person, you could just stop existing and be a number. A female number…….with three holes to pleasure men with!”

He was about to point out that that might not be so much fun after twenty years of servitude or whatever, when the phone rang. It was the gatekeeper asking for him and Carlo.

The man didn’t sound as though he felt there were an emergency, he just sounded puzzled. As the day was pleasant and it didn’t sound urgent, Carlo decided they would take Purdy and Blondie for runs in harness. As a result it was almost forty-five minutes later that they arrived at the gates. The ponies trotted eagerly and one could almost believe they enjoyed being back in harness and feeling the cold steel points of the studded tack against their female parts once more as they tossed their heads and lifted their knees proudly into a full trot, the whips snapping hard at their backs.

But the sight that met the men’s eyes as they neared the gate pushed the ponies to the backs of their minds. From the gatehouse, where the gatekeeper lived, a long lime avenue led to The Lodge and the gatekeeper was standing under a tree about forty feet inside the gate, just after the avenue took a sharp turn to hide it from the main road.

Twenty feet above his head a human figure, mummified in what appeared to be brown paper, dangled from a branch. At first both Carlo and Brian panicked but as the gatekeeper pointed out, the rope wasn’t round the figure’s neck, it somehow seemed to be run up its back.

“And you can see they’re breathin’ okay, sir,” he said. “I’m just waitin’ for a ladder from the farm and then we’ll see what’s what. I never noticed it till Sir Mortimer saw it on his way out, that was when I rang you, but how long it’s been up there, God knows.”

A ladder carried on the back of a landrover duly arrived and Carlo was the first to shin up and take a look.

“It’s female!” he called down. “ Brian! Stand on the roof of the cab and take her weight while I untie the rope.”

It took a few minutes manoeuvring to get the car directly under the branch and then, in one of the most bizarre moments of his life, Brian found himself standing on the roof of a landrover cab, holding in his arms the body of a naked woman wrapped in brown paper. He lowered her to the farm hands as Carlo unwound the end of the rope that had suspended her from the branch and climbed down. Slowly they unwrapped the figure and a pretty Eurasian face was revealed. Then as they unwrapped her further they discovered an amazing spider’s web of bondage rope. The girl had been in discomfort alright but had never been in any danger. The rope was knotted and threaded through itself in eye watering complexity, spreading the strain of her suspension across her whole body. Her arms were held to her sides and her legs were fastened together with an almost beautifully complex arrangement. They eventually followed the end of the rope from the branch all the way down to her feet, so in fact her whole body had been taking the strain as that rope had been fastened to every single horizontal rope on its way up her body. Slowly they began to untie the knots, reluctant to take knives to such a strange work of craftsmanship. Once the girl was ungagged she moaned and tried to stretch her cruelly cramped limbs, as, one by one they were freed. The grain of the rope was deeply etched in all four and across her torso. Her breasts would be pretty once they regained their shape. Brian worked as hard as anyone to free her but her face was agonisingly familiar and as they at long last found the opposite end of the rope to the one that had been attached to the branch, he had a fairly shrewd suspicion of what was going on. And he was lost in admiration.

The rope ended in her vagina. They propped her up with her legs apart and Carlo reached in to pull it out. There was a small knot around a crumpled note which Carlo freed and spread out on the grass.

‘Now that I hope I have your attention Mr Suarez, please will you consider me for a job with CSL.’

There followed a mobile phone number.

Carlo put his head back and laughed aloud.

“That beats you by a long, long way Brian!” he said at last and Brian had to agree.

It turned out that the young man, who as Brian had suspected was the one who had approached him at the Salazar arena, was waiting a few yards down the road and only a couple of minutes after Carlo rang him he was there with some clothes for the girl.

“I was beginning to think you’d never find her,” he told them.

“But how did you get in and get her up there?” Brian wanted to know.

“Allow me a few secrets, Brian. If I’m taken on, then I’m the one who’s got a lot of secrets to learn.”

In the end the landrover took the newcomers back to the house while Carlo and Brian drove their traps.

John Carpenter was fascinated and the young man, who introduced himself as Tony, demonstrated his bondage skills on some of the Housegirls. The job was his of course after such an audacious stunt and the girl, whose name was Eve was promised a trial period as a groom.

“If this Conference and auction at Brien’s goes well,” Brian said, later that night as they sat over a bottle of whisky in the Common room, “we’re going to need extra personnel. Funny how things work out.”

“And that little Eve! Couldn’t you just cane the hell out of that arse of hers,” Patti put in.

“I’m sure you will, Patti,” Chrissie said, stretching and yawning, then standing up and beckoning Patti to follow her. The men watched them go.

Then Carlo stood up in his turn. “I think I’ll take Raika tonight,” he said.

Back in the stableyard, he walked softly into her room, and stopped to let his eyes accustom to the dim light from the security lights in the stableyard shining through the curtains. Then he moved quietly to her bed and began to undress. He must have made some kind of noise or sudden movement however because she woke and sat bolt upright, her eyes bright with terror even in the gloom.

“Oh! Master! Please, master! I’m so sorry, I don’t know……I didn’t……”

Carlo stared at her in surprise as she stuttered to a halt.

“Oh, Mr Carlo! I’m sorry, it was a dream. A bad dream I think.” Her face held its expression of terror for a few moments and then a soft and more typical smile appeared and she threw back her quilt, baring her breasts and then she was fumbling quickly with her panties. By the time Carlo was undressed, so was she and she lay back embracing him passionately in the dark, opening her legs for him, smothering him with adoring kisses, offering her breasts and any hole he wanted to make use of. She wasn’t normally quite so forward and Carlo was surprised but he settled for a delightful few minutes in her cunt followed by an ecstatic few minutes in her clever little mouth and throat.

In the dark, he didn’t notice the traces of white powder under her fingernails, all he could feel were her gentle hands, stroking his shaft and urging him respectfully towards his climax. Just like any faithful slave should.

Chapter 16

As the small plane banked, Carlo looked out of its window with very mixed emotions. Below its port wing the green and brown relief map of Conor Brien’s island was laid out beneath him, thousands of feet below. On that island he had honed his skills as a trainer and had developed the all-conquering Blue team in the early days of the arenas. Down there he had led Blondie off the training ship and into her future. Then her future had become his and on one traumatic night he had made a decision and thrown his lot in with her, saving her from Conor’s wrath and taking her to The Lodge.

They had all come a very long way since then and he hoped that at this conference he and Conor could begin to bury hatchets in places other than each other’s back. There was so much more to play for these days.

“You okay Carlo?” John asked from beside him.

Brian had been left to keep an eye on things and begin to train Tony; Patti would be busy seeing if Eve could learn her trade. So that had left just himself and John on this jaunt. It was just as well that they had Raika to keep an eye on the junior grooms and to keep the routines turning over smoothly.

“Yeah, I’m fine. But I don’t want to get bogged down in old stuff, there’s too much we got to do. I hope Conor feels the same.”

The plane shuddered as the landing gear came down and a few minutes later it was bumping along the runway that Carlo remembered so well. The island’s infrastructure however had improved vastly and they were met by a luxury car that had smooth blacktop roads to run on, in Carlo’s day they had used jeeps and dirt tracks. But to add to his surprise they weren’t taken to the estate. Instead the car turned downhill and took them to what had been a village when Carlo had been there. Now however it was almost a full blown resort standing at the edge of the island’s natural harbour and the hotels were no longer just there to look after arena tourists. Now the squads were so big that platoons of girls could be shipped down on a rotation basis to serve as sex slaves and there was a constant flow of guests to take advantage of them. More revenues accrued to the arenas but Carlo was always aware that the demands on the slaves would inevitably take their toll and he wasn’t looking forward to the day when his beloved Tigre, Cherry, Jet or – and this was the worse – Blondie, his best ever cohort would have to go under the hammer. That just couldn’t happen. But he had to admit that if that wasn’t an option, he couldn’t see what the alternative was. All he could do was try to make CSL as rich as possible to negate the economic necessity of selling off redundant stock and then they could start to think about what to do with such specialised creatures once they were too old to be of use.

His thoughts were interrupted as the car swept down to the dock he remembered so well and he looked with genuine interest to see where they had been billeted. It was at a hotel that was quite new to him, and even he had to admit that it was stunning.

In a vast, marble-tiled lobby naked arena slaves were exhibited in glass cages. Variously coloured lights played on the figures and changed slowly over a period of a few minutes. Impaled on dildo poles and with their arms raised and shackled to a ring in the top of the glass cage, with hoods and ring gags rendering them suitably mute and anonymous they were an addition that he approved of absolutely. In fact he and John spent nearly an hour before they got as far as checking in, pressing the button on each case that released pulses of electricity to the clips fastened to breasts and labia and watching the muscle tone as each slave writhed and jerked under the enforced stimulation.

He was impressed. Gerd had done a good job as his successor. The slaves’ bodies were curved and feminine but they were also well sinewed and tough under the curves. And that was what he had always thought was the slave trainer’s target. One of them at least.

The first full conference of The Arena Owners’ Federation began after lunch. The delegates made their way through the lobby with its illuminated glass cases and their occupants into an airy conference room where each delegate had a comfortable chair and a desk. In front of them was a stage with drawn curtains hiding the rear of it. As they entered they were treated to an unusual form of entertainment. A sound track played the noise of an arena crowd in full voice, cheering on their fancies. But over and above it were the sounds of a whip combat. There were the sounds of feet shuffling and scuffing in the sand, grunts and gasps of effort, the hiss and thud of the lashes, the screams and cries of fury. Carlo was spellbound – and as he looked around him he realised his companions were too. Each of them was visualising two of the lithe female forms they specialised in producing, welted, sweating, desperate and naked; struggling for their owner’s honour. But in an age of visual technology it was a refreshing change to have just sound and to let the mind draw its own vivid pictures.

Before long though the soundtrack faded and was applauded warmly. Then the curtains drew back and the applause redoubled. A raised dais was revealed with two lecterns standing on it. The dais was supported at each corner by a naked woman down on one knee, her arms up, hands beside her head, holding the platform. Only after a few seconds did the audience realise that they were sculpted. The lecterns were also sculpted in the form of naked women, these however were standing with their legs apart, facing the auditorium, their backs were bowed, their hands braced on their knees and on their backs they were supporting the simple wooden boards on which delegates’ speeches could be placed.

Before the applause died Conor Brien and Mark Cavanagh walked out form the wings and took their places at the lecterns. Only once the applause had died down did Mark reach around his lectern and squeeze its breast. Laughter rang out around the auditorium as the guests all saw his fingers sink deeply into the flesh and then squeeze and pull a nipple, setting up the inimitable quivers and ripples of a maltreated, but very real breast.

“Body paint,” Mark said. “We tried using real ones to support the dais but the selfish little sluts kept wanting to breathe and shift about after an hour or two. Conor and I got seasick.”

“So we compromised and got those sculpted and just painted these two. Mind you, I would ask for your sympathy, if you think of how she’s positioned, think where my cock is now…..”

There was more laughter as the audience realised that the slaves’ cunts would be pushing back against the speakers’ cocks as they stood against them.

“We had to stuff dildos up Conor’s one stop him giving her a rogering in mid-speech,” Mark told them.

Conor stood back and looked down at the girl in front of him, then looked up with a big grin. “Saints be praised. I must have yours then, Mark!”

With the ice broken, Conor settled down to business.

“It’s a great honour to welcome you all to our stable and estate. In the years that have passed since myself and a few friends dared to dream that we could create the arenas, we have seen our wildest dreams surpassed by reality. No one could have foreseen how they have taken off and prospered. But now, before the movement grows too big and untidy to be regulated, I think we need to stop and examine how we can all move forward. That is the reason for this conference and over the rest of today there will be speeches from those who have registered a desire to speak. Tomorrow will be devoted to speeches from the floor and some rather intriguing ideas for new events. The day after that will be given over to one of the biggest auctions ever seen. And it will be held under some very new conditions which I believe will benefit all of us………”

Conor kept his introductory remarks short and then left it to Mark to introduce the next speaker.

By the time business was concluded it was early evening and Carlo and John strolled down to the seafront while Carlo pointed out where the training ship used to dock and where he had brought Blondie, Cherry and Jet ashore, then they made their way back for dinner.

It had been a worthwhile day; a committee had been constituted, its members nominated and voted for to oversee the work of the vets and to co-ordinate events so that they were spaced out to encourage greater spending by the public and also to begin to construct stricter rules such as the precise length and weight of driving whips, the number of lashes a flogger should have for use in whip duelling – and their weight and length.

All this was to be funded by contributions from the owners, but as Mark Cavanagh had said, it was all part of bringing the whole arena enterprise slowly in from the outlaw fringes. The chairwoman of the vets addressed them – it was the big woman that Carlo and John had seen in the steam room. She took her place at the lectern to a reserved silence, the arenas had always been exclusively a male domain. However she won her audience around by taking a pencil from behind her ear and inserting into the lectern’s arse, making it wobble dangerously for a few seconds. But she got enthusiastic applause and, by the end of her speech, acceptance that they would all have to submit their fighters to testing at random intervals as well as at shows. If the punters were to continue to bet as heavily as they did at present, they had to be able to know the sport was clean.

Carlo sat up suddenly and looked around the auditorium for Gregor and Oleg of the Scarlet and Black team; an idea about the unexpected form of their chariot teams had suddenly occurred to him. He located them on the far side of the room, their faces betrayed nothing however and there was nothing that could be done in any case at this late stage.

The dining room was arranged around a mud wrestling ring and the guests’ attendants were matched against each other while the meal was served. Carlo’s girl won five straight fights before she was pinned down. Conor Brien came round the tables with Mark and Carlo had warily shaken hands with both. A few platitudes were exchanged but neither he nor John were especially welcome, but at least the conversation was polite.

On the morning of the second day, they were addressed by a fairly recent addition to the arena circuit. His arena was in a small African republic whose name was a byword for corruption and chaos. However, as he related, having finally got fed up with political wrangling, chicanery and incompetence he had given the top military men tickets to his owners’ box and suggested that the president should be removed and democracy restored. In a matter of weeks that was done and he gave the new MPs free tickets. As a businessman he ‘advised’ them on economic matters and the country began to prosper, any corruption meant instant banishment from the arena and soon the country’s newspapers were hailing him as the saviour of his people. He admitted with a big smile that the editors of those newspapers also had free tickets. But the point was there; politics and politicians needed to please the people, the arenas pleased people. Bring them together and nothing was impossible.

In the afternoon the whole conference was moved by air conditioned bus up to the actual estate and the arena. Carlo’s heart was pounding as the bus crested the hill above the village, and he could look out over his old home as it lay in a bowl before the foothills of the mountains that formed the backbone of the island. Much had changed. There were more barrack blocks around the arena, the new circus now stood on the field where he had drilled his dressage teams. But a lot was still the same. As they entered the training ground in the shadow of the arena, a wrist-suspended slave was being disciplined. The guard, clad only in shorts was delivering the lashes in a relentless rhythm, ignoring any cries or wrigglings from his victim. He looked over briefly and nodded at the guests and then returned to his task without missing a beat.

“What’s she being punished for?” a woman’s voice asked. The woman in question was the one the men were having real trouble adjusting to. The vet – Madeline Smith-Brookes, a bluff ‘county’ Englishwoman who took no nonsense from anyone – had established a place for herself but the other woman was different. She was quiet and as far as anyone could tell was Scandinavian, but what really made her so different was that she was the first female arena owner. No one quite knew how that would work. Could a woman be as relentlessly dominant as she would have to be? Could she control her male staff?

“She’s getting fifty lashes,” Gerd, Carlo’s replacement as the Blues’ trainer told her. “No particular reason, but Mick there had been laid up with a sprained wrist and needed a workout to loosen it up.”

Everyone looked at the woman to see how she would react. She watched the struggling and swinging figure of the slave as she was whipped.

“Good. There does not need to be a reason for whipping a slave,” she shrugged. “That is what they are for and should be reminded of it every day. They are at my arena, or I will be asking my men why.”

There was a sudden relaxation in the crowd. She might be female but she clearly ran a tight ship along all the right lines. The first female Owner had arrived and been accepted.

Taking a seat in the arena was another emotional moment for Carlo but he was soon too engrossed in the spectacles laid before him to get sentimental. Each prospective new event was discussed and argued about heatedly after it had been demonstrated and a show of hands decided if it should be considered further by the new committee.

Owners who thought they had a good idea had travelled with some slaves for demonstration purposes. Boxing with the studs on the gloves and the slaves naked was entertaining enough in its way but would be very expensive in slaves. Even in the demonstration, one slave had to be dragged out by her feet. Typically it was a Middle Eastern potentate who had suggested it – their populations almost insisted they had slaves and gave them to them, so they therefore never really understood how valuable they were to the other owners.

An obstacle race between two teams of slaves who were flogged over and under ramps and beams, carrying heavy timbers and had then to assemble them into large rectangular whipping frames at the end of each run was next. The losing team of course got to try out the frames which could take five slaves in a row. That part was fine, everyone enjoyed the finale of the spectacle but the actual race was considered rather too cumbersome and slow.