THE PRIZE (23 page)

Chapter 26

Ayesha fought her way up to consciousness in response to the sound of a riding crop being run along the bars of the cages. The doors were opened, the chains removed and they were summoned for morning inspection. Groaning and limping, she made her way to stand outside her cage, legs apart, hands behind
her
head. The Prince himself came to congratulate them and alongside him was Peter Lang.

Proudly the squad exhibited their wounds as the men passed down the line. They were badges of honour and devotion. Occasionally a few words of discussion were exchanged about the state one or other of the slaves was in and then the Prince left. The trainer came to stand by Ayesha and told her she would not be going back to the fort. Her heart soared. She would stay here and bear her master’s name alongside her stable number.

After breakfast the squad was marched off downstairs back to the trucks, Miriam managed a quick smile before she was taken away but Ayesha was too thrilled to be sad. Her hands were clipped together behind her back and a lead attached to one of the rings in the restraints which was then fed forwards between her legs. Naked, bruised, welted and on a leash, Ayesha proudly followed her master out into the village.

“You see why I told you to fight till you dropped yesterday?” he said casually as they stepped out into the sun. Ayesha gasped as she looked around her. Even the arenas hadn’t prepared her for this.

Brian and Amelia had felt something similar when they had first ventured out to find the village transformed into a bazaar cum fun fair. They were drawn irresistibly to one of the big wheels which stood just by the entrance to the pony racing track. It wasn’t a full size one but then it didn’t need to be. Only five people rode this one and they were tied to its circumference, face outwards. Each of the naked slaves displayed had her labia and nipples gripped by big clover leaf clamps and from each one hung a chain ending in a loop, in addition each girl had a number scrawled across her stomach.

After queueing for a while, Brian handed over some of their chips and they were allocated Number Five and handed several heavy conical weights with S shaped hooks on the top.

The object of the exercise was extremely simple. When a hooter sounded the wheel began to turn and, by leaning over the low railing which surrounded the contraption, the punters tried to hang as many weights as they could on their slave.

The wheel made a very entertaining spectacle while people waited their turn. As the slaves descended the part of the rotation which had them feet first, then whatever weights they carried pulled downwards. As the rotation began to swing them towards the bottom of the circle, the chains hung away from their bodies and this was a good time to add more weights as the loops hung clear. Then while the bodies were carried through the bottom part of the rotation the chains dragged their weights along the ground to add a little extra touch to the discomfort. But then they started on the upwards part of the rotation - feet first. The noise was loudest here as the weights suddenly reversed their pull and again swung outwards. As Amelia observed, the bigger breasted girls got a much closer look at their nipples than they would have wanted during this stage. At the top of the circle, with the girls stretched on their backs, the weights hung in a variety of directions and did some interesting things to the breasts in particular.

Between them they managed to increase Number Five’s torment by a total of seven weights by the time the ride ended, unfortunately for them someone hung eight on Number Three and walked off with a particularly uncomfortable looking butt plug. To cheer Amelia up they tried the spider.

This was closely based on a familiar fair ground ride, except that where the normal ride would have had eight chairs at the ends of the arms there were just long, rectangular platforms on which eight luckless slaves were tied, some face down, some face up. A few more chips bought them the use of a whip and a place to stand inside the enclosure. As the machine came to life and began to spin, its multiple arms making the platforms describe complicated patterns around the circular enclosure, each platform was brought into their reach for a few seconds every now and then. Amelia had to be alert to deliver a few good smacks before the platform was whisked away and then she had to look for the next one coming. She had to have three goes on the trot, she was so excited. But as the complement of dizzy and chastised slaves hobbled away and their replacements took their places, Brian thought it might be fun to have a look at the side shows.

A row of slaves tied down on their backs with tight straps constricting the breasts and making them stand up invitingly, formed a very enjoyable coconut shy. The nipple of each breast was pierced in the vent by a needle with a hollow plastic handle. In the handle a candle was balanced. All the punters had to do was shoot, using a paint ball gun, to knock the candles off. The quivering, wobbling breasts were covered in an artist’s palette of different coloured starbursts from the guns, as was the black cloth which surrounded them. The girls’ heads had been chained down by the backs of their collars in order to stop them craning their heads up and getting in the way.

Hitting the targets was not easy, as Brian discovered. The girls were some distance away and insisted on breathing, and not at normal steady rates. They panted and started at nearby shots and screams, thus contributing to stray shots to the nipples and breasts. Nevertheless after a couple of goes he got a total of four candles off his target, making her yelp as the pins were wrenched by the shots and again as they were reinserted and the candles remounted. He won a pair of serrated nipple clamps and Amelia stowed them carefully in her bag.

They still had a few chips left and decided to try a tent which proclaimed itself as ‘Guess-a-gasm’. They had to queue for a while before being ushered into the tent where four slaves were displayed on X shaped crosses. Each had several colourful needles threaded through pinches of breastflesh. Between their legs several more needles had been stuck into labia and inner thighs. There were small crocodile clips attached to the steel shaft of each needle and leads running to transformers mounted at the bases of the crosses. From there the leads ran to several more boxes, standing on low tables in front of each slave. The guard explained that for two chips a go, they could choose whether to apply electricity to the thighs, the labia, the tits or a combination. The current and duration were pre-set. As they had had to queue outside they had no idea of when each slave had last achieved a climax, but in the interests of fairness each one had pads attached below her left breast and behind a screen were monitors, the heart rates would attest to orgasm should noise or movement leave any room for doubt. They were allocated the slave at the far end of the line and stood trying to assess her state. It was getting on in the day now and the slaves were at the very limits of their endurance. Sweat shone on their skin in the twilight under the canvas, their eyes were half closed and their heads lolled. Their slave was mumbling something and they strained to hear. But then she rallied, wiped her face on one upraised arm and made an effort to whisper something - it was foreign and Brian couldn’t understand. But Amelia laughed and pressed one button. Instantly the slave’s body bowed, her head snapped back and a long sigh escaped her before her legs gave way and she hung inert on the cross. The guard was a bit annoyed at having to exchange slaves so late in the day but from behind the screen another man confirmed a pretty spectacular orgasm.

“How did you know?” Brian asked as they left, the proud owners of a thick-shafted vibrator.

“A couple of after-lights out excursions from finishing school taught me the French for ‘cunt’ and ‘come’,” she laughed. “But I wasn’t impressed by the ‘bitch’ bit!”

It was sheer chance that as they walked, happy and carefree, looking for their next adventure, the very person that Brian had originally come to meet walked in front of them. They had come a fair way down the street as they had wandered and were outside another of the hotels. Parked in front of it was a van being loaded with three four-foot long crates. Inside each was one of the CSL slaves in a hog tie. Supervising the loading was Carlo Suarez himself.

Brian grabbed Amelia’s arm so hard that she gasped with pain.

“Listen,” he hissed fiercely. “Don’t say a word, just stand beside me and if I give you an order - do it! Whatever it is, however humiliating. Do what I tell you!”

Amelia looked up at him, half frightened by his sudden intensity, half excited by it.

Keeping his paralysing grip on her arm he marched forwards.

“Mr Suarez!” he called.

The burly, dark man turned from supervising the loading of the blonde into the van.

“Mr Suarez, I want to work for you!” Brian stood his ground as steadily as he could having uttered the words he had come so far to say.

“Why?” The Spaniard crossed his arms and leaned against the side of the van, putting one foot casually on the blonde’s crate.

“Because I have just enough experience to know how much more there is to learn.” Brian had reckoned that Carlo Suarez would be well used to young bloods who fancied a life of endless domination over women, strutting and preening in front of him and he fervently hoped that honesty would be refreshing.

Carlo was quiet for a moment.
“
What experience?” he asked.

Brian said a silent prayer then tapped Amelia on the shoulder. “Show the gentleman your arse.”

For a heartstopping moment she was motionless then she turned away from the men and gathered her short skirt up behind her. Brian breathed out.

“I’ve just had my belt to work with so far,” he tried to put as much casual ‘savoir faire’ into his tone as possible.

Carlo surveyed the proffered buttocks, with their rich scattering of reddened welts, calmly. “Any fool can thrash a willing sub. But with these...” He tapped his foot on the blonde’s crate. “Slaves are completely dependent on you. Suppose I handed her over to you for punishment. What would you need to know?”

Brian’s thoughts raced, trying to suppress the erotic aspects of the scene Carlo had conjured up - deliberately he suspected.

“I’d need to know what she was required to take; and I would need to know her well enough to know what she was capable of taking and what she had already taken.”

“You forgot to ask what you would be u
sing on her,
” Carlo grinned.

“Of course, sorry.” Brian tried to rescue himself and kick himself all at the same time. “......And on that would depend where she was to take it.”

Carlo nodded slowly and then gestured at Amelia. “It’s a nice arse but she can put it away now. What do you know about diet, exercise, skin tone, muscle tone, fitness? What do you know about training for endurance and for explosive power over short distances?”

Brian shook his head and answered with complete honesty. “Virtually nothing, but it’s what I want to learn.”

Brian’s heart soared as he saw Carlo nod thoughtfully and reach for his back pocket. He brought out a business card and handed it to Brian. “Be there next
Tuesday
, ten a.m. sharp and bring an overnight bag.”

Brian looked at the card he clutched in his trembling hand. The address was the one he had come across in his researches into Sir John’s known associates; The Lodge.

Two hours later, as the shuttle copter lifted off and the Bakhtar arena dropped away behind him, Brian could only marvel at his abrupt change in fortune. He had gambled a lot of money on attending this show but he had backed the winning team, won the girl sitting beside him and on whose naked thigh his hand rested. But the most glittering of all prizes was a chance to work with Carlo Suarez himself and the CSL stable. And he had won it.

He laughed aloud as he envisaged Ayesha’s face if they ever bumped into each other in the hothouse world of the arenas.

Ayesha listened as the last of the shuttle copters lifted off, clattering out over the desert and back down to Bakhtar city. The trucks carrying the exhausted ranks of the visiting stable were a plume of dust on the horizon and men were busy dismantling the fun fair. In the cool of the evening she knelt back on her heels on a sun-warmed stone terrace beside her master’s chair as he enjoyed a sundowner. Her leash still stretched out and up from between her legs and he toyed with the loop at its end, twisting it between those strong, capable fingers which so fascinated her and occasionally flicking it across her nipples. The Prince had flown back and Peter Lang was now virtually lord of all he surveyed. He was the ‘The Hawk of God’s’ right hand man after all. Ayesha felt nothing but overwhelming pride as she knelt at his feet.

“There’ll be a week-long orgy down at the fort, if I know Paolo and Hassan,” he said without looking at her; perfectly assured of her rapt attention. “I’ll go down for a few days after they’ve all got it out of their systems. Get them back into training; some of the girls will be missing me by then. They need order and supervision. But you.....” He reached down, again without looking and to her delight fondled her breasts, “your job is to heal up quickly. I intend to put in some quality time in the dungeons with you.” He squeezed one breast until his fingers sank deep into the soft flesh and reignited sparks of residual pain.
Ayesha
sat up straight and bit her lip. “You have no idea what delightful implements there are down there in the more private ones. I am owed a holiday anyway.” He sat up and turned to look down at her suddenly.