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The Prize by Sean O'Kane
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Chapter 1
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Prince Hassan ibn Faud was fond of reflecting that quite literally he was lord of all he surveyed when he walked the walls of the old fort which stood on a rocky outcrop and overlooked the desert and the mountains which made up ninety per cent of his tiny country. He turned to face inwards and again he was the lord and master of all that lay before him. Standing on the beaten earth of the dusty courtyard his slaves awaited him.
The Prince was an 'Owner' - one of the original ones who had set up the modern arenas which now existed in many of the more discreet corners of the world - his own lay hidden in the mountains just a few miles from where he now stood. Unlike the other owners who had built up their squads by buying at the secret markets through which girls and women were moved a lot of his slaves had been acquired more simply - there were still places in the world where women were traded quite openly.
And the result of several years' work now stood sweating and panting below him.
There were more than fifty squad girls now plus six solo gladiators - his very best fighters. All the stables had them, they fought with the severest weapons, competed in the most testing endurance events and were already becoming stars in the small world of the arenas and their rich, devoted fans. The Prince let his eye travel along the line of naked girls as he descended the steps and walked out to meet Peter Lang, his trainer.
The tall Englishman was as dusty as his charges and so were the guards.
There were twenty of them and they really only needed to be there for the new recruits - once Lang had had a chance to work on them, the girls developed such submissiveness that they would gladly lie on beds of nails if told to. He had tried it once and every single girl had obeyed without question.
Lang had had the whole stable out on what he called one of his 'treks'. Quite simply the girls ran for three days, stopping only for food, water and sleep. The last being taken when they weren't required sexually. Now the exhausted ranks stood with their hands on their heads and their legs apart, ready for inspection by their owner. He paced slowly along in front of the line, noting with unflagging fascination the variety of the breasts on show.
Some were perhaps a little too small for classical beauty, some a little too retroussé and some a little too large but as he stopped here and there to stroke a nipple into full erection or twist it and pull until the slave gasped and bit back her cry, the great thing about them, he thought, was that they were his to do exactly what he wanted with.
And that gave them a beauty all their own. That and the fact that as usual most of them were reddened and scored by the whip. The Prince reached Lang at the end of the line.
"Any punishments due before the announcement?" he asked.
"Just two. Number fourteen and number thirty-eight; malingering earlier today, thirty lashes each," Lang replied. The Prince nodded as the slaves stood forward from the line, expressionless and passive, their numbers were tattooed just by their left hip bones. He doubted very much that there had been any malingering but the slaves themselves would expect no less than that some of them must face punishment. It was simply inevitable.
He watched as the two girls were spreadeagled on the earth, wrists and ankles shackled to short stakes. Two of the guards shook out the lashes of their bullwhips and began the flogging. The hiss and snap of the lashes rang round the ancient courtyard and the bodies of the two slaves jerked as the leathers bit.
The Prince watched critically.
"I'd say you've got them prepared to your usual high standard Peter," he observed. What he was watching was the way the slaves' buttocks danced and rippled as the lashes struck their backs and their bodies twitched. It pointed to two things, firstly the guards were putting a fair bit of weight into the beating and secondly, although the slaves were fit and sinewy, there was still a good amount of fat on them - enough to keep them looking feminine.
After all no one wanted to watch muscle-bound females, the slaves had to look womanly as they struggled and suffered under the whips but they had to be tough enough to take it. That was the art of the trainer.
The two men watched in companionable silence as the punishment went on, noting in approval how neither slave gave vent to screams but managed to take their lashes with no more than explosive gasps escaping their clenched teeth. Once sentence had been carried out and they had returned to the line, the Prince stood in front of them and addressed them all.
"We go into battle again in two weeks' time," he told them and although they were far too disciplined to make any obvious response, he could sense the sudden, repressed elation. They were going back into an arena and that was what they existed for. But they would also be experiencing the submissive's characteristic blend of fear and excitement. The training would now get much harsher until three days before the show itself - and they knew it would start now.
The two men dismissed the squad, summoned the slaves who had been flogged to accompany them to the coolness of the rock-hewn room which served as Peter's office and had them bend over his desk while they took them. The Prince chose to take his anally, Peter took his vaginally and both girls responded enthusiastically, especially when the men dug their fingers into their recently acquired welts. Then they dismissed them and got down to work.
There was a lot to be arranged. The whole stable of slavegirls had to be transported half way round the world as the next show was in Oregon.
End of Chapter One
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