The Arena of Torment Read online

  Title Page

  The Arena of Torment

  Africanus 1

  By

  Geoffrey Allen

  Publisher Information

  Published in 2011 by

  Cambridge House Publishing LLP

  Digital Edition Converted and Distributed in 2011 by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  Copyright 2007

  This edition published2011

  The right of Geoffrey Allen 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

  Chapter One

  Quintus Varus shifted slightly on his seat, making room for a young naked slave girl holding a jug of wine. A sweet smell of almond oil emanated from her skin as she bent over the table.One glance at her erect nipples told him she would willingly spread her legs if he so desired. Yet strangely, he ignored the slim thigh rubbing suggestively against him and pushed her rudely away. The young slave took the hint and withdrew. In that mood there was no telling how he might react. Quintus was not a man to cross and more than one slave girl who had angered him had been flogged raw, her back and buttocks tasting the whip until she screamed for mercy.

  His best friend Clodius eyed him censoriously. How could any red blooded Roman refuse such a blatant invitation as that? Why, the girl was practically begging for his cock.

  For several minutes the two men sat drinking lost in their own thoughts, almost oblivious to the numerous naked and semi naked young women who scurried back and forth. From somewhere across the courtyard came the monotonous creaking of timber like the mast of a ship swaying in a heavy sea.

  It was Clodius who broke the silence.

  “What’s troubling you, my friend? If it’s a woman or girl you need, you only have to say the word and I’ll have her fetched immediately. If you’ve a mind, I’d recommend that young Gaul. She’s half savage and not yet broken in but gives a good ride.”

  “There’s nothing more I’d like than to sink my weapon into the slit of any one of your young slaves,” Quintus admitted, taking another hefty draught from his cup. “But the truth is my mind is distracted.”

  Clodius’ eyes rolled in despair. “Not that old chestnut again,” he sighed. “I’ve told you, Quintus, spending money on training women to fight in the arena is money down the drain. It just won’t wash. It’s men who do the fighting. Women simply aren’t built for it. Fucking and scrubbing floors, yes. Armed combat, no.”

  Quintus rolled the stem of his cup between his fingers; thinking.

  “You’re wrong Clodius. I’ve seen them in Rome at the Colosseum, women who…”

  “Who perform novelty acts,” Clodius interrupted. “Just wrestling and brawling, tearing each others eyes out, or boxing each others ears. If not that, then mating with bulls or stallions. It’s all they’re fit for.”

  There was a lot of truth in that. Women only provided a distraction between the main contests, naked flesh, breasts and buttocks bruised and beaten for the pleasure of the crowd, or performing outrageous sexual acts. Here in the provincial town of Marcellum the idea of female gladiatrices was absurd.

  “I’m not thinking of Marcellum,” Quintus said seriously. “I’m thinking of Rome. You know the position I’m in. If I don’t come up with something soon I’m ruined.”

  That was true as Clodius well knew. His best friend was heavily in debt and his arch rival Polonius was now the main supplier of gladiators. It cost a fortune to train a gladiator and if he was quickly dispatched his owner could just as quickly face financial ruin.

  “Your plan then is to train up a woman gladiatrix to fight in the Colosseum,” Clodius suggested, reading his friend’s mind. “All right, I agree, if that’s good enough for Rome then go ahead. You have the means of training in your own school and instructors who can teach them well enough. But where are you going to find the sort of woman you need?”

  Good point. There were plenty of female slaves who could be bought and sold, but none that came anywhere near the standard required in the arena.

  “I thought you might know of one or two,” Quintus said hopefully. “After all, you are the biggest slave dealer in Marcellum.”

  Clodius signaled the young slave girl who came hurrying over. He needed time to think and thinking was thirsty work. The girl replenished the cups and he gave her rump a playful pat. How old was she he wondered, mid to late teens perhaps, but well formed with pert buttocks and rounded breasts if a little on the small side. He couldn’t remember if he’d had her or not.

  “I’m going to make you a present of her,” he told Quintus. “She’s yours after this tiresome matter is concluded. But in the meantime if you want to view some robust slave women you need look no further than the grinding house.”

  The two men arose and made their way to the sound of the groaning timber, which in fact was an apparatus used for grinding corn, another little side line of Clodius’ providing the bakers of Marcellum with flour.

  In the centre of the room a stout timber pole reached from floor to ceiling and at waist height long wooden poles were attached horizontally to the main shaft. The whole apparatus was turned by women slaves chained by their wrists to the horizontals. Quintus had never entered the grinding house and he now stood fascinated as the women went round and round in a huge circle, straining to turn the grinding stones unseen in the room below.

  One glance at the women slaves told him why Clodius had brought him there. They were nothing like the slim girl slaves who waited at tables, or in their master’s bed chamber. It needed strength to turn the wheels and Clodius had selected his slaves wisely. Urged on by a whip wielded by the corn master, the women flexed their powerful thighs and arms, grunting from sheer exertion as sweat ran from their glistening bodies in rivulets, running ceaselessly down their spines and between their buttocks, trickling over their breasts and into their thick unshaven sex mounds.

  One of the slaves immediately caught Quintus’ eye. A black slave with well shaped legs and firm protruding buttocks was chained to the outside of one of the horizontals, her whole body shining like polished ebony as she struggled against the pole. He could see her large pendulous breasts swinging to and fro as she bent over the shaft. The nipples, he noticed, were extraordinarily erect from a recent lashing. Her arms and legs were perfectly sculpted, the muscles already well honed from so much hard labour. He nodded in satisfaction. The woman was strong and already he was beginning to think he had found exactly what he was looking for.

  In gladiatorial combat strength was not everything. It was speed and agility which counted that and the ability to think fast, to be able to guess what the opponent was going to do next and get in first. That would come with training. First he needed to gauge her stamina.

  “The black slave. Who is she?” he asked, turning to Clodius.

  “Her name is Africanus. I bought her from a slave market in Carthage. She works well but is more trouble than she’s worth. I wouldn’t advise you to choose…”

  “Have her unchained,” Quintus interjected. “I want to see how well she holds up against the whip.”

  Clodius shrugged and summoned the corn master. “Have the black slave released and taken to the whipping post.”

  The corn master bowed wondering what she had done to deserve a flogging. But it wasn
’t his place to argue, and he went to the front of the pole and unfastened the manacles around her wrists.

  She stood upright, groaning and straightening her back, rubbing her hips and flexing her shoulders. Seen upright she was much taller than Quintus at first imagined, at least six feet in height, maybe an inch or two above. Her legs were long, capable of carrying her quickly and for several seconds he marveled at the length of her thighs and tight, strong buttocks. Her large breasts would look good in moulded armour.

  “Take her to the whipping post,” the corn master ordered, and then for the first time Quintus saw her face.

  Her eyes, wide and lustrous narrowed into angry slits. “Why am I being flogged?” she hissed at the corn master. “I haven’t done anything.”

  Defiance, Quintus noticed, a good quality in a gladiatrix, but one that would have to be subdued before she swore total obedience to her new master.

  “Not your place to argue,” the corn master replied confidently.

  But that was before a well aimed kick crushed his balls. Doubled with pain he fell to the floor rolling over and over both hands clasping his throbbing nuts.

  The guards rushed forward and grabbed her arms pinioning them behind her.

  “You’ll get an extra ten strokes for that,” Clodius informed her.

  A wry smile creased Quintus’ lips as they dragged her to the whipping post. The more he saw her the more he liked her. Breaking her spirit was going to be a challenge in itself.

  “Up on your toes, slave,” the guard barked, forcing her hard against the post.

  Africanus stood on tiptoe and Quintus saw how the muscles in her beautifully shaped calves bulged and tightened. The softer under parts of her buttock cheeks lifted, and for a brief moment clenched into a deep sensuous crease.

  While she stood on her toes, the guards quickly shackled her wrists. A length of chain was speedily fetched and fitted to the shackles. One of the guards taking no chances drew his gladius; the sword favoured by the conquering legions, and prodded the point into the small of her back.

  “Move and I’ll kill you,” he whispered.

  It was a bluff, she knew that, but a look of dull resignation spread across her voluptuous lips. Obeying his instructions, she reached upwards while the length of chain was passed through a ring at the top of the post. The two guards took hold of the chain and pulled hard lifting her clear off the floor. Quintus heard her grunt as her manacled wrists bore her whole body weight. He moved to the front of the post and feasted his eyes on her uplifted breasts. She stared back at him, no longer so defiant but with an expression of helplessness.

  “The corn master may have the pleasure of flogging her,” Clodius grinned as the man struggled to his feet. “Give her twenty strokes.”

  “Only twenty?” he protested. “She deserves at least forty.”

  “The decision is not yours to make. Twenty strokes of the cat o’ three tails are enough.”

  Grumbling, the corn master gathered them in his hand, long thin lengths of tightly woven leather, knotted at intervals.

  “I want to see her thoroughly humiliated,” Quintus said, seating himself comfortably.

  “Whatever,” Clodius shrugged. “I’m sure the corn master will oblige. But first we shall slake our thirsts.”

  At his bidding the young naked slave girl who had so blatantly offered herself to Quintus came hurrying into the grinding house. She set a tray of goblets and a flask of wine between the two men.

  “Anything else, master?” she purred.

  Clodius was about to dismiss her but suddenly changed his mind.

  “Get on your knees,” he ordered, parting his thighs.

  The girl knelt between them; head bowed awaiting the next command.

  “While the slave is being flogged you will suck my cock,” he said flatly. “And when I come make sure it’s deep in your throat.”

  “Yes master,” she whispered, filling the cups and then lifting the hem of his tunic.

  Expertly, she rolled it up over his thighs exposing his throbbing member. Her tiny hand grasped his shaft and guided it slowly into her open lips. Clodius emitted a faint purr of satisfaction when her hot soft mouth glided down the shaft.

  “Let the punishment begin,” he chuckled, and folded his hands lovingly over the back of the girl’s bobbing head.

  Quintus leaned forward in his seat watching intently as the corn master approached the hanging body of Africanus. A fine bead of sweat trickled down her temples as she braced herself for the first blow. But to her surprise the whip she expected to come whistling into her naked and defenceless buttocks was laid gently on her shoulder. Her body shivered when the three leather tails tumbled over her breasts. Slowly, the corn master withdrew the whip letting the tails pass over her now fully erect nipples, each length of plaited leather teasing the teats even harder. He let the whip trail down her back and then, grasping the handle wormed it into her bottom crease, twisting it back and forth pushing it deeper inside her bottom hole. His free hand slapped her left flank and she swallowed hard.

  “If you’re going to flog me just do it,” she almost pleaded, unable to bear the delaying torment he was inflicting.

  “There’s plenty of time,” he taunted, taking the handle from her bottom and passing it under her nose. “See how sweetly your arse smells,” he gloated. “I wonder if your cunt smells as good.”

  Clodius laughed at that but Quintus didn’t share the joke, instead he kept his eyes on Africanus’ face, constantly watching the changing range of emotions; anger, defiance, acute embarrassment, and a curious mixture of both hatred and arousal. Even though she knew the whip would soon descend on her naked flesh she seemed to find the prospect sexually thrilling which intrigued Quintus. It wasn’t often a whipped female slave was sexually aroused. Ignoring the young slave girl busy sucking off her master, he watched ever more closely, only diverting his attention briefly to raise his cup.

  “You two slaves,” the corn master shouted, “open her legs.”

  A couple of slave girls ran over the tiled floor and quickly knelt at Africanus’ feet. Taking her ankles they slowly parted her legs, drawing them further and further apart until each ankle was raised enough to rest on their shoulders. In the half light Quintus could just make out a tuft of glistening black curls bristling between her legs. He thought he saw a brighter slit of pink, but it might only have been a trick of the light.

  The corn master placed the whip handle at the apex of her thighs and gently eased it over the pubic mound, teasing the sex lips and letting the handle penetrate her, but only a fraction, enough to send her pulse racing but at the same time denying the complete fulfillment her body was beginning to crave.

  Quintus saw her voluptuous lips part and a dream-like expression come into her eyes. Then suddenly they opened wide and he heard a sharp intake of breath as the handle was rammed deep into her sex.

  “You’ve got a cunt like a cow,” the corn master jeered, revolving the handle inside her.

  For the first time since she had been shackled to the pole Quintus permitted himself a wry grin. He couldn’t help but grudgingly admire the way the corn master tormented his victim, almost bringing her to the point of orgasm and then stopping short leaving her in agonies of frustration. Her splendid thighs quivered at every insertion. Sweat was breaking out all over her dark, silky skin. Her breasts heaved when her clitoris was touched and she cried out to be whipped rather than suffer the handle working faster and faster into her sex.

  “Your wish is granted,” he told her, swiftly taking away the handle. “But not before you’ve tasted your own juice.”

  At his bidding the slave girls released her ankles. One of them went to the front of the pole and dropped onto all fours. Using her as a stool, the corn master stood on her back and lifted the handle to Africanus’ lips.


  “Now suck,” he commanded. “Suck your own cunt juice.”

  Clodius, aroused at the sight of her lips sucking hard on the handle forced the young slave girl’s head to the root of his cock. She almost choked at the rock hard cock filling her throat, but Clodius was too excited to care either way.

  “Bring me off,” he rasped, keeping his eyes on Africanus now sucking and licking at the juice slicked handle.

  “That will do,” the corn master announced, jumping from the girl’s back.

  He went around the pole and gathered the whip tails ready to deliver the first lash. Quintus saw Africanus’ face suddenly change from dumb compliance to fear. He guessed that within seconds she would be begging for mercy.

  The tails whistled through the air and landed with a loud crack across her shoulder blades. Her spine arched and she jolted forwards thrusting her breasts against the pole. Remarkable, Quintus thought, how much larger a woman’s breasts appeared when they were squashed flat. The ample breast flesh pushed out either side of the pole covering the whole of her ribs, then with a delicious wobble settled back on her chest.

  “The next lash is for kicking me in the nuts,” the corn master informed, sending the tails winging across Africanus’ buttocks.

  The tails spread as they sailed over her body, each one leaving a thin line darker and more pronounced than the surrounding skin. Her buttocks flexed and squeezed from the sudden rush of pain. Her lungs filled with air then emptied with a whoosh as she fought against the rising pain.

  “The next is for even thinking about it,” he said, swinging the tails again on her rump.

  He gathered the whip with slow deliberation allowing plenty of time for the pain to sink in before delivering the next blow.

  “And this is for thinking you could get away with it,” he said maliciously.

  Quintus winced at the sound of the tails cracking against her back. Yet not a sound had escaped her lips, only a curious hissing noise coming from her nostrils betrayed any sign of suffering. Clearly, the girl had no intention of giving her tormentors the satisfaction of hearing her cry out or beg for mercy. He liked that. It showed self control in the face of adversity, another quality essential in a gladiatrix. But privately he didn’t think she could hold out against the next lash heading for the backs of her thighs.