Into The Arena by Sean O'Kane Page B

had visualised in her most secret dreams.
    She couldn't help but gasp this time as the weights left the floor and swung freely between her open legs. The pain in her labia was excruciating, but she was in position well before the other girl and heard the slow count to ten begin. She felt a sweat start out on her though at the thought of maybe having to lift four on each lip. Around her Tara heard the shouts of encouragement but the pain in her labia was now engulfing her whole lower belly. She had screwed her eyes tight shut but opened them again to see the other girl gasping and crying even more than she was. It was enough, she clenched her hands into fists by her thighs and watched her opponent give a despairing cry and fall back down to a squat.
    The pain of having the clips removed and feeling the blood flow back into the squeezed flesh had both girls writhing on the floor but as soon as she could stand, Tara's guard was as good as his word and led her back to her cell. There, to the background noises of the whip being applied to the loser and the sounds of another weight lifting contest taking place, he made good his promise.
     
    As the days wore on they became used to nipple clamps, suspensions and bondage - especially breast bondage. Tara was amazed at the men's skill with rope, and even more amazed at how they could make her breasts stand out in straining, throbbingly tight bulges with their carefully applied loops, cunningly knotted across her chest, or looped behind her to imprison her arms and wrists, then through her crotch to torment that as well.
    And always there were the implements like the crop, the cane and the various whips which invariably preceded the masterfully hard penetrations of their sexes.
    So constant was her state of arousal as the ship ploughed slowly South, that Tara never gave any thought to anything other than the next training session, contest, or the next 'playtime'. And that the ship was steadily heading into warmer latitudes was made plain by the men who started wearing just shorts and deck shoes, which cranked up the atmosphere in the hold another few notches. Even when she was strapped down to one of the many benches, or even held spreadeagled against the bars of the door to her cell, Tara watched the sweat-gleaming, muscular male bodies as sometimes two of them worked on her, applying nipple clamps followed by labial clamps, then tying these to her widespread thighs before making full use of her pulled-open vulva. Sometimes they used a crop or cane on her thighs first, making her bite her lip against the pain and then flogged the pinkly vulnerable vulva itself, inner lips a-quiver, with a martinet or scourge. And she would howl in wordless anguish at the blasts of mingled agony and lust, while trying to tilt her hips forward greedily to experience the next bout of pain. If they made her come before they thrust their hard cocks deep inside her, then all they had to do was bite or twist her aching nipples as they rammed into her to send her spiralling into an outer void of delirium which she had never before experienced.
    But there was one fly in the ointment as far as Tara was concerned. She continued to be undefeated, except in that one contest in which Carlo had set her up to lose. She burned for revenge.
    No longer were numbers pulled at random. Carlo called the girls out for contests after carefully consulting his clipboard. And he no longer called out numbers. All the girls now had nicknames, given them by the guards. The black girl was Jet, the redhead was Carrot, the girl in the cell opposite Tara was Channel - due to the tremendous elasticity of her cunt which could hold seven or eight of the long slender candles the men used for hot waxing them. But it was the girl called Cherry who Tara listened for, the only girl who had ever beaten her; named for the deep red of her nearly constantly erect nipples.
    But it wasn't until a couple of days before they made land that Tara got her