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Please note that the following fiction is intended for ADULT ONLY entertainment. Do not read further if you are easily offended by extreme themes, or your local community codes do not permit such suggestive material.
This fiction is intended for your use only. Any further dissemination of it must first require the author’s permission.
Thank you.
Faibhar
Arena Fights
Part Three
Mid-morning sun illuminated the arena surface. The stands remained shaded, but heat on the floor rose. A male slave labored under a yoke heavy with two sloshing water buckets swinging from either end. Close to where Quamria stood, he set down the load and offered the liquid contents of one bucket to Quamria. She poured the refreshing water over her head and sipped some of its coolness. A guard stepped near the two and said, “Hands on your knees, rebel. We will wash what’s left of the other bucket over your back.” Quamria did as told, catching ever deeper breaths. Very close to her feet lay the yoke.
“Please be gentle. As you can see, my back has injuries.”
As expected, the guard moved closer to see where the lion’s claws where used to break skin. Diving forward, Quamria picked up the yoke. Now freed of the buckets she slung the wood behind her neck. The male slave dodged her swing, but the guard did not. The wood caught his temple. Another soldier came running. He too was struck as Quamria planted her feet and pivoted.
Every man and woman in the arena, regardless of their status yelled. Slydus, too out of shape to instantly react by standing, choked on a half-swallowed pear where he lay on his couch. Anxiously, he gulped down a full chalice of wine. He grabbed himself. All were amazed at the lone female’s prowess in fighting. Slydus added his voice to the cheering.
From her periphery, Quamria saw another soldier-this one almost on top of her. She dropped the wood off her shoulders and hit with an end squarely in his crotch. The man fell with the others sprawled across the sand.
“Enough!” The shout came from the thin circle of shadow surrounding the arena. Quamria held the yoke and looked in the direction of the shout. Into the sunlight appeared an officer. He was flanked by other soldiers with swords drawn and archers with arrows all aimed at her…
The officer was not one she remembered from the night before. Nearly what one might otherwise call “handsome” in some different situation, now he was just one more menace. She sat on the small wood square of a mean device that was not just a vertical rack, but a horizontal one, too. Clearly, it was designed to stretch and pull every axis. Another menace…
Her back faced where she knew Slydus sat. Almost touching each shoulder were two uprights that reached high into the stifling air. Long chains from near the top held cuffs. Next to her hips lay more chain and opened shackles. From the looks of the encrusted insides they had already been used…
“Put these on the rebel!” Quamria winced. The wrist bands further chafed already bruised skin. Her legs were raised up and ankles locked into the dangling cuffs. “Widen it!” Clogs clattered and rumbled under Quamria’s tiny seat. The uprights began to move away. Behind her, the one cranking the contraption grunted. Her feet and arms tugged. Arms soon extended out, level with shoulders. Legs soared then spread as they lifted. Blood rushed to Quamria’s head as most of her body inverted.
Only the back of her neck rested where she sat, a right angle to most of her. She twisted her head from side to side, but could no longer see the arena wall. The roaring noise could have been from the crowd, or from her own body. Frantically she used her only option; to look up. The burning sun now high above glared impossibly bright, but Quamria involuntarily peeked. Sweat cascaded down. Breasts nested her cheeks. The metal ring skirt simmered, draped upside down over her tummy. Chains stopped climbing halfway up the timbers, spreading her legs into a wide “V”. Splayed as she was, there was little to do but submit.
Three chained female prisoners walked past. Quamria anxiously sought their help, but in vain. None gave her a glance. Their attentions seemed to be on where she remembered Slydus to be. She thought she heard him begin to address the three newcomers…
“What could he be thinking?!” The young chief of staff shifted away in his chair next to the governor and fanned himself. “Well obviously, the girl fight thing and now torturing the rebel so that everyone could see what the girl had for lunch were big hits with this bunch, but did the greasy oinker really have to stand on his own couch and make such a complete fool of himself? The aide worried over just how he’d have to explain such crudeness.
…“Guilt by association” and all that crap. Pals, especially in that bath group-nice as
they were-could be such a bitchy bunch …Such a spin he’d have to concoct!”
To Be Continued…
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