A FIGHTER'S LIFE
By Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
I won it fair and square. Well, as fair and square as you can be in my life. All that really matters to me is that I do win - if I don't, I suffer - really suffer, that is. They reckon that if I lose I ought to be really beaten so that I'm "encouraged" to fight even harder next time. But even though I had won, and it was a good victory - honest - the bastards didn't let me clean myself up or anything afterwards as the transport was waiting, they said: so covered in sweat (and still sweating from all the exertion: fighting's really hard work), and blood (I don't know whether it was mine or his - probably both, as my nose felt really tender, and there was a cut over my eye for sure) I was bundled into the travelling crate and loaded onto the truck. And it wasn't even a proper-sized crate for me: I'm a big muscular bloke, obviously - you have to be, to be a champion in my line - and the standard crates just aren't big enough.
They ought to give me a super-size one, one of those that's half as big again as the normal ones, but of course that costs extra to be shipped, and the tight bastards didn't bother that night.
So there I am, all scrunched up in the crate. I can't stand up, of course, or even sit properly, and I can't lie down or anything: I have to kind of curl up as best I can, and that just isn't good for my limbs, especially when I'm so fucking painful all over from where the other bloke landed his punches on me. But what can I do? There's no point complaining to the truck driver, or to the other blokes all around me in their crates, is there? Still, at least I'm on the top layer, so I'm not going to get pissed on - or worse - but, on the other hand, the poor blokes underneath are going to get mine: I emptied my bladder before the fight, of course, but between rounds I drink a lot of water and they put me in this crate before I had time to do anything afterwards. So I did what I had to, just let go. The poor bastard underneath shouted and swore of course, but when you've done as much travelling as I've done, you get to know that that's the way it is.
We travel through the night, and by the time they unloaded me the next morning I was really suffering from the cramp in my legs, and I was kind of shivering all over. You do get used to being naked, of course, but when you're in pain from the fight, and all cramped so you can't move and get warm, it's pretty fucking terrible. Still, once my crate was off the truck there was at least some sun on me, and I did begin to feel a bit better - especially as a guard came over, checked the documentation, and told the trucker he could open my crate and take it back with him, empty. I've kind of got used to being treated just like a piece of merchandise, to be shipped around with absolutely no say in the matter, and not even knowing where I'm going most of the time.
It's a reflex, really - as soon as the lid was opened I stood up and started to do some stretching and then some general warm-up stuff - running on the spot, some star jumps, some arm swinging - that sort of thing. Not only did it warm me up, but I suppose I'm used to it - when I'm not actually fighting, or sleeping, I'm usually exercising. They like me to be in absolutely peak condition physically, of course, so they don't mind me doing it all the time, and that suits me: when I'm really working my body it kind of takes my mind off all the other stuff. Well, I mean, if you thought about it, you'd either be so angry, or so depressed, and it just wouldn't help, would it? No, best not to think about it at all and just get on with getting through the days, and the constant exercising really does help, I find. Mind you, it's better when it's more structured: I have some of the best trainers, and they really make sure that as well as all the general muscle toning and strengthening I also do all the other stuff: a lot of skipping and dancing around, to keep me light and agile on my feet, then shadow boxing, and all the other stuff: the judo practice, the kick boxing, everything.
I'd met the guard who'd come to collect me before - he's a pretty reasonable sort of bloke really and I know he bets on the fights, so he doesn't treat me too badly as he's always hoping I'll tell him whether I'm really in absolutely top form, or if I've got a cold coming, or something. It's almost as if he treats me like a normal man, but I can't rely on it of course as he always holds his cane in one hand - yes, always. And his prod is swinging there from his belt, and I know from bitter experience that he won't hesitate to use it if he thinks I'm "uppity" as he calls it, or if I fail to do exactly as he says. He lets me sit in the front of his pickup with him as we drive off - well, he wants to pump me for information, doesn't he?
And at least that means I've got a blanket covering me as he doesn't want the blood and sweat and stuff going on the seats.
He tells me I'm fighting again tonight - I think it's a bit much, personally, not giving me time to recover properly. And he's keen to ask me how last night's fight went, and what I reckon my chances are. It seems I'm going to fight some big nigga upstart they've trucked in - I've heard about him on the grapevine, but I'm not much worried: the fashion is to have really big niggas, and although they're really fit, they just haven't got the speed you need for this type of work. I used to think I was at the upper limit of size and was always worried about smaller, nimbler blokes getting in and landing a disabling punch, but in the last couple of years everyone seems to be getting bigger, which is good for me as even though I'm tall and well muscled, it kind of works for me in a way that it doesn't seem to for some blokes.
We're fighting at the Arena - you've probably seen it on TV, as they always televise the stuff from there. It's not bad, really - underneath, where they keep us fighters, it's been properly thought out: a bloke can move around in the holding cells, it's kept at a constant nineteen, so although it's a bit on the cool side if you're sitting around, it's fine if you're working out. And every cell has a proper shitter and everything: you can go whenever you like, without having to ask a guard, and there's even a tap so you can drink as much as you like, when you like, too. It's these little things that almost make you think you're a proper man again.
I reckon the guard has a bet on for me to win, as the moment he's locked the cell door he goes off and comes back with a big bowl of chow for me, and a couple of buckets of hot water. So after I've scoffed down the chow I can sluice the hot water all over myself and it not only gets me clean, but it helps all my battered, cramped muscles to start to relax, too. After that I know what I have to do, and although it's painful, I go through an hour of stretching and toning before I lie on the straw and let myself drift off into sleep - I reckon that's what distinguishes me from some of the others: even when I'm pretty exhausted, and in some discomfort, I don't let up on the training.
It was hard to sleep, though, with the thought of another fight that night. And as you do when you're worried, I drifted in and out of it, and so I dreamt a lot, or, perhaps, I remembered my dreams. One of them was really cruel: I thought I was a free man, and that instead of being captured when I was seventeen, I'd gone on to live a normal life and I'd got a nice job, and a nice house, and a wife, and some kids. Then the next bit turned into a nightmare - or was I just reliving what had happened? The way they stripped my clothes off then held me down and pressed the red-hot iron into my bum so I was marked with the giant "S" for slave. I could hear myself screaming, and thought there couldn't possibly be anything worse they could do to me - until they turned me over and held my head n some sort of brace so they could put a smaller "S" into my right cheek. Left bum and right cheek - to sort of balance me up, they said! I remember screaming at the time that the idea of "balance" was stupid as although everyone would see the one disfiguring my face, no one would be able to see the one on my bum - but of course I didn't then know that they'd taken me specially, to be a fighter, and that therefore I'd always be naked. I was still screaming from the brands when they circumcised me, too - I can still remember the feel of it, even though they used a disposable scalpel and it oughtn't to have hurt all that much: but when they're messing with your cock, it's super sensitive, isn't it? That was the first time I'd ever spend a night naked in a cell, and in the morning, when I was still really hurting and pleading with them to let me see a doctor or something for the pain, they all stood there and laughed. Then they went on to explain to me that I'd better get used to pain, as I'd been captured to be turned into a fighter, and a fighter's life is all about managing pain. They told me they'd captured me because I was big and fit and sporty and handsome - and the branding was "just" to make me look like a slave; and of course the public likes its fighters to be handsome, but not too handsome - and hence the brand on my cheek. And, well, the circumcision goes with the territory - all us fighters have been 'skinned, as apparently the public likes to see a bloke's cock head.
I woke up from reliving that first day in a total sweat. I could still smell the smoke from my burning skin, it was that real. And the next few weeks were appalling: I'd always been fit and done a lot of exercise, but now they wanted to build up my muscle quickly, to turn me from being a young guy on the cusp of manhood, into a proper man. So I was introduced to the cane, the tawse, and the prod, and I never realised before how the human body could be driven to improve itself like that. The lessons I learned then have never left me, really - if ever I find myself not driving my body to the limit it's almost as if I can feel the bite of the cane into my bum, or the slash of the tawse on my shoulders or nips.
That was all long ago, of course. I'd thought at first I might be rescued, that mom and dad would hire private detectives to try to trace me, or something. But my captors knew what they were doing, and I vanished into that surging mass of the lower orders where your life is regulated by the ability of those in authority to hurt you if you dare even think about disobeying them. I'd got soon got smart at hiding my true thoughts very quickly, and quickly gave the appearance of being totally obedient - but one of the reasons I reckon I'm so good at being a fighter is that underneath I'm still "me", wild and free, just looking for a way to escape. Not that there's much chance of that as I'm always supervised, crated and caged. And as time's gone on, I suppose I do think of myself as a fighter, rather than as a free man. I reckon the only think about my dream of life as a free man that I've actually got is the kids - right from the start, once it was seen that I was going to be good, they put me out to stud. I've lost track of the number of bitches I've covered, but it's at least one a week, usually more, as after a fight some of the sponsors like to amuse themselves by watching me stud:
it's usually the winner who gets the woman, and of course that's usually me. I reckon that by now, after about eight years of fighting and one studding a week, even if only half of them took, and only half of them were boys, I must have about a hundred kids (yes, I know - it is terrible that they abort the girls, but they want to breed more big, tough handsome blokes like me, and not waste the bitches on going to term with girls).
This particular day, though, seemed to be going OK - later on they brought me another big bowl of chow and I had time to eat it, and to digest it, before the evening's fun. And they had a proper masseur to really give my body a good going over - it hurt, sure, as I was still so bruised form the night before, but if the bloke's fingers dig deep into the muscle it really does you good I reckon. And as I lay there he massaged the oil right into me - that's always a help, as if the oil's really deep, it makes it much harder if the other guy tries to "grapple" you. After that, though, they told me that the sponsors wanted a private view of the nigga and me before we went into the ring, so he and I sat there waiting to be taken up and displayed. I spent the time flexing my muscles to keep active and warm, and massaging some of the oil into my arse hole - yes, I know you might think that's a bit defeatist, but even I do lose occasionally and if my hole's properly slicked and stretched, it does make it easier! The nigga was big, though - and fucking arrogant with it: it's just not done to talk to your opponent before you go into the ring to beat the shit out of him, but he sat there poking fun at me. I didn't respond, though - a lot of the niggas are like that, always bragging about themselves and saying what they're going to do to us white blokes, but I pay no attention to it. An, anyway, it's not a good idea to get "sociable" in any way with the bloke you're going to fight, I reckon. I didn't like the look of his cock, though - it was on the same scale as the rest of him, and I imagined that even with my lubing and stretching it would still make me scream if he won. On the other hand he was making no attempt to slick and stretch himself - that fucking arrogance, I suppose - and by the time we were taken in to be "presented" to the sponsors, I was even more determined to win as then he'd have something to squeal about as I rammed my cock into him.
Normally the sponsors at these things are big corporations, and it's some of the boss men and their clients who they want to impress who are in the big suite overlooking the ring: some of them seem a bit embarrassed as they see my magnificent naked body and compare it mentally with their own flabby, paunchy flesh (or perhaps they're comparing my cock to theirs?). But tonight was different - as the doors opened and the guards led us in, there, spread around on the comfortable couches were about twenty free men all about my own age: now it was my turn to be embarrassed! I mean, it's one thing to be there naked in front of a lot of flabby old men, but these people were not unlike me. Well, not absolutely in such peak condition, of course, but the men all looked as if they took care of themselves, and the women, from what I could see, probably also spent some time in the gym, before they went off to the beauty parlour. They were all laughing and chatting away, as they were enjoying a night out, as they sat there sipping champagne from tall crystal flutes and nibbling on delicious-looking canapés. The noise stopped as they saw the nigga and me, and you could tell that there was only one part of us that they were really interested in - well, three parts, strictly speaking, I suppose! They make it easy for these folk to see our cocks and balls of course: our balls are shaved and all fighters' pubes are kept quite closely trimmed so that the view is not at all obscured.
As we stood there, the conversation gradually restarted and it seems that it was a birthday treat for one of the blokes - his twenty-fifth birthday was being celebrated by having me and the nigga beating the shit out of each other. They tried to ignore us at first, making as if it was perfectly normal for them to have two big naked blokes standing in front of them, but gradually the noise built up as they relaxed, and one of the girls, who was probably a bit drunk, was "dared" by her friends to come over and "measure" the cocks of the nigga and me by grasping them in her hands. As her warm fingers with their scarlet talons closed around my cock I couldn't help but spring an erection, as did the nigger, and amid shrieks of laughter she declared him to be the bigger (which I knew, as I've told you - but who cares: I've never had any complaints when I've been studding!). The host, though, seemed to know something about the fight game - perhaps that's why this match had been bought as a present for him - and whereas most of the rest of them were predicting that the nigga would easily overpower me, he eventually got up and came over and ran his hands all over both of us - he didn't seem to mind his hands getting oiled as he felt the power in my shoulders, then slid his hands down me to test the strength of my waist and belly, and finally to almost knead the muscles in my bum.
He asked the nigga how old he was - twenty, I seem to recall - and then when he heard that I was twenty five, he kind of smiled and said almost conversationally to me "So it's the usual, is it? Age and experience are going to beat youth and strength? That's what I always find. Twenty five is a good age, I know". I couldn't help giving a small smile - we're told not to talk to the sponsors - and he slapped my bum in a friendly kind of way, before telling the guards they could take us away as the crowds were waiting.
On the way down the nigga was still keeping up his sneering, telling me I was past it and that he was going to really ream my arse, and that the future of fighting was all going to be with big niggas like him and us "average" whiteys didn't stand a chance, but I kept a dignified silence.
It doesn't matter how many times you do it: when the gates open and you walk out into the arena and the crowd roars, it always gets to you. There you are, with nothing to hide, totally exposed to them, knowing that they're waiting to see you beat the shit out of each other and, if the master of ceremonies then decrees it, to go on do the sort of thing that ought only to be done in private. At one level I'm kind of ashamed still, but I can feel my heart racing and my breathing deepening as I get ready to fight, and actually I'm kind of proud of myself - there are not a lot of blokes, after all, who could stand there in front of thousands of others, totally nude, with just his wits and strength to see him through. No weapons, no nothing: just my bare body and my brain to work together to win.
I don't remember all that much about the fight. It was like a lot of others - some real slugging with bare fists hammering into bare flesh, a lot of grappling of oil-slick bodies against each other; some kicking and other fancy stuff. It was much as I'd thought - the big nigga tried to use his greater power and longer reach to score a quick win, but I was able to keep dodging ad weaving, using my greater resilience and superior fitness to tire him, then ducking in every now and then to land a punch or two of my own, until one really struck home and he went down. I'm a bit of an expert then, as I know a lot of "killer" wrestling holds, and I soon had him begging for mercy. And, as the crowd roared their approval as they like to see that kind of thing, I made the nigga kneel and kiss my cock. Their cheers turned to booing, though, as the master of ceremonies indicated that the bout was over, and that I was not to fuck him. And as we went out of the ring, he wasn't even happy about it - I felt like ramming my cock into him anyway, there and then, to teach him a lesson.
The guards took me back up into the sponsors' suite, though. The partygoers were perhaps even more drunk than they had been before, but once more the noise stopped as they all turned to look at me - now covered in sweat and blood. I suppose the stench of my body, mixed with the raging pheromones I was probably putting out, made an impact on them as I could see that most of the women were flushing faintly and their nostrils were beginning to flare slightly, as the bitches do when they sense the excitement of sex. Of course this had an effect on me, and in spite of everything I could do, I found myself going erect.
The men were talking and laughing in those too-loud voices you have when you've drunk too much, and were trying to persuade the birthday bloke to have the nigga brought up and to have me fuck him for them all to see. But for some reason he refused, and then amid all the laughing and joking an idea seemed to emerge - that he should fight me! Once it had been mentioned, it really took hold - it seems he had been a wrestler or amateur boxer or something at college, and his old friends were now "daring" him to take me on! He was protesting that it was a long time since he'd fought, then they called him scared. Then he said it wasn't fair on me, as I'd just fought a really hard match.... And it ended up with him having to agree to take me on the next night.
As they took me back to the cells I began to worry - I mean, I'm a really good fighter and I'd be bound to beat this bloke. Then, when he looked stupid in front of his mates, perhaps he'd turn nasty and have me whipped or something. I've always managed to avoid a real whipping, but I've seen what it does to other blokes and I knew that if my back was all torn up by the bullwhip my "career" would be over - and then I'd just be sent out as a common labourer, or perhaps even worse - down the mines?
I didn't have to worry, though. As soon as the guards heard what had happened they set out to make it inevitable that I'd lose, but lose "properly", the following day. Look, normally after a fight you get some food, then a good night's sleep - but there was nothing to eat for me, even though I was ravenous after expending all that energy on defeating the nigga. And instead of being able to rest, they brought some real slag of a bitch in and stood there, prods at the ready, as I was made to stud her. No sooner had I got to sleep after that than they shook me awake and there was another bitch to stud - and this time, when I failed to get properly erect, I was "encouraged" by the cane - but a good thick one, so that there would be no visible marks on my bum.
That went on every two hours through the night - and the following day. Well, you know how sex makes you tired at the best of times - you try having it every two hours, whether you want to, or not. They didn't feed me at all that day, either, so I was absolutely ravenous. And they further weakened me by giving me a really violent enema. All water was withdrawn after noon, too, and yet I was made to exercise hard, as well performing the studding, so that I was constantly covered in sweat. By the time I was being prepared for the fight I was exhausted from all the fucking and
exercise, and weak from lack of food and water, They were taking me to the bloke's house for the fight, it seemed, as I was deliberately forced into a tiny travelling crate so that my muscles would cramp, and then, in spite of the fact that it was a cool-ish night, they used a hose to spray me with cold water, so that a the truck carrying my crate sped through the suburbs, I got chilled. And as we arrived, before anyone came out to see us, there was one final dirty trick: one of the guards stabbed a needle into my bum - it didn't hurt at the time, but when I was let out of my crate and began to stretch, something definitely didn't seem quite right - as well as the tiredness, cramp and cold, somehow my finely tuned body just didn't seem to be responding right.
They led me inside and the same crowd were there as had been I the sponsors' suite - or perhaps a few more. Now the men all gathered around me and started talking about my body, until the birthday bloke appeared, wearing a snowy white dressing gown. There was a lot of laughter and shouting, and some horseplay as his mated tried to rip it open to see if he was naked underneath - all very good natured. Then he came and stood in front of me and said quietly "This is for real, slave! If any of us see you holding back, or if you don't fight to the very best of your ability, I'll have you whipped! Some of my friends have been making bets on the outcome of this match, and it wouldn't be fair on them if you deliberately throw it. So I want a fair fight - and, actually, I expect you to win as you're a professional and I'm only an amateur. But some of the bets are about how long it takes before I give in....."
I nodded, and one of his mates called out "And is he going to fuck you when you lose, Jeff?"
"No! That isn't going to happen, as I'll win. But of course I'll ream him if he loses!"
There was a lot of laughter at all of this, and they tried to get him to say that he'd fuck me in front of them, but he wouldn't commit to that. The laughter continued as we went through into the gardens, as it seemed we were going to fight on one of the lawns, which had been conveniently floodlit. As we got there he let the dressing gown fall to the ground and I saw he was indeed in good shape - not as good as me, of course, but he clearly did spend time in the gym. Unlike me, he wasn't naked - he was wearing what I suppose were swimming shorts - in dark blue: the sort with short legs, and with a waist quite low down so that his flat stomach was exposed. And I could see that he was well built "down there", too as the Lycra fabric was stretched quite tight to reveal a real man's package.
Well, we fought. But as hard as I tried, I just couldn't make proper progress in the fight. I was exhausted, weak, not properly warmed up, and whatever they'd injected me with made it impossible to concentrate properly - my body seemed to be subtly out of control, something I'm totally unused to. The upshot of all of this was that I lost - but it somehow looked "convincing": he was a good fighter anyway, and in my debilitated condition, we were pretty evenly matched. I thought I was going to make it, but it was that important five percent out of condition and, as I've told you, the other guy was pretty buff. He finally managed to get me in a strangle hold and to avoid getting choked to death, I had to concede.
All his mates were laughing and cheering and told him that they wanted to see the full outcome of the fight, but he laughed at them and told them that he did intend to fuck me as it was his first "real" fight and he thought he ought to do the whole thing absolutely professionally, but that he had no intention of letting them all see his bare arse! He therefore called guards, and they dragged me off to a private room at the side - well, I say "dragged": I was pretty miserable having lost to an amateur and was standing there all kind of hunched up as my body felt so wrong, and I think the guards used that as an excuse to be unnecessarily rough. I would have gone with them, after all. But then, what do you expect of guards?
They put me across a standard horse, and to add insult to indignity, they strapped my wrists to the front legs so that I was held there. There was nothing I could do, so I just lay there feeling really miserable, until I heard the door open and my opponent came in. He seemed a bit embarrassed, actually, and although he walked around me, looking very carefully at me, he went around behind me, where I couldn't see, before I heard the robe he'd put back on drop to the floor, followed by what I assumed were his shorts. Personally I like the other guy to see my erect cock before I start to fuck him, so he knows what to expect; but then, perhaps this guy had a had a small cock or something and was ashamed of it - although that's not the impression he gave when I'd seen the bulge in his shorts before we fought.
I don't think he really knew what he was doing - and, frankly, his totally amateur fumbling as he forced his cock into me just made it worse as far as I was concerned - but you know how it is: even when you're determined not to let the other bloke know you're in trouble, however hard you grit your teeth you just can't help giving little gasps and so on as he slams into you. So as he fucked me I guess I was making a bit of noise, and when he finally shot his load and kind of collapsed on to me, he lay there, his sweaty body all along my back, and I heard him say "See, you so-called professionals think you know it all! It only takes a clever, talented amateur like me to show you what fighting's really about!"
Well I lost it then. It was stupid, I know, as he could have ordered the guards in to beat me in an instant. Or, come to that, with me held down on the horse like that he could have called for a cane or a whip and really laid into me. But I was so incensed I blurted out "You stupid fucker! You've no more chance of beating me than a snowball has in hell - if I wasn't stared, cramped and drugged, you'd have had no chance."
Well he stopped then and pulled out of me (the fucking amateur did it too quickly, and I cried out again) . I heard him scrabbling to pull his shorts on, then he came and stood in front of me, tying the belt of the snowy-white cotton robe. He asked me what the fuck I meant, and I refused - well, I was in enough trouble already, and if I ratted on the guards and they were disciplined, they'd take it out on me, wouldn't they? I know those thugs - there's all sorts of ways they can cause a slave real pain without leaving any marks on his body - one bloke told me how they'd pushed one of those cotton but things right up his cock with one of those "deep heat" creams soaked into it - he told me he actually screamed initially, then lay for hours, sobbing and clutching his cock, totally unable to stop the searing pain from inside it.
But the bloke insisted, and so I told him about my treatment that day. He didn't believe me at first, and I snapped at him to take a closer look at my arse, where he could probably find the place where they'd stuck the needle into me - which he did, and then stood there, shouting and cursing, and saying how he felt cheated. Then to my amazement he came and undid the ties holding me down, then told me to follow him. We went through into what was evidently a huge dining room, and as we went in all his buddies cheered and asked him how it was to fuck a male slave - it seems none of them did that kind of thing. But my opponent just shrugged and didn't say much, until he pointed at the remains of the dinner they'd been eating still strewn all over the table ,and told me I could help myself!
Well, it was fucking amazing. I didn't mind gnawing at half-eaten chicken thighs and scooping up the fragments of cheese and bits of bread lying around as I was famished - the place went quiet as they all watched me, and I suddenly felt ashamed as they must have thought I was some sort of savage or animal, from the way I was attacking it with my bare hands and just cramming it into my mouth. And there was fruit, too! Look, you can't imagine what it's like: not only was I starving, even hungrier now that I had been before as I had been working so hard in the fight - but I wasn't used to such totally delicious stuff as all I normally ate was slave chow. And when I was totally satiated, the bloke called for the guards to take me out, but gave them curt instructions that I was to be treated well and that he would come and inspect me in the morning.
I was a bit worried that, nevertheless, they'd come for me and "teach me a lesson", as they say, but to add to the shock of what had already happened, I was put in a cell with a bunk, rather than just straw. And, what's more, there was a blanket on it! I could hardly believe my luck as I wrapped myself in it - I mean, normally I was kept totally naked all the time, and although slaves were given blankets to sleep in, they were usually the weak, "indoor" slaves, not hardened fighters like me (It was widely believed that a fighter should be kept in the absolute minimum of comfort at all tomes, to "harden" him).
The next day, too, was different - they bought me a big bowl of chow for breakfast, and to my astonishment I found there were 25 pieces, rather than my normal 20! Again, it was believed that fighters should be "lean and mean", so there was a constant struggle between giving me enough chow to be able to fight and exercise, but not enough so that my body didn't lose the fashionable "bones showing through the skin" look.
Still, in the totally unaccustomed luxury of the space in the cell I could work out, so I did squats and push-ups and ran on the spot and then did hundreds of trunk curls and stuff. You don't actually need all that fancy gym equipment - if you want to exercise your biceps, for example, all you have to do is a handstand (with your feet against the wall if your body isn't totally under control) and then push up and down.
They fed me again at lunchtime - again, a bit ration of chow, although I was almost bursting by now at the unaccustomed luxury (and, to tell you the truth, my guts were hurting as, I suppose, I wasn't used to the chicken and fruit and stuff). Then, later in the evening, the guards came for me.
So this was it, I thought - they were now going to take me off and torture me for ratting on them. Or perhaps the bloke had decided to have me whipped after all, for spoiling his pleasure at winning. So When I was told to shower, then to shave myself scrupulously clean - including my balls and arse, they said - I was mystified.
They told me to rub myself with slave oil, and one of the guards even "volunteered" to do my back and my arse, and then, when they said I was to fight, I sat down and really stretched my hole and made sure I was well lubricated - as I've told you, I always do that, "just in case", and, I suppose, the previous evening had shown how useful that could be as otherwise my rape would have been even more painful.
To my astonishment it was the same bloke as the night before. But none of his buddies were around - just him and me in a room that had been turned into a fight room, with all the furniture removed. He stood there in his snowy white robe, which he dropped to reveal the same swimming shorts, then he said rather scornfully "So.... Fed? Watered? Rested? Exercised - not cramped? Not drugged? In proper fighting shape?"
"Yes", I'm fine", I muttered, and he looked at me intently. "OK... So, same as last night - a proper fight. But this time, when I win, I'll know it's for real."
"If you win, it will be for real", I snapped back, adding "...and it's a proper fight? Full professional rules?"
Well, he said yes, and we got stuck in - and it was all over in five minutes! Look, I know a lot of you blokes out there think you can get fit, and can learn to fight if you employ some fancy trainer, but it just isn't that easy. And as he lay there gasping for breath and clutching his ribs to try to stop the pain where my fists had slammed in to him to wind him, I sneered. "Right.... You said it... Professional rules....".
There was the fucking horse there - I suppose he'd had it moved in to take me on it again - and I dragged him over and smashed him down on to it. He was an amateur, so I had to tie him down by the wrists as I couldn't rely on him taking it like a man. Then, as he began to protest feebly, I ripped his shorts down.
It was a bit of a shock to be contemplating fucking an arse that wasn't well tanned as all professional fighters are - no "suit lines" for us, as we never wore anything, of course. But when I went to spread his bum apart, he tried to resist, clenching it tight.
Well, a few really hard slaps - yes, really hard, as I'm a powerful guy - and he gave up. Then I found to my horror that his pucker was all dry (well, except for his sweat) - the stupid cunt hadn't bothered to oil up.
Look, I'm not a sadist. I was going to fuck him, as that was my right, having won. And it would hurt, I knew, as I suspected he was a virgin: but you don't need to hurt a bloke unnecessarily, do you? So I reached between his legs, dragged his cock back a bit, and began to wank him. The lucky fucker still had his 'skin, and it really made me jealous. He began to protest as I did this, and I slapped his bum a couple of more times, telling him to shut up, reminding him how lucky he was that I was doing this for him, and finally telling him that I'd gag him with his shorts if he carried on annoying me.
It didn't take him long to cum - well, I did really grip his cock very hard, and did a few special tricks with my thumb around his piss slit and corona - the sort of thing you don't do just for fun, but which are guaranteed to make a bloke shoot, even if it is that little painful. But then when I went to begin to slather his hole with cum and push one finger in, he really began to moan.
I stopped, went around to the front, and knelt down so that my face was next to his. "It's for your own good", I told him. "You don't want my cock going up you with no lubrication. And you're a virgin, right?
You've never taken cock before? So you need stretching. Or are you a wimp? In spite of all that brave talk about being a professional fighter, you're not prepared to take it to its proper conclusion? You can admit you're a wimp and order me to stop, you know."
I could see him thinking for a few moments, then he gritted his teeth and said "Do as you would normally. I don't chicken out of things...."
So I did! Even after I'd got four fingers up him and had listened to him moaning and shouting as I stretched him, it was still a really great fuck: there's something special about taking a bloke's cherry, I reckon. Then, when I'd finished, I lay along him and sank my teeth into his shoulder, to "mark" him as the loser. I pulled out really gently, and then, worried now about how he'd react, knelt down and released him.
He got slowly to his feet, then stood there, my cum and his ass juices starting to trickle down the inside of his thighs, looking sort of embarrassed, and sort of "lost", as if he didn't know what to do. I was worried now, so stood there at "slave rest", with my head bowed and my hands neatly clasped behind my back.
The stink of my sweat, and the crap from his ass on my cock, assailed my nostrils - these amateurs don't understand about being clean inside!
Then he did a surprising thing - he came over to me, stood in front of me, put his arm around my shoulders, pulled me towards him so that our sweaty bodies touched, and tried to kiss me! Well, I mean - blokes don't do that, do they? I pulled back in astonishment.
He looked so startled, then snapped "What's the matter, slave?"
"I don't kiss blokes, sir."
He burst out laughing, and when he stopped looked at me again. "What's your name?"
"Steve."
"Well, Steve, I fucked you last night. You've just wanked me and fucked me, and you say you don't kiss blokes? Well, the rules have changed! You do now. So, what's it to be, Steve? A kiss.... or shall I have you whipped?"
Before I could answer he led me off and into a big bathroom - dismissing the young naked slave lad who was waiting there to assist, and saying that two fighters like us could look after ourselves. Well, I'm used to being in the shower with another bloke of course - a lot of other blokes at training camps and so on - but this was different: there was a big bath, and he wanted us both to be in it, so I could sit between his legs and he could wash my back, shampoo my hair, and reach his arms around to stroke my cock as we lay in the warm, scented water. And after that, he gave me one of the luxurious white cotton robes, as he wore, and took me into another room where we sat on a couch and a slave brought us in pizza and beers.
Look, I'd had no alcohol for years, and a couple of beers really got to me. So when he gently opened my robe and ran his hand down by belly, and began to play with my cock, I knew it was going to lead to something and I would be unable to stop him. And this was no "ordinary" inspection of my cock, either, as a master might do: no, this was sensual, designed to turn me on.
In my fuddled state I couldn't even think of protesting as he led me into his bedroom and pushed me back on the bed and knelt between my legs and began to eagerly suck my cock. And when I heard him say "fuck me, Steve, but be gentle", well, I was so turned on and aroused, that I did.
I tried to be gentle, of course - I went in slowly, didn't slam into him, and did all those sort of nice, intimate positions that you can - I particularly like having the other bloke lying face down, flat, then I lie on him, twine my legs around his, and fuck his bum gently like that- it's really intimate. He moaned and cried all the time, but I could tell from the way his hands were reaching backwards and stroking my thighs and arms, that he was enjoying it. And he made me sleep with him, too - look, it was odd, I can tell you: it's one thing to fuck another bloke when you've just fought him, but quite another to have to lie next to him all night and have him keep waking you every now and then to "cuddle", and kiss! All my time as a fighter I'd never done that - again, conventional wisdom said that fighters were tough and fucked when they had conquered another man: there was to be no hint of "gentleness" allowed in our lives.
I suppose I'm lucky, really. I was getting old to stay at the top of the ladder as a fighter, and sooner or later it would always have been me taking cock after a match, and then, who knows? The mines? A field coffle? A roadside labour gang? As it was, Jeff - because that was the bloke's name - bought me the next morning.
Jeff works in some dreadful office, really stressed as he's in charge of some important money dealing thing with lots of blokes working for him. So at night he wants to be worked hard, and forced to exercise, to relieve the tensions. And he reckons that the thought that once a week we are going to fight, no holds barred, and that I'll fuck him hard if he isn't up to scratch, makes him "go the extra mile" in our workouts. The rest of the week I have to fuck him, of course, but that's different - he likes to lie there and tell me how I'm to do it that night. And if I fail to satisfy him, or if I'm too rough, or if he thinks I "don't care about him" enough, he's not inhibited at putting me across the horse and giving me ten strokes of the punishment cane.
He's a really nice bloke, though: treats me almost as if I was a free man. During the day I keep in shape and help our in the grounds of the mansion, pulling the mower for the gardener, chopping the wood to feed the furnace, that sort of stuff. Then Jeff and I work out together when he comes home, and I sleep with him.
I eat at his table (well, at least when his buddies are not around, when Jeff says he likes to be seen to have his slaves properly under control, so I have to stand against the wall and watch). Mind you, although he does normally allow me to eat the same food as him, he does a "formal review", as he calls it, of my body once a week, taking a pinch of skin on my belly: if there's the slightest sign of fat, as he thinks, I'm back on to a very small number of pieces of chow until he's satisfied. The only time I get to stud now is when Jeff feels like fucking a bitch, which he does about once every ten days (he likes young, high-breasted niggas and has an arrangement with the local dealer to save them for him for occasional hire so they can be sent round when he phones): I lie there and watch as he does the business, and then I go up her immediately afterwards as Jeff says that if she gets pregnant then no one will know whether it was him, or me, his stud.
It's a pretty good life, all in all, though. And I know Jeff intends to keep me - shortly after I began life as his trainer, he had me tied down to a frame so he could personally push an electric branding iron into my shoulder and mark me with his personal brand. He's also had "Property of J Winthrop" tattooed all around my neck - considering I've got that fucking big
"S" on my cheek I don't think it makes me look any worse, but, Jeff says, it makes me look much "harder" and stops any of his women friends even thinking that they might ask him if they can borrow me to pleasure them. I did think of calling mom and dad, and Jeff says I can if I want even though he'd not sell me to them as he's used to me now and can't be bothered to break in a new slave. But I'm not the Steve they knew and loved - all those years of the harsh training, the punishment for the slightest infraction, the total lack of comfort, the perpetual nudity, and the need to fight and to win, have made me a totally different person and not one they'd recognise (even allowing for my facial brand, and my slightly different look after my nose was broken in a fight). So I guess it will continue to be me against the world, and at least as Jeff's slave I seem to have found something that's at least bearable. But some nights, as I lie there with him coiled around me, feeling his hot breath on my chest and his hard cock stabbing at my belly as he dreams, I find the loss of my former life almost unbearable. I do miss being able to stride naked into the arena, unashamed, showing the world that it's me, Steve, who's the top man.
THE END. Pete Brown, Amsterdam, London and France, November/December 2006