Spoils of War

THE SPOILS OF WAR by Pete Brown. petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

Read all of Pete's stories in groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories

Part 22

The bus ride was uneventful. And at the bus station, I was bundled into a real limo for the drive to the White Hoiuse. Yes, actually in a gas-powered limo! And they let me sit inside, too, and didn't bundle me into the trunk - slave lore has it that slaves are transported that way, as you know, but it wasn't like that for me.

The White House is one of those curious places that's huge inside compared to what it looks like on the outside. And I guess that in preparation for the war, they'd dug out a lot of bomb shelters and the like deep underneath, as there seemed to be plenty of room to put me into a cell of some kind, although it was several stories down. They fed me well, I had a private shower - something I hadn't had since I was enslaved - and I slept well that night. I was even allowed to use a gym the next morning to keep in shape, and, joy of joy, was allowed into the White House pool: I love swimming, and I couldn't help notice that quite a lot of staffers and such like "dropped by" as I powered up and down - or perhaps it was to take an early look at my body, as the only costume I had was my tiny fighting pouch and its white silk was almost translucent when I got out of the water!

I'd been told it was to be a "fight to the fuck" in honour of the important visitors, so I was surprised when that night, the aides who were generally running things, came down to my cell with a very smart pair of shorts and a T for me: they were in absolutely the finest cotton, snowy white, and in addition to the "Gleeson's Gladiators" mark embroidered on them, they had a big flag of the Confederacy on the other pec. I'd already stretched and lubed myself, so as the aides watched, their eyes almost feasting ony my body, I slipped off my shorts and put on this new kit.

"Sir, no fighting pouch, sir?"

"You've got what the President wants, boy! Aren't you proud to have your country's flag on your uniform?"

Well, it wasn't my fucking country, was it? It might be his, but I was a slave. But I said nothing about it, and just tried agian. "Sir, they said it was a fight to the fuck - and then we normalyl wear a pouch until the end, as the customers like to see our bodies.... We only usially fight in shorts and a T for practice bouts..."

"Shut the fuck up, slave! Yo'll see... Now, follow me...."

We went up int the elvator, and then alng corridors that slowly got more and more luxurious, until we were clearly in the "official" part of the building There was the tantalising smell of real food - meat and stuff - hanging in the air, and the excited hum of a large crowd chattering away. The aide opened a side door, and ushered me into the state dining room - everyone around the tables was in tuxedos and exotic ball gowns, and there was the sparkle of diamonds and the rich smells of expensive perfumes. They were all watching a a party of work slaves hastily erecting a low barrier - about three feet high - around what would otherwise be the dance floor in the middle of thre room.

"That's the arena", thew aide hissed at me. "I knw you're used to working in one fully sunk below the level of the seats, but we want all the distinguished giuests tonight to be able to see you fight without leaiving their tables. Don't you dare try to leap the barriers or anytihng stupid like that: you are in the White House, you know, surrounded by guards, and any nonsense like that and you'll be flogged. Understnad?"

"Sir, yes, sir."

"Right - they've almost finished, and then they'll bring your oopponent up fromthe cells."

I stood there and watched as the work was finished, then they opened a kind of gate in the barrier, and a couple of the special marine guards that the Whitew House uses, in their fancy uniforms, led me into the arena. There was polite clapping from the audience, then, as they saw the flag on my T, this turned into loud cheering. I stood there looking at the rich, powerful folk, and somehow it was seven more intoimidating than appearing in front of thousands in a normal arena - these people held the power in our society, and I somehow knew that I'd better perform properly, or the consequences would be awful for me.

There was a ripple of faint applause then, and murmers of almost anger, as my opponent was brought in, like me, surrounded by marine guards. Unlike me he had long hair - surely this wasn't a trained gladiator? I mean, you need your hair to be really cropped, don't you, as you don't want to give your opponent any chance to get a grip on it? And he was wearing kind of Arab dress - a long robe thing, from his shoulders down to the floor. This must be one of the Arabs that were being captured in the oil war and brought here as slaves, and I remembered Lewis telling me how they were being forced to fight against each other in the ring - and that they fought really fiercely.

"Take your T off", one of the marines said to me, "And do it properly - remember, you're wearing our country's flag!"

I pulled it over my head and there was a renewed ripple of applause as my upper body was revealed, and this intensified as the marine almost reverentially folded the T so that the Confederate flag was standing out clearly agianst the white background, then slauted, and marched off with it. How the fuck wer we going to fight, I wonmdred, with the other guy in that robe? And wasn't this supposed to be a fight to the fuck?

Just then, the marines surrounding the Arab started to tug at his robe, and he fought them! He didn't want them to take it off him, and it was only beecause there were four of them that they succeeded! He stood there naked for an instant, and at once covered his dick and his balls with his hands. What the fuck was going on, I wondered - what kind of gladiator bothered about being naked? Just then a PA boomed out "And so ladies and gentlemen the fighters are being prepared for your entertainmnet. The Arab terrorist has just been stripped, and as you can see, the coward is cringing, ashamed of his body. He's trying to hide his sex from you, ladies and gentlemen, just as these cowardly Arabs hide from our troops who are protecting the oil reserves. But in the same way that we are revealing the terrorists, so too this one's equipment will now be revealed to you...."

The marines grabbed the guy, and two of them pulled his arms away, so that he was totally exposed and nude. They turned him around in a full circle, so he was displayed to the whole room, and there was some ironic jeering as this went on - not that the guy had anything to be ashamed of - he had a really good sized dick, although as his balls were coated in the same thick black hair that ran over most of his body, they were not properly prominent. The guy was really agitated, though, and continued to thrash around, trying to break free from the marines - he looked really fit and strong, with those kind of wiry muscles that you only get from prolonged really hard work.

The PA then boomed "And to fight this terrorist we have one of the most famous gladiators who entertains us all so well - a good American boy - let's hear it for Spike!"

As this was said, the marines guarding me bent down and simply pulled my shorts off, so I too was nude. Well, I suppose it wasn't so bad - millions must have seen my dick and balls on TV when I fucked. But here, so much closer to the audience even I felt a bit embarrassed, as the marines told me to turn around so that everyone could get a good look at me. Somehow, having the whole audience dressed so formally, and with them being so close to me, I felt really diminished by being shown off like this. I could see the eyes of the women - and of most of the men - staring at my dick - and I wondered what they were thinking.

I thought they'd give us our fighting pouches then, but the PA called for the marines to leave the arena, and for the match to begin. It's not so much that I bothered about being naked now - after all, after you've been naked for a time, in whatever circumstances, it ceases to be different. But there's a big problem in fighting in the nude: it's easy to injure your balls on the floor as you fight, and really it's much better to have them tidied away. You fight much harder, and better, when you're not always wondering if you're about to struck down with that most terrible hurt. And it was going to be a particular problem here, as unlike in a normal arena, wheere you fight on a bed of sand, here the floor was hard wood, as it was really intended for dancing.

The Arab seemed to be realyl upset, and was jabbering away at the top of his voice, and still trying to cover himself. But the room lights dimmed so that only the arena was bathed in light, so it was time to start the fight.

At first, I didn't think I was going to have any problems - after all, I was a trained marine, and a gladiator, and a fucking good one! But this Arab had learned fighting some other way - he was fast, and hard, and kind of sly. Because he'd learned to do it differently, it was difficult to "read" his responses to any of my moves, and before long we were slugging it out and I was beginning to think that this was the time that I was going to get fucked! I soonm gave up bothering about my balsl banging on the floor, as I needed every shred of concentration and my total effort to actually hold my corner agianst this guy. I was getting damaged as his blows struck me, and it was the toughest fight I've ever been in - this wasn't two gladiators fighting each other, however hard - this was two guys, one of whom truly hated the other, going at it totally for real.

It was his hair and his balls that let me win: curiously, as we fought, especially when we were grappling on the floor, he never tried to grab my balls, whereas I could snatch at his and I could see that this made him terribly nervous. So he always had to look out for my hands, which meant that he wasn't properly focussed on something else, and at some point

as I feinted to snatch at his dick, he watched that instead of my other hand, which grabbbed his long, black hair and twisted it through my fingers. I had him now - there was no way he could break my grip on his head, and I bnaged it once or twice hard on the floor to almost stun him. And that was that, really - it was all over, as he just couldn't recover.

I flipped him over onto his belly, and knelt with one knee in his back holding him down, his hair still twisted in my hand so that I had control of his head. The crowd of watchers went wild as they could see I'd won, and the PA went "Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Spike has done it again! Spike had beaten the terrorist, just as our glorious troops are beating them on the ground. But, ladies and gentlemen, the match is not over.... Bring on the horse...."

Unlike in the conventional arena, where as you know there are simply cuffs in one corner to hold the loser for the fucking, it had evidently been decided that the Arab should be held in a conventional flogging horse for me to fuck. Two slaves dragged it in, and I hauled the Arab to his feet and pushed him down onto the cross member so that the slaves could fasten his wrists and ankles to the legs. He was totally powerless then, and he just lay there, his eyes closed and his lips moving as if he was praying.

Look, I really didn't like this. I mean, it's one thing to start to fuck your opponent when you've just won, when you're in the feverish heat of victory and you just tear off your pouch and fuck. And quite another to have him cuffed helpless there on a horse, some minutes afterwards. I wasn't even erect, and I wasn't sure I could get erect now, as my fighting spirit had kind of evaporated.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen", the PA went again, "it wasn't enough for the terrorist to be beaten in a fair fight by Spike, his conquest must be total and complete. Spike will now fuck him, as our troops will soon fuck his comrades who persist in their terrorist actions against our rightful oil supplies. Go to it, Spike! Show the Arab what he can expect from Americans!"

I hesitated. The helpless guy was just lying there babbling away in his language, and now that my "battle rage" had subsided, I just wasn't sure that I could go ahead with fucking the guy with all these people watching. "Listen, ladies and gentlemen", the PA started again remorselessly, "He's lying there, utterly vanquished by our all-American hero, Spike. He's praying to his god for help, and it isn't going to come, is it, ladies and gentlemen? We all know god is on our side, not theirs!"

The crowd cheered loudly as this was said, and the marines, standing near me, hissed "get in there, fucker, and do him - get that dick of yours up his ass, or we'll go onto the alternative part two of the spectacle, the part where a slave is put on the horse and has his hide flayed off him by the bull whip. Our guests need entertaining, and either it's the A-rab getting fucked, or it's you getting flayed. It's your choice."

I could see his companion nodding, so I knew this was serious. So what kind of choice was it? I mean, the guy's pride might be hurt by having me fuck him, and he'd be a bit sore tomorrow, but that's all, isn't it?

It's not as if it causes permanent damage. But I'd heard of slaves being literally flogged to death by a bull whip, and that wasn't going to be me. So I stroked my dick, which, mercifully, responded by going rock hard again, and advanced on the Arab.

Of course once I'd pried his butt apart and ran my dick over his hole, I had no more problems, unlike him! He was obviously a virgin, and no one had told him the right way of taking dick, and he just went on and on resisting, rather than working with me. So it really hurt him as I had to force my way in, and I really felt sorry for him that he hadn't been stretched and lubed - and, let me tell you, it's no fun fucking like that, is it? It was lucky that I was really "on edge" as I only had to thrust about fifteen times before I shot my load - any more, and I know that my dick would have been all chafed and sore from abrading against him.

I pulled out and stood there with my dick slimed with my own cum, and streaked with his shit - that hadn't happened to me before, as all the gladiators I'd fucked were nicely clean, as I always was, "just in case". As I stood there, I felt ashamed, somehow, ashamed in a way that I never had been when I fought normally. The audience didn't seem to mind though, as whilst the PA came to life again and burbled on about "Our all-American hero, Spike", they whistled, cheered and clapped their approval of me. It seemed odd really - these fancy folk, in all their finery, were baying and shrieking louder than most of the crowds in the arena. But then, they were a lot closer to the action, so perhaps they felt more involved. Or perhaps they'd had a lot more to drink - alcohol was banned for the crowds watching a normal fight, but these folk probably had had a lot of fine champagnes and wines!

The sweat was pouring off me, as it was hot in there, and I really had been working hard. I just stood there, until the marine guard said "OK, slave, that's enough. Bow to the good folk, then follow me."

So I did, and walked out of the arena, in step with the marines - it's funny, but you never forget how to march, do you? They didn't bother to give me back those fancy clothes, but took me naked in the elevator back to my cell, but before they locked the door, the Arab was thrown in with me.

"That fucking slave was getting too uppity if you ask me", one marine told the other. "Standing there and taking all that applause from the crowd like that. We'll leave them together overnight, and they might beat each other to a real pulp."

"Won't someone complain? They'll surely know it's us...."

"Oh, grow up - who the fuck cares? If the gladiator is maimed or even killed, they'll just tell his owner it happened during the fight. And if it's the Arab, well, there's so many of them.... They just pulled this one out of the new arrivals, and he hasn't even been allocated a SIN yet."

With that the door slammed, and the Arab and I stood there, looking at each other.

"Hey, buddy, look, it's only a fuck, right? I was only doing my job..." Suspecting that the Arab didn't speak English, I raised my voice and said this very loudly, in the hope he'd understand.

"You dishonoured me, American, and you must pay. Pay with your life." To my amazement, he spoke perfect English.

"Hey, buddy, I had no choice... I'm a slave.... And they'd flay me if I didn't follow through. And you lost the fight, fair and square..."

"You're a slave? Not one of those American marines who are pillaging my country?"

"I was a marine, before the war. But I'm from the North, and was one of the spoils of war, taken into slavery."

The Arab sat down, his bare butt on the floor, and his back against the wall. Then he pulled up his knees and rested his head on them, and I'm sure I heard him sobbing.

I knelt beside him, and put my hand on his shoulders. "Hey, look, you may be hurting now - it does hurt you when you're force fucked, if you're not properly prepped. But it will wear off - in a couple of days you'll be OK...."

He raised his face to me, and I saw tears running down his cheeks. "American, you don't understand. It is a sin for a man to appear naked in front of other men. It is a sin for men to lie together...."

"Hey, we didn't do any lying...." I tried to turn it into a joke, but could see it falling flat, like those proverbial lead balloons. But he looked so serious.

"Well, if its upset you, I'm sorry.", I carried on. "And how come you speak English, when you were jabbering on out there?"

"I'm a leader of our people. I was educated in England. I was only 'jabbering on' as you say because I was praying for forgiveness, and for victory...."

"Well you didn't manage to get heard on the last item, so let's hope you did better on the first..."

His eyes blazed wit h anger. "You mock me..."

"No. I'm sure it's OK, if that's what you believe. But, as you heard the man say in there, god's on the side of America, so all your prayers weren't going to help anyway!"

Seeing him start to get angry again, and not really wanting to start debating theology, I went on "But look, let's just try to put all that behind us, shall we? You believe what you want to believe, and I'll believe in nothing except my own abilities. But you sure are one good fighter - I came closer to losing tonight that I've ever done before.... Is that why they picked you?"

"No. I volunteered. As I said, I'm a leader of our people. I was captured along with a lot of my men, fighting your marines. And when we were brought here, to the camp where they're processing us, I naturally kept discipline and order.... And when they were selecting someone for a dangerous mission, naturally I offered."

"Look, don't call them 'your marines' and look at me like that! They're not 'my marines', they're the South's army."

"Buy you're an American, a soldier..."

"Yes, I am an American. And one day I'll escape and get back to the North, and we'll fight and put our country back together again. But until then, I'm a slave, a captive, like you. Beaten in battle, and now living as a slave, the spoils of war."

I lowered myself to the floor, sitting beside him, and put my arm around his shoulders properly. And pulled him close. "Look, I'm just as much a prisoner here as you are. I was made to strip, fight and fuck.... But there's no real harm in it..."

"You don't understand - the book says...."

"Look, I'm not going to talk theology with you. These Southerners all profess to being Christians, and yet they keep me as a slave. All I know is that I get on very well without a whole lot of religious crap... So let's cut it out, shall we?"

"OK, Spike - that's what they said your name was, out there?"

I turned sideways so he could see my tattoo. "Yes, Spike. That's my slave name..."

"They did that to you?"

"Yes. Look, I don't think you understand. They do what they like to slaves. They own us. They work us, they punish us, they control us, totally. That's what's going to happen to you - I guess they'll take you back to that processing camp, and soon enough you'll be fitted with a collar - all slaves are collared, and I've got this nose ring instead - and then you'll be working away somewhere chained by that collar into your coffle. Working naked, probably, as there's no point in wasting money on clothing slaves who are just part of work coffles..."

"NO! It's a sin, for one man to appear naked in front of another..."

"Hey, I though we said we'd stop all that kind of talk. I don't know whether it's a sin or not, but sure as eggs is eggs it's going to happen to you, so you'd better get used to it. As I've been going around the country to my fights, I've seen a lot of you Arab guys coffled together, working naked in the fields, and on the roads...."

"You're right, my friend Spike. The book also teaches us that it's inner purity that counts, a man must try...."

"Hey, cut it out, will you? I get by without all this crap... And look, I'm kind of tired...."

"Me too. The prophet says that a man who is tired after his labours is righteous..."

"There you are, you see! That's what always happens when people start quoting the bible and such like - your 'prophet' says it's righteous to be tired after labour, and we're both tired and we were certainly working hard. So it's 'righteous' to be made to fight, to be forced to fuck, is it? It seems to me you can prove whatever you want to, by selectively quoting from your prophet. The Christians here are always doing it, too... 'Thou shalt not kill' they say at one moment, and the next they're blessing us marines going off into battle. And there was always stuff about guys not having sex together which they said was a sin.... I didn't pay much attention at the time, as I didn't want to have sex with guys.... But now I do, I don't care, as the ones saying it was a sin don't also look at the bits in the bible where it says that it's OK to put people to death for adultery!"

"Oh Spike, you are funny! You just don't understand...."

"No I don't! I used to believe in all sorts of things, like justice, and doing right by your fellow citizens... And now I'm a slave!"

"And so am I, you say. So shall we be friends?"

"There's a famous novel called 'You Can't Be Friends With A Slave' - didn't you ever read it when you were learning your English? I never thought that the world it was describing might have come to actually happen... I don't think we can be friends."

"Your American education was evidently rather superficial, Spike. Of course I read the book, it's one of the modern classics. And if you had, you'd know that it meant that free men can't be friends with slaves, not that slaves cannot be friends with each other."

"Well it won't last, as tomorrow we'll be taken out of here, and I'll be sent back to Raleigh to my gladiator school, and you'll be taken back for processing... But for tonight, yes, let's be buddies. So what's my new buddy called?"

"My friends call me Ahmed. My real name is rather longer, and difficult for you to pronounce."

"And were you a leader in your country?"

"Not really, My father is one of the sheikhs, the tribal elders. He is very rich, our palace..."

"Like the Lime Palace, in Dahran?" I joked, making reference, or course, to another famous modern classic.

"No, not like that. We just lead ordinary lives, until you Americans invaded, for the oil..."

"Not 'you Americans', Ahmed, you mean 'The South'."

"Well, anyway, when we were invaded, like most of the young men I wanted to defend our country, and so naturally I was one of the commanders..."

"...and a good one, too, I'll bet. You fought well."

"Thank you, Spike. But the best man won...."

"I wouldn't have done, if you'd cut your hair! If we'd fought next week, after you've been processed, I think you'd have beaten me - most owners don't allow slaves to have long hair, you know, as it's unhygienic: lice and stuff."

"And do owners expect me to fuck, too....?"

"I don't know. I have to, as it's part of being a gladiator. But on a coffle, I shouldn't think they care...."

To my amazement Ahmed, smiling, leaned over and took hold of my dick. "Hey.... ", I murmured.

"Oh come on, Spike - you're not shy about this, are you, after what it's done earlier?"

"No, of course not. But I thought you said it was a sin....."

"Ah yes, Spike. But we too can quote selectively from the words of our prophet, when it suits us! In my country men amuse each other, as until we are married relations with the opposite sex are strictly forbidden..."

"But you hadn't taken dick - you were tight...."

"Sadly, yes. Our young men confine ourselves to simply playing with the dick, enjoying the pleasures of the body.... But we reserve fucking for our wives....."

As he said this, Ahmed leaned over and kissed me, and, seeing his dick jutting up hard, I responded by beginning to stroke it.

Well, it was the last thing I'd ever expected when I was taken out to fight that evening. But when I am asked in my old age what it was like to sleep in the White House, I'll be able to say, honestly, I don't know - Ahmed knew some tricks to do with a man's body that I had not even thought possible, and we didn't sleep!

End Of Part 22