Date: Tue, 12 Dec 2006 11:22:26 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: A Fighter's Life

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