Date: Fri, 1 Apr 2005 07:01:40 -0800 (PST)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Spoils Of War, Part 22

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