The Prize

In a sun baked arena two men were fighting. Naked but for their weapons, they grappled and stabbed and pummeled each other, their sweat slicked bodies colliding with a meaty thud as they came together and broke apart. The air was thick with dust, flies and the smell of blood churned into a turbulent potion by the clash of metal on metal and by the raucous crowd that clapped and shouted as one man and then the other was forced to his knees . The mood was festive. Cups were passed from hand to hand, bets were placed and everyone from poor farmers in the cheap seats to the lords and ladies in their private boxes was having a wonderful time eating, drinking and enjoying an afternoon's entertainment.

So far it had been an exciting match for, in spite of being as different from one another as an ox from a wolf, the men were surprisingly well matched. The bigger of the two was a broad pillar of flesh with a fiery beard and a thick scar riddled chest. He was clearly the audience favorite drawing the better part of the cheers as he used his mass and his great strength to press his advantage. In battle he would advance like an avalanche crushing lesser men before him and he employed the same tactic now driving his foe across the arena floor, smiting at him with a massive hammer that shook the ground as it fell.

The other man, however, in spite of being younger and less battle hardened, was not so easily overcome. Again and again he sprang aside as the hammer fell striking back with a savage agility that drew gasps from his own small number of followers. His arms and back were covered with tattoos of beasts which seemed to roar to life and join in the fray with each thrust of his long sword. Wild dark eyes burned under a cap of close cropped raven curls that sweat had plastered to his lean scalp. His lips were stretched into a defiant grimace..

He was beginning to tire though and each unrelenting hammer blow fell a little closer. The ox, smelling victory pressed him hard.

Twice he fell and barely staggered to his feet. Twice the audience moved to the edges of their seats. His followers, mostly young girls and the occasional matron sitting beside a sulky husband, trembled in anticipation of his inevitable fate. It was a shame, one spice merchant remarked to his friend, that this particular contest did not allow him to yield. With a few more fights under his belt and maybe some good food in his stomach he would be a force to be reckoned with in the regular games. Such a waste, his wife sighed hand pressed to plump bosom.

The ox lurched forward with all his strength and launched himself at his opponent in one last effort to finish him. The younger man stumbled backwards, fell, lay splayed in the shadow of his enemy. A cry went up. The hammer fell. Then it was over. The ox sprawled face down in the dust a sword sticking up through the back of his neck.

A gasp of astonishment and then a roar of approval swept over the field. Money reluctantly changed hands. Of course the wolf would win, the spice merchant nodded sagely to his quivering wife. He knew it all along.

The wolf paid no attention to the crowd. He stood over the body of his vanquished foe hands clenched at his sides drawing air into his lungs in deep ragged breaths. The adrenalin of battle and of his narrow escape coursed through him. He did not notice the applause nor the two somber guards approaching leading a willowy girl of perhaps twenty or a little older between them.

The girl had watched the contest from under a silk canopy set up at one end of the arena. She had sat very still ignoring the repeatedly offered cup of wine, intent upon contest unfolding before her. If she favored one or the other man she did not show it but followed every movement closely weighing the merits of each blow. A sharp-eyed observer might have detected a slight tension in her shoulders when the younger man stumbled but not the slightest flicker of emotion revealed her thoughts on the progress or outcome of the contest.

With the deciding stroke dealt she had risen and allowed herself to be led out from under the canopy and onto the field. Crowned with a wreath of daisies and clad in a simple shift of white linen that showed the barest hint of rosy nipple, she stepped daintily through the still swirling dust to where the victor stood.

She came to a stop some distance from him and waited head bowed, hands clasped demurely before her. Waking from his reverie, the young man fixed his puzzled eyes upon her. His gaze flickered over her slim body and chestnut curls as if trying to remember what manner of creature she was. Suddenly his mouth widened into a feral grin. The guards stepped back and he began to prowl a circle around her. The crowd stilled . A hush of anticipation fell over the arena.

He circled her again and then again drawing closer each time. He inspected her once more with greater care lingering first on her barely concealed breasts and then on the shadowy triangle between her legs. She did not move. Not a tremor nor a breath disturbed her composure as she waited to see what he would do.

When he was less than an arm's length from her, reached out a hand and cupped a breast. When the girl did not object he tore aside the flimsy fabric and helped himself to a rough grope. Still she did not move though a hint of color bloomed on her high cheekbones and up the column of her slim neck.

With a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl the man seized the girl and threw her to the ground. He quickly ripped away the remains of her garment and forced her slender thighs apart. She did not cried out but stiffened and squirmed a little as he wedged a powerful thigh between her legs and pressed his engorged manhood against her.

"I know it's big but you'll just have to take it," he grunted in his own language. If she did not understand the actual words, she understood their intent for she began to fight him at last.

She bucked and strained against him, surprisingly strong for someone so slight. She was like rod of slender steel that bent but refused to break. And she was nimble. Several times he almost lost his grip on her. If he had been a bulkier and slower man she might have been able to wriggle out from underneath him.

In the end thought she was no match for his strength, not with the thrill of victory flooding his cock with blood and making his balls ache. He laughed as he let her fight him a little before he locked her wrists together with one hand and grasped himself with the other. No stranger to a woman struggling underneath him he took aim, deftly worked the head of his cock into the entrance to her unexpectedly wet pussy and then rammed it home.

He almost felt pity for her as her eyes flew wide and a whimper escaped her lips. Withdrawing a little, he looked down and saw a thin smear of blood on her inner thigh. Whether it was from the battle or from breaching her untried body he did not know. Nor, in the end, did he care. He drove down and forward with his hips, impaling her cruelly as the crowd cheered.

Urged on by the raucous applause he began thrusting hard enjoying her little gasps of pain each time he bottomed out inside her. Again and again he slammed into her smashing and grinding his pelvis against her battered thighs, pounding her into the ground. Her cries and feeble attempts to dislodge him served only to fuel his lust and rage.

He let go of her wrists and used both hands to spread her wider. Faster and deeper he plunged eager to find his release. He filled his hands and mouth with her breasts crushing the delicate flesh, biting down hard on the tiny nipples.

By now her strength had left her. She no longer tried to push him away but lay helplessly under his weight her arms thrown wide in submission. Her head lolled to one side, the crown of flowers lying crushed and wilting beside her.

With a great cry and a final thrust he emptied himself into her. For a moment he rested, his panting body covering her still one. Then he remembered himself and slowly got to his feet.

The girl lay before him bruised but still beautiful. Her eyes were closed and if she breathed at all he could not tell. His head fell to his chest and he stood, hands ,now unclenched, at his sides, gazing down at the aftermath of his savagery. For the first time in his life he felt a small twinge of regret. He wondered if she was still alive.

He was about to kneel down when she opened her eyes and sprang to her feet brushing a few dusty petals from her hair. She smiled and gestured for one of the guards to approach.

"This one will do," she nodded in the wolf's direction. "Bathe him, feed him and then send him to me."

"Right away, Your Grace." A small officious man arrayed in too much silk and gold signaled the guards to lead the man away.

A plump maidservant hurried up to the girl fussing with a cloak. The girl waved it away but took the offered cup of wine. She drank deeply and cheerfully saluted the crowd before striding naked from the arena.