[bcw8]

Francesca


Paula


It started with the book, the book of the harem girls.  One of the many things I do for my employer is search the literature, sift it, obtain for him the best items.  He prefers live women, of course, but well-done representations interest him as well.

He thought this book was well done.  I spoke to the photographer, Joseph Martinez, on the phone myself.  My predecessor had trained me to see to every detail.

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Joe pushed the end call button and looked thoughtfully at his phone for a long time.  There were not many copies of the book that had been the topic of this call.  Its subject matter was quite graphic, quite brutal.  He had taken hundreds of photos and included twenty-five in the final product, but those twenty-five were among his best work.  He’d captured light and shadow, despair and triumph, winner and loser.  Paula stretched on the bed.

“Who was that?” she asked sleepily.

“A woman,” Joe said.  Her name didn’t matter.  Neither did the name of the man she worked for.  Both were unfamiliar, but as the caller knew of the book, he believed that she told the truth when she spoke of her employer’s wealth.  He thumbed to his banking app.  As the caller had said, a ten-thousand dollar good-faith payment had been deposited, no strings attached.  Money just to consider the proposal.  He hadn’t given out his account information; the fact that it had been accessed so easily added to the veracity of the call.  Of course, it was not that Paula needed the money - it was more the style of the matter that he thought might interest her.

“A woman,” he continued, “who represents a very wealthy man.”

“What did she want?”  Paula rolled to her side and sat up.  Joe thought that sometimes when she had no make-up, her hair disheveled from sleep, was when she was the most beautiful.

He told her.  He was right.  As he spoke, her eyes went from sleepy to sultry.  Her nipples stiffened,  She opened her thighs and leaned back on her hands.

“Fuck me,” she breathed when he finished, but that was more to speak the words, to add their snap to her obvious desire.  He sank his cock into her.

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I visited Francesca in her quarters.  She has seen the book, of course.  She knew of the woman, Paula Antoni, from her public life, a famous model.  I explain to her what he wanted.  Francesca is naturally a quiet woman.  I recall, when I was still an assistant, when she won her place against a now-forgotten blonde, that it was the other woman who cursed and taunted her, called her cxnt and whore, until Francesca broke her and forced her submission.  Now, she asked a few questions, good ones.  Only her eyes betrayed her emotions.  They glittered.  Make no mistake, the panther is also quiet.

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The Roman arena in Pula, Croatia, is one of the best preserved.  Vespasian had it built in the first century, when the seaport was called Pietas Julia.  It hosted gladiatorial combat until the fifth century.  Today, it is often used for concerts, with seating viable for five thousand.  Therefore, it is available for private rental, if one can afford it.  My employer can, easily.  With a few simple half-truths, security was also arranged and guaranteed.  Prying eyes would be nowhere near.

I flew to Pula a week early, as did Joseph Martinez.  While he was known for his still photography, he also knew film-making well.  My instinct was that he would create a masterpiece, and so I entrusted it to him.  My employer did not care for exclusivity, if others saw the product as well.  Joseph could profit handsomely from it.

Lights were positioned and tested, repositioned and tested again.  The emperor’s box was fashioned as it would have appeared then, historically accurately, I can assure you.  Costumes were finalized.  Accessories, shall we call them, were checked and confirmed.  Paula Antoni and Francesca arrived a few days early, time to allow any jet lag to fade.  Each had a private villa on the shore, a mile apart. 

At midnight, the ancient arena would host its first gladiatrix fight in over eighteen hundred years.  The sand of its floor was not the sand into which blood soaked then, most likely, although who could say for sure if some grains remained, or had traveled away and returned.  It is actually quite simple to reverse time, for entertainment purposes.

[Lizzie]

What a beautiful setting for the confrontation, I can't wait to see how this develops.

[deity17313]

Your stories were getting somewhat mild. Hope this puts it back in the right lane going 90 mph.

[bcw8]

Some decisions, with my employer’s direction, were easily made.  The costume Paula wore for her fight so wonderfully documented in Joseph’s book of photos could not be improved upon, her golden neckpiece and bracelets, her near-thong of gold chain-link.  I only added sandals, with a broad heel, and elaborate laces up the lower parts of her legs.  Francesca would fight in black, as always, because it set so beautifully against her olive skin.  Rather than lace, for this setting, I chose soft leather, a bikini style bottom cut very high on her magnificent hips and boots that rose to her knees.  Each woman’s beautiful breasts would be bare, erotic targets.

My employer deviated from history in that he wished the bulk of their confrontation to be truly hand-to-hand combat, woman to woman.  In that, there were no rules to respect, no holds barred.  In keeping with the gladiatrix conceit, however, it was also agreed that certain weapons could be introduced, should the emperor decide.  At this time, I’ll not reveal those.

Of course, there was the ultimate decision, the one that I’m sure you, the reader, has already considered.  The ancient fights, the bread and circuses of the Roman populace, often went beyond blood and punishment.  Would Francesca and Paula fight to the death?  Joseph, of course, utterly rejected this idea out of hand.  Paula was a famous model, after all - why would she agree to such a thing?  Why would Francesca, for that matter?

By way of comparison, neither woman refused.  I interviewed them each separately, as I had strict orders that they not meet until the moment they stepped into the arena.  They seemed to play with the idea, to turn it back and forth in their minds.  The difference from Joseph’s reaction to theirs was clear:  neither woman could imagine losing.   They were not deluded; they knew they risked pain and humiliation, they knew they would suffer at the other’s hands.  But to them the decision was not about risk, it was about their willingness to kill as part of establishing dominance.  It was obvious to me that the thought appealed to both of them.

To resolve it:  there would be no expectation of a deathfight.  The winner would be determined by the emperor as the woman who definitively beat the other to ruin.  The weapons would not be obviously lethal - no swords.  But, left unspoken, was that no one would intervene between the two, either.  Let the chips fall where they may.

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In Paula’s villa, the afternoon before, she led Joseph to a luxurious lounge chair on the sunny terrace overlooking the Adriatic.  She leisurely fucked him, her pussy milking his cock with exquisite slowness.  She believed orgasms built, not depleted, her strength.  She thought of her first fight for Joe, the Indian girl Vashti, and the others since then, not memorialized in collectors’ books, but no less fierce.  She pictured the arena at night.  She rode Joe’s hips, her hands on his chest.  Her muscles sang.  Her breasts swayed as the sea breeze dried the sweat on her skin as soon as the sun raised it. 

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In Francesca’s villa, her wealthy patron visited her as well.  He fucked her hard, her breasts against the huge window in her bedroom, but that was how she wanted it, too.  It summoned the violence in her.  His cock pounding into her was her fists beating Paula, her orgasm was blood bursting from the bitch’s battered face.  Over and over again.

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At eleven, separate cars took them to Arena di Pola, as the modern Italian descendants of the Romans called it.  They walked the underground passages.  They loosened their bodies, athletes warming for the ultimate game.

At midnight, two iron gates slid open, one on each side of the arena.  Perfectly lit, Francesca and Paula stepped forward.  They turned to the emperor’s box and bowed.  He raised his hand for a moment, and let it drop.

[deity17313]

Nice buildup. Wonder if there's more to their relationship to the master than their letting on that puts them in a certain state of mind.

[bcw8]

They walked with long, purposeful strides across the arena floor to meet in front of my employer, the faux emperor.  He had dispensed with any pretense of dressing the part, as he always watched his femfights naked, his cock erect.  Joseph was there, of course, to one side in the bleachers.  His assistant would direct the minute-by-minute motions of the five cameras, one of which was mobile.  Having overseen the planning of the filming, Joseph was largely free to support the lovely Paula.  The assistant and camera operators were sworn to secrecy and well-paid for it.  I was there as well, of course - the lone woman in addition to the fighters.

Francesca raised her hands high, shoulder width.  Paula accepted this challenge, her slender hands intertwining fingers with the Italian.  Their breasts just graze each other.  I recall how the blonde girl in the past fight had battered Francesca with studded gloves, how she tore her breasts on the wire of my employer’s cage.   I also recalled Joseph’s photos that captured how the dark girl Vashti had clawed Paula’s breasts, how she’d torn her left nipple.  Both women were whole again now, their bosoms full and lovely.  I knew that would not last for long.  I could see in both their eyes that this place affected them, that bloodlust was rising.

In the warm night air, their voices carry.  As their hands tightened to test their strength, Paula said with her voice contemptuous,  “I will break you, cxnt.”   As I’ve said before, Francesca’s eyes glitter like a panther’s, but she wasted no energy on a reply.  Their arms went rigid.  A minute passed, then two.  Then Paula made a soft sound of pain, a precursor to many screams from them both.  Her hands twisted in Francesca’s grip, her fingers opening as crushing pain cramped them, her arms slowly sinking.  Francesca smiled; until Paula headbutted her in her face.

Immediately, their circumstances reversed.  It was Francesca’s hands and wrists now twisted, her arms now trembling.  Blood dripped from her nose.  The model headbutted her again, and Francesca  dropped to her knees.  Now it was Paula’s knee that smashed into her face, whipping it back and then battering it again when it fell forward.  She let go of Francesca’s right hand, and used both of her hands to twist her left wrist well beyond its limits.  Bones cracked.

I saw triumph in Joseph’s face.  It was well that he had confidence in his champion, but I could have told him that arrogance was misplaced here, and Paula was arrogant.  She strutted around Francesca, who rocked on her knees, cradling her broken hand, and when she reached her side, she lashed her foot into her temple.  Francesca sprawled on the arena’s hard-packed sand.  Paula dragged her up by her hair, lifted her body into the air, drove her back down head-first.  Then again.  She was trying to break Francesca’s neck.

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Joe’s cock was hard as stone as Paula beat the other girl to her knees.  His lover had such a killer instinct, such a desire to dominate other women.  The agent, the procurer, or whatever she called herself, had spoken of Francesca in a tone of awe that had concerned him, but no longer.  Paula had taken away one of her hands already, in the first minutes of the fight. Yes, the woman was stunningly beautiful, no one could dispute that, but that was a reason to capture her destruction on film, not to fear her.  He turned to check the camera positions as Paula lifted her opponent and drove her down a second time.  His worry now was that the fight would be too short.

His head jerked back at a scream that was unmistakably Paula.  She was down, one leg bent awkwardly, her knee askew.  Francesca was getting up.  She took a short step and kicked Paula in the chest, her foot spearing her in the sternum.  Paula flew backwards, landing heavily in the sand, no air in her lungs.  The lower half of Francesca’s face was a mask of blood, her teeth gleaming through as she bared them.  She stomped the American’s head and neck, her boot heel like a hammer.  Joe watched a burst of blood from Paula’s mouth.

Francesca dragged Paula up by her hair, took the half-dozen steps to the limestone wall at the edge of the emperor’s box, and smashed her face into the rock. The mobile cameraman swooped close, capturing the gash in Paula’s eyebrow.   Francesca spun her, her forearm across her throat to bend her head and shoulders back over the low wall, and gutted her.  He watched Paula fall, her knee buckling, as the Italian finally released her.  She lay spread-eagled in the sand, her chest heaving.

“Who is broken, whore?” said Francesca.  “Yankee bitch, do you think your fame means anything here?”  Paula’s left arm was outflung; Francesca stomped on it until she was satisfied of damage done.

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We think that human civilization has matured so much in the last two millennia.  Yes, some credit is due, in that the public spectacle of violence has largely morphed to men in pads with a ball or men or women with gloves and a referee.  In private, though, these women fought on ancient ground with as much - or more - sheer savagery than their Roman sisters ever had, and they had just begun.

[Lizzie]

A fight worthy of the setting.
The broken wrist so early on adds real spice to the confrontation.

[bcw8]

Francesca’s left wrist was broken.  Paula’s knee was badly sprained, her left arm also damaged at her elbow.  Both beautiful faces were cut and bleeding; Francesca’s nose, Paula’s mouth and eyebrow.  Gore suitable for gladiatrices.

Their beautiful breasts were as yet unharmed.  Time to change that.

Francesca lifted Paula in a full-nelson, her good hand closed on her broken wrist rather than fingers laced, and dragged her to the wall.  Most of the limestone was worn smooth by the years of weathering, but one section had been more recently restored.  There, the stone edge remained sharp from the chisel that cut it from the earth, fossils of shells still protruded like small teeth.

Francesca jammed Paula’s breasts into this edge, and dragged her along it.  Was it sharp enough to cut?  Oh yes; more of a rip than a cut, actually.  Paula screamed frantically as the stone tore a bloody line across her tits, through her nipples.  Francesca dragged her back, to a position directly in front of her patron, lifting Paula enough so that her breasts rested atop the low wall.  Blood ran from them onto the smooth stone.  Francesca squeezed her hold hard.  Paula’s arms hung useless, her neck bent so that her face was nearly down to her uplifted breasts.  She gasped in pain, her bloody mouth dripping across the upper curve of her breasts, her stomach pressed hard against the wall.

Francesca shook her, and enough blood had already accumulated under her breasts that they slid back and forth as if on ice.  The would-be emperor stood, his cock jutting, and ran its tip over Paula’s torn nipples, mixing a thin strand of his pre-cum with her blood.  Francesca leaned back, grinding her groin into Paula’s lower back, lifting Paula’s head and tits.  Without hesitation, the man drove his cock into Paula’s open mouth, all the way to its hilt, deep in her throat.

Joe wanted to object, to shout against this violation.  But there were no rules here.  The mobile cameraman caught Paula in close-up, choking desperately on blood and cock, until the emperor pulled back.

Francesca flung the model back into the arena sand.  She kicked her onto her back.  To fight with one hand, you use your feet and you keep the other bitch in the dirt.  She stomped Paula’s tits to raw meat, her heavy black heels pounding her nipples.  She cracked Paula’s ribs, such was the force of her punishment.

She finally lifted Paula, wrapping the arm with the damaged wrist around her neck in a hammerlock, leaving her good hand free.

“Are you broken yet, Yankee cxnt?” she asked.  Paula’s tits dangled, blood and lymph draining her nipples, streaming straight down to the arena dirt.  Francesca held her hand under it, collecting a palm full, then smearing it on Paula’s face.  “I think you are close.” 

Paula’s hand closed on Francesca’s injured one, and wrenched hard as she spun out of the hammerlock.  Her elbow screamed, her knee nearly buckled, but she held on and turned Francesca’s hand nearly a half rotation.

Francesca shrieked as if hell had taken her.

“One of us is,” Paula snarled, and twisted again.

[Lizzie]

Lovely detail with the limestone wall and the "emperor's favour"

[deity17313]

Very good, though i wonder the backstories of the fighters, that would make me more invested. Would that take away from the story as to the reader filling in the blanks, hard to say.

[deity17313]

Digging the back and forth action too. Who knows wholl come out on top.

[catftluver]

Wow, love the violence, how much can these gladiators take is the question??

[bcw8]

As I watched the women fight, as always I also kept one eye on my employer.  As Paula twisted Francesca’s broken wrist, I watched his face for any sign of worry, or fear, for this woman who was his lover.  None.  Only lust.  I was not surprised.

I was not even surprised when at that moment he made a gesture at me, without looking at me.  He rarely actually looked at me.  The gesture was the signal he had instructed me to watch for.  I reached into my bag, at my feet.  The first thing within it, at the top, was a small whip.  A leather-wrapped wooden grip, and eighteen inches of stiff braided horsehide.  At its end was a lead weight to add to the impact of the lash, a sphere the size of a pea, in a shell of iron with small spikes radiating from it.

I stood, and threw it into the arena.  As he knew, and I knew, that Paula’s current advantage would make it hers, I wondered, as I often did, of his emotions for Francesca.  My conclusion always was that he had none.

Paula left Francesca on her knees and limped the few yards to where the lash had landed.  She picked it up, hefted its small weight, tested it.  Her injured elbow was her non-dominant arm, so she swung it gracefully, like a tennis player, then snapped it.  A grin emerged from the blood on her face,  It nearly made her beautiful again.

Her first lash was to poor Francesca’s face.  The flail ball ripped open her cheek and knocked her sprawling to the dirt.  Paula’s grin grew radiant.  Francesca lay face down - dazed? self-defending? - while Paula whipped her back and her ass.  The leather cut her, not deeply, but enough to bleed.  The flail ball tore small chunks from her flesh where it hit.

Paula’s frenzy lasted nearly a minute, and I believe she ceased more from fatigue than anything else.  Francesca lay unmoving.  After catching her breath, Paula dragged her by her foot, still face down, limping to the emperor’s box.  The top of the stone wall was broad, two feet thick.  With some effort Paula heaved Francesca atop it.

My employer looked impassively at the wreck of his lover lying on her back before him like a sacrifice on a stone altar.  The emperors considered themselves also to be gods, you know.  She was conscious, but barely, I think.  Paula turned Francesca’s face to him.

“Why don’t you stick your cock in her throat?” Paula said.  She pinched Francesca’s mouth open to accentuate her point.  The gash on the Italian’s face was horrendous.

He studied Paula, then stood.  His cock is impressive; while I am not his lover I am still a woman.

“I can have her mouth whenever I want,” he said.  “Perhaps it’s you who wants more.”

Paula was silent.  If a woman does not say No - and perhaps even if she does - he considers himself entitled. In fact, she reached for him.  As she took his cock into her mouth at the same time in a grotesque parody, she pushed the wooden handle of her lash into Francesca’s mouth.  I stole a glance at Joseph to see his reaction to his champion fellating this man over the battered body of her foe while simultaneously humiliating her.  Perhaps he considered it a splendid artistic moment, I don’t know.  He did nothing but watch.

My employer did not hold back.  Or, perhaps, the famous American model was a woman of unusual skill.  Within a minute, he poured his seed into her mouth.  She pushed the wood deep into Francesca’s throat as he did.

He finished, and turned back to his chair.  Removing her toy from Francesca's mouth, Paula turned Francesca’s face up to hers, and spat the contents of her mouth into her eyes.  Then - two quick steps back, and she swung the lash up, and down into Francesca’s breasts.

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Joe had known since Vashti that Paula was a sadist.  He knew that at this second, as she flailed the beautiful Italian’s tits, that she was on the verge of orgasm.  He knew she was calculating new ways to hurt her even worse.  He also knew, if given the chance, she would kill her.

Proving point two, Paula wrapped the end of the lash around Francesca’s broken wrist, then jerked her off the wall.

[bcw8]

Most women would welcome death to escape pain like this.  The limping bitch American dragged Francesca across the arena floor, sand and grit sticking to the bloody slashes across her body.  Paula was triumphant.  She finished her circle, letting Francesca’s arm fall.  The Italian curled into a ball, her lovely hair fanned across the sand, matted now with sweat and blood.

The terms had been that the winner would be determined by the emperor as the woman who definitively beat the other to ruin.  My employer stood.  His cock was still glistening from Paula’s mouth.  Seeing him, she dropped her lash and  stepped forward, face glowing.  His gesture that the fight was over would be thumb down.  I think that Paula prayed for the motion to continue the fight, so that she could indulge her darkest desire.

The gesture he made instead was made to me.

In my bag were the studded gloves Francesca wore when she finished the blonde woman in her first fight.  The Romans would have recognized them as caest?s.  I was careful, as I threw them into the arena, to throw them as close to Francesca as I could.

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Paula’s head whipped around.  Francesca’s brown eyes were open, staring at her with unbridled hate.  She had pulled the lash to herself, untangling it from her injured wrist.  She reached for the gloves - the one glove, really, for her good hand.  Paula flung herself headlong, and caught Francesca arm.
.
Francesca had one option.  She gripped the lash’s wooden handle with her injured hand, and drove it into Paula’s face, into her eye.  Who could say which woman this hurt more?  But Paula’s hand fell away, and now Francesca held both weapons.

Her frenzy of vengeance was terrible.

Sometimes, in the ancient arena, the bodies of the defeated were left for the vultures to ravage.  No carrion could be worse than what Francesca did to Paula’s face and breasts as she straddled her in the dirt.

The emperor stood again, and turned his thumb down.  Francesca was beyond caring.  She beat at Paula until Joe pulled her off.  Paula was still breathing, barely.

The man who had sponsored carnage had access to the finest private medical care, of course.  Once Paula lived through the remainder of the night, her recovery was assured.  In time, they would both heal.  While Paula’s scarred face meant she would never model again, in a way she was still beautiful.

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For so long as I remained his procurer, my employer never pitted Francesca against another woman, although he kept her as a lover.  In a cruel world, that is a happy ending, I suppose.

[deity17313]

Very surreal. Francesca feels somewhat unhuman haha