Date: Thu, 17 Jun 2010 22:12:23 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Reluctant Gladiator, Part Three

RELUCTANT GLADIATOR - Part Three
A story by Pete Brown (petebrownuk @ yahoo.com)

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

I suppose I should have known that in this "information age" nothing is
really secret from the authorities.  As soon as I'd been convicted, the
Army ministry had been automatically informed, and in turn, this had gone
straight down the chain of command to our base.  So I didn't have to say
anything - when I was marched into the Colonel's office, he at once began
"This is totally unsatisfactory, Masters.  You always were a wild one, and
when it was just on the base here we could tolerate it as hard men like you
naturally want to fight.  But once you take your male aggressiveness
outside, it's a different matter.  Molesting civilians, especially female
civilians, is totally unacceptable to the marines."  He paused a moment,
stared at me with a kind of sad look, and continued "You're dismissed."

I thought I was getting off lightly with just this mild bit of tongue
bashing, so I loosened up m taught body a bit and said "Thank you, sir."

"Is that all you've got to say, Master?  I was expecting you to be more
upset.  You were a fine marine, with the sort of guts a man needs in this
service....  I wasn't accepting you to take this so lightly."

"Sir?  You aren't going to do anything, sir!  It was a mistake - I thought
she was a prostitute, that's all.  And it was bad enough getting caned for
it.  And I was expecting at least a week's punishment here, sir...."

"...and instead of that, you're out.  As I said, I was expecting a lot of
anger and protest."

Slowly it began to dawn on me.  "Out, sir.....?"

"Yes, Masters.  I said 'dismissed'.  You're out of the marines - public
opinion simply won't tolerate us having men in here who are a danger to
civilians, however much they are otherwise tough, strong, virile fighters.
As soon as you were convicted, we had no option but to dismiss you."

"But sir...."

"Sorry, Masters.  There's nothing I can do.  Standing orders, you know."

"But sir, I've got a big fine to pay....."

"There's bad news there for you then, Masters.  This is a dishonourable
discharge, so although you'll get your pay owing up to today, that's all."
He looked at me again, and I think he was genuinely sad.  "As I said, I'm
truly sorry, Masters.  But there's nothing I can do.  Except...."  He got
out his wallet, and gave me five twenties. "This will at least help you
find a room for a couple of days...  If you ever make good, you can send it
back to me."

I was going to say some more, but the sergeant who had marched me in
snapped "About turn, quick march.....", and that was sort of that.

It all went very fast after that.  They accompanied me over to the barracks
and watched as I packed my very few personal things into a holdall, then
they checked over all my kit and knives and gun and stuff to make sure it
was all there, then they marched me off the base!  It was all so quick I
hardly had time to think until there I was, outside the gate with the
sentries glaring at me.  I had little enough money, and wondered what the
fuck I could do.  Jason and my other buddies were all away on leave so I
didn't even have their comradeship to rely on.  So, in the best
time-honoured tradition of marines everywhere, I moved to the side of the
road and stuck my thumb out to get a lift.

As luck would have it there was a long-distance truck that stopped.  I had
been meaning to go into the local town, but then thought better of it -
there were probably more jobs going down in Florida and places like that
than there were up here.  The truck driver was a nice guy, but when we
stopped a couple of hours later at a truck stop he said "Pay back time,
soldier", with a big stupid grin on his face.  As I was looking at him
wondering what he meant, he unzipped and got his dick out, pointed at it
and said "Come on then, boy.  Chow down on this...."

"What the fuck....?"

"Hey, soldier boy - you know the rules - or you ought to know them.  Every
other soldier I've picked up on that stretch of road knows that you pay for
the lift.... So cut the crap, and get down on me!"

"They were soldiers.  I'm a marine.  And no way does a marine suck dick!"

"Don't give me that bullshit.  Of course they do.  I've had lots of them do
it.  Now, pay up!"

As he said this he waggled his hard dick at me, and went to take my hand to
drag it towards it.  I have to say that I lost it!  No one touches me
without risking triggering my fighting reflexes - it's what they teach you
in combat school, so you're always ready.  And on top of that there was no
way my hand was going to touch another guy's dick!  I struck out at him -
that was the reflex - and then pounded him several times, which was to show
him that he shouldn't go around accusing ordinary guys of liking vile gay
practices.

There was a lot more blood than the seriousness of the injuries warranted -
well, I suppose that always happens when you smash the face as the nose is
so delicate, and it's easy to open big cuts in the tight skin on the
forehead.  And I do admit that when he pushed open the door and managed to
get out - well, fell out, actually - that didn't help either as the truck's
cab was very high and he twisted his ankle or something.  I reckon he
looked a whole lot worse than he really was.  He staggered into the truck
stop and I climbed out and went to the other side of the gas pumps to try
to get another lift.  But, surprise, surprise, it was a cop cruiser that
pulled up by me.

Once they saw the blood on my knuckles and splashed on my jeans, they
arrested me - well, not immediately: there was a lot of clubbing me with
their nightsticks and kicking at me with their boots once I was down, and
they shouted that anyone who tried to beat up innocent truckers deserved to
get a taste of their own medicine.

The next morning in the cell at the sheriff's office I was in quite a lot
of pain, and I must have looked terrible, being covered in bruises from the
beating I'd had.  It didn't help, either, that there was blood on m
clothes, and of course the 24-hour growth of beard didn't help either as it
made me look dark and even more sinister.  The wouldn't let me shower or
clean up in any way, and I was hauled in to Court so that the judge could
see for herself the state I was in, and she hardly listened to my side of
the story - as far as she was concerned I was a violent thug who'd turned
on an innocent man, anyone could see that.  And then they told her about my
conviction the day before, and that was that.

It seems that I'd crossed the state line in the truck and therefore my fine
became immediately payable - now my last hope of doing that had gone, as
with no leaving gratuity I'd been thinking that I could pay it off as I
worked.  And now there was going to be a further big fine - or jail time in
lieu.

"Can you pay?" The judge asked.

"No, ma'am" (they teach you to be respectful to ladies in command in the
marines). "But I'm willing to work..."

"The law allows you twenty four hours to pay your fines - your previous
one, plus the one I've now levied.  Failing that, it's automatic
enslavement."

"What...?"

"We don't hold with sentencing healthy working men to prison in this
state", she told me.  "Rather than being a charge on the taxpayer, this
state recovers its dues by a sentence of slavery.  If you do not pay what
you owe within 24 hours you will be taken to a state-approved auction house
and sold into slavedom."

"For how long, ma'am...."

"For life, of course!  What would be the point of a sentence of slavery if
the slave were to be released?  An owner who buys a slave does so because
he knows that he has total control of that slave for the rest of the
slave's life."

"But that's ridiculous.... I've done nothing wrong...."

"...only assault a woman, and a truck driver.  Both very serious crimes,
and ones that deserve a sentence of slavery: no doubt a strong, masterful
owner will tame you, or, more probably, have you 'calmed' by the removal of
your testicles.  I'm only sorry I can't sentence you to slavery immediately
- but because of the seriousness of the sentence the law gives you 24 hours
to come up with the money."

"This can't be right.... I didn't really assault her, only tried to bargain
with her for a fuck... And the trucker, well, he tried to make me touch his
dick..... And now you're talking about me losing my balls..."

"The Court is not here to argue with you.  You were sentenced for assault
on a woman, and for an unprovoked attack on a trucker.  Pay your fine
within 24 hours or the Court's sentence of slavery will be enforced.  And
then it's up to you.... you'll have to hope for a lenient owner who doesn't
order your immediate castration, and then keep that temper of yours under
control...."

"I haven't got a temper....!"

The judge banged her gavel as if to show her exasperation with my
outburst. "I would strongly advise you, young man, to keep your temper
under control.  Owners do not like such behaviour from their slaves.  And,
more immediately, I believe you should consult a lawyer, to see if there is
not some way out of your situation."

"Please, ma'am, what do you mean?"

"Consult a lawyer.  Next case....."

I stumbled out of the Court in a daze.  A slave!  Me, a slave?  And all
this stuff about castration.... I thought about trying to contact Jason,
but those bastards in the sheriff's office had taken all the money from my
wallet before they took me to Court, and when I'd accused them of doing it
they'd simply kicked me a couple more times.  Fortunately just across from
the court building I saw a lawyer's office - not one of those fancy smart
all glass and chrome places, but a real old-fashioned half run-down store
front.  I crossed over and went in, and almost walked out again as it was
so run down that I didn't think they could possibly know what they were
about.

There was a really stunningly good looking women siting there, about my
age, and she smiled at me and said "How can I help?"

"I need to see a lawyer...."

"You're seeing one.  Now, how can I help you?"

"No, ma'am, I mean a real lawyer, not a receptionist.  I'm in big trouble,
and I need help...."

Her pleasant smile disappeared from her face, and she looked at me as if
I'd crawled from under a stone.  "You certainly look as if you need help!
Some beaten-up no-good hobo comes in here and doesn't even have the sense
to know a lawyer when he sees one.  Now, get out."

I though for a moment and realised she might be my only hope - there didn't
seem to be any other lawyers' offices anywhere near, and I had no money to
travel.

"I'm sorry, ma'am...".  I tried smiling - that usually does it for me with
your average woman.  "...but I'm in a pretty terrible state and I didn't
realise that a gorgeous woman like you could be a lawyer as well...."

"Get out!  I will not listen to your sexist drivel in my office."

I apologised again, and now stood there with my head bowed, and
deliberately let my body slump.  I tried to sound really worried and upset.
All those things go down well with women too, I've found.  "Please, ma'am,
I've been falsely sentenced twice, and now they're going to enslave me.....
I don't know where to turn, and I really need help, ma'am.... Please...."

Fortunately that seemed to work.  The "puppy" strategy had paid off again
for me, as she indicated a chair and said "Sit down!"

I went through the last two days events with her, rather as I have related
them to you, and she asked a lot of questions, noting things down on one of
those big yellow pads lawyers seem to use.  When I'd finished, she leaned
back in her chair, looked me straight in the eye, and said "I'm sorry,
Steve, but I can't help you."

"Why not?  Please...."

"I can't help you because of the law.  You've been tried and convicted in
two different courts.  If your lawyers didn't get the courts to accept your
version of what happened - which I have to say sounds perfectly reasonable
- then I can't do any more."

"An appeal....?"

"You've been watching too many lawyer shown on TV!  Most of that went long
ago, to free up the courts.  You can only appeal now on points of law, not
on the facts - those went into the record at the trials and can't now be
changed. And from what you've told me, neither judge erred in law.  So
you're guilty on both charges - well, all three, including crossing the
state line when an undischarged felony debt was pending - and so if you
want to avoid enslavement, your only option is to pay the fines."

"But I don't have any money.... I could get a job, I'm strong, I can
work...."

"Steve, fines are payable immediately.  Even if you could get a job, which
I doubt as most jobs that simply require muscle rather than skill are now
done by slaves, you've got no time."

"....a loan?"

"Who's going to loan money to a twice-convicted criminal, who could try to
cross the state line to get away again, and who cold default and be
enslaved at any moment?"

"Please, ma'am... There must be some way....."

She sat there a moment, clearly thinking.  Then she tossed me a couple of
dollars and told me to go and get a coffee for her from the coffee shop
next door as she wanted to make a few calls.  I looked at the bills in my
hand, and with a sigh she added a couple to them and said "And I suppose
you'd better get yourself one, too."

It was so humiliating, to be used as an errand boy like this.  And having
to accept coffee from a woman like that.  But what choice did I have?  She
waved her hand dismissively at me as she picked up the phone, and I went
and did as she had told me.

When I got back she took the coffee from me, leaned back in her chair, and
said "There is only one way out that I can think of.  And you may not like
it....."

"Please, anything.... I don't want to be a slave...."

"Very well.  Now, you've told me you were a marine, with special fighting
training.  So the idea is that you should enlist with a gladiator school.
I've spoken to a friend of a friend who has contacts in the 'sport', if you
can call it that, and he has made some calls - there's a school in the
capital of this state that would be prepared to consider you...."

"A school?"

"You don't follow the games?"  I shook my head, and she continued "Well,
gladiator schools have a number of gladiators - slaves, usually, of course
- who they house, feed, train and arrange fights for.  Think of it as not
unlike the army or marines - those at the school live in the gladiator
barracks and have everything found for them.  The difference is of course
that they can't leave, and that they can be punished if they fail to obey
the rules - and by 'punished' I mean, in general, physically punished, as
gladiators are usually pretty tough, hard types and this is the only form
of discipline they understand."

"So at this 'school' I'd be trained to fight...."

"Yes, and made to practice, of course.  Endless practice.  And then the
occasional fight."

"Well that doesn't sound so bad..."

"The fights can be brutal.  That's the problem.  And that's why most
gladiators are slaves as most free men will not take the risk of injury or
permanent disfigurement."

"You mean fighting with knives and stuff?"

"Please!  We are in a civilised country!  No, gladiator fights are
restricted to the kinds of activities you used to see in the boxing ring,
or wrestling arena, and related activities such as Thai boxing and kick
boxing.  Bare knuckles, though - no gloves or any protection of any kind.
Just two men battling it out until one of them submits."

"It doesn't sound all that bad...."

"A man like you would say that!  I'm not a follower of the arena myself,
but the papers are full of stories of gladiators who are disfigured -
hopelessly broken noses, stuff like that - or maimed with broken limbs that
don't heal properly.  And there's the occasional death of course - all
those blows to the head can destroy the brain, or a rain of blows to the
kidneys can cause fatal damage...."

"Hey, a man learns to fight, and take risks, in the marines...."

"Have you ever fought another man, hand to hand, without protection?"

"No, actually.  It's mostly long-distance stuff with guns and rocket
launchers.  But I've had combat practice, of course."

"Well please think carefully.  As I said, there are very few free men
gladiators.  It's usually slaves, and they're toughened up brutally by the
schools.  They only really fight because occasionally they can win the
state or national championships, and the prize there is freedom."

"The judge told me that a slave was a slave for life...."

"Oh, when I say 'freedom', what actually happens is that the prize is used
to buy the gladiator from the school, then a law firm owns him and allows
him to live life 'normally', paying him a small sum every month to live on.
But the slave is still a slave, and has to live where the law firm allows
him, and so on.  It's not really freedom, but it's probably better than
living in a 'school' until you're injured so badly that you can't continue
to fight.  Anyway, that's what the gladiators must think as the
championships are always fought very hard - absolutely no faking or
anything, just two men beating the hell out of each other until one
succumbs."

"So I should become one of these gladiators.... How does that help pay my
fine?"

"Ah, this is the clever part.  There's a school that's prepared to take you
on as an indentured gladiator, and pay all the fees up front.  That way the
fines can be discharged, and...."

"Whoa!  What's all this 'indenture' thing?"

"You really don't keep up with the news, do you, Steve?  At the same time
as the slavery laws were reintroduced, so were some older labour practices.
An 'apprentice' can indenture himself to a 'master', and in exchange for
the 'master' paying him minimal wages and teaching him a 'trade', the
apprentice agrees to work for a specified time period, obey the 'master',
and so on.  So in this case you'd indenture yourself to the owner of the
gladiator school, and he would accept you as an 'apprentice' to teach you
the trade of being a gladiator.  You can't leave your indenture until the
end of the indenture period, you have to live where the 'master' says, obey
him absolutely, and so on.  And, of course, if you fail in any of this, he
can order you to be punished."

"....by enslavement, I suppose."

"Well not normally.  In general most indentured men get some form of
physical chastisement - spanking or whipping."  I felt my butt tighten as
she said this, remembering the cane.  "But in extreme cases the 'master'
can break the indenture, and then any payments made to the 'apprentice'
would have to be repaid, together with any agreed contract
penalties.... And as the 'apprentice' normally has no assets, the default
on that payment can of course lead to enslavement, as you have seen.... Or,
rather, will see, unless you can come up with the money for the Court."

"But..."

"Look, Steve, I don't want this to drag on all day!  I'm a lawyer, paid by
the hour, normally.  And I'm doing this as a kind of 'pro bono' case.  But
I don't have all day to spend on it.  Now, are you interested, or not?  If
you are, I'll negotiate the best del I can for you with a school.  And if
not, you may as well leave and go out and enjoy your last hours of freedom
before you're enslaved."

"Please... One last question.... What's the difference between one of these
indentured gladiators, and a slave?"

"Well, one's a free man - or will be a free man when the fixed indenture
period ends.  And the other's a slave.  Other than that, not a lot, I would
imagine.  These gladiator schools like to have a certain 'esprit de corps'
- if you understand that - as sometimes teams from one school fight teams
from another, and so they'd want to treat all the men at the school
equally."  She paused, then went on, now looking not unkindly at me "Look,
Steve, it seems simple to me: you can be a slave.  Or you can live like a
slave for a time, and then be free again."

I nodded.  "So can you negotiate a good deal for me then, please?"

She threw me a few more dollars.  "Go out and get something to eat.  I
don't suppose they fed you in that sheriff's office.  Bring me back an
avocado on rye sandwich when you're done."

She waved her fingers dismissively at me again, and I went out into the
bright sunshine.  I found a diner and had a "proper" breakfast with juice,
coffee, bacon eggs, hash browns, toast, jelly.... Little did I know that
that was the last time I'd be exercising choice in what I ate for a long
time.  And I sometimes wonder whether if I had have known, I'd have made a
different choice.

Still, it's easy to act with hindsight, isn't it?  And when I went back
into the law office the lawyer smiled at me again, and waited.  I looked
quizzically at her, and she finally said "My sandwich?"

"Oh... Sorry, I forgot....."

"Steve, I think you'd better be careful!  Even as an indentured servant
failing to obey orders can lead to punishment!  Still, let's get on and I
can go out to lunch myself."  She drew a mass of papers off the printer,
shuffled them neatly, and scanned through them reading out parts to me.
"So here's the deal: In return for a four year period of indenture to
Philips' Fighters, you will receive sufficient to pay off your outstanding
fines, and my fee."

"Your fee?"

"Of course!  I was working 'pro bono' to advise you, but now I am engaged
in contract negotiations on your behalf, which is chargeable activity.
Now, where was I.... Yes....  During that four year period Philips'
fighters will provide you with, and you agree to wear, appropriate dress
for training and engaging in gladiatorial activities.  You agree to live in
the accommodation provided by Philips' Fighters. Philips' Fighters agree to
provide suitable food at no charge to you."

She looked at me.  "That's all clear, is it?"

"Yes, ma'am"

She cleared her throat, and continued "As part of your indenture you agree
to be trained, and engage in, the gladiator sport and associated
activities, and Philips' Fighters have the exclusive use of you for such
purposes during the contract period.  You accept that such activity is
risky and liable to result in injury or death, and agree that you will have
no claim against Philip's Fighters for any such outcomes.  Any fees or
prizes resulting from your activity as a gladiator, or any other activity
which Philips' Fighters deems to be a normal and regular part of gladiator
activity, is Philips' Fighters', and not yours.  You agree to accept any
reasonable punishment from authorised staff of Philips' Fighters if you are
deemed to have disobeyed any reasonable orders, or not fulfilled he role of
gladiator enthusiastically - such punishments to include, but not limited
to, canings, whippings or other physical methods of chastisement, saving
only that they
 do not result in permanent injury to you."  She stopped, looked at me, and
asked "I think that's clear, don't you?  And it's what we talked about?"

Look, I know I should have asked stuff like "What's 'appropriate dress'?"
"What's the other activities they're going on about?" and "What's
'reasonable' when it comes to orders, and punishments", and stuff like
that.  But I didn't.  You can think of me as naive if you like, but,
honestly, there didn't seem much point really.  And, anyway, she was such a
good-looking woman, that I trusted her.

"So, Steve.... Here's the indenture contract, covering those points.  I
have been authorised to act as an agent by Philips' Fighters, so as soon as
you sign it, we're all done. - well, almost."

"Don't we need witnesses or anything?  I mean, it sounds like a pretty
important contract...."

"It is.  But, Steve, you really are naive.  Where have you been living?  As
you sign, I'll simply use the webcam on my laptop to record it.  That's
been acceptable evidence for years now."

I nodded.  "Well, let me have a pen...."

"One thing first, Steve.  I'm acting as Philips' Fighters' agent now, and
not as your lawyer.  I need to ensure that what Philips' Fighters is
getting is suitable material for a gladiator."

"Suitable material?"

"Yes - the public does not like to see gladiators with disfiguring tattoos,
things like that.  And whilst I think it's obvious that, physically, you
seem to be well-built and fit, even those clothes could conceal some kind
of disfigurement, or gross blemish.  So before I can allow you to sign the
contract, I need to take a look.  Just take off your clothes, please."

"What?  Strip?"

"Yes.  How else can I examine your body?"

"Hey, lady, the only women I take my clothes off in front of are usually
pretty bare themselves...."

She glared at me.  "Now, as your lawyer again, Steve, let me give you some
advice.  When people are trying to help, and when you are about to be
contracted as a gladiator, a gladiator who can be punished for not obeying
the rules, you'd better see sense and do as you're told!  As a gladiator
you'll be appearing in front of hundreds - perhaps even thousands - of
people wearing only gladiator fighting trunks.  And at least half those
people will be women.  IF you can't face doing that, there's not much point
in proceeding, is there?  So you may as well go and be a
slave..... Although then you might have to work completely naked, of
course, as many owners cannot see the point in paying for clothes for their
slaves."

She stopped for a moment, then continued "So as the agent for Philips'
Fighters, I ask you to please remove our clothes so I can inspect your
body."

I thought for a moment, and I could see that she was right.  And, anyway,
what the hell?  I've got nothing to be ashamed of, as I've told you.  So I
kicked off my boots, undid my belt, unzipped, and let my jeans slip to the
floor.  Then I unbuttoned my shirt and took it off, and, smiling at her,
grasped the hem of my T and pulled it up over my head - I always do it in
that order as that's usually a turn-on for women, as it allows them to give
your body a long hard look when they think you can't see them doing it as
your eyes are covered by your T.  I stood there in my socks and briefs,
smiling.  I turned around a couple of times, did a couple of "poses" to
show my muscles to good advantage, then, still smiling, went to pick up my
clothes.

She stared at me, and said, calmly "I haven't seen everything yet, Steve.
So off with the socks, so I can make sure you have no deformed toes.  And
those briefs, of course."

"Now look here, lady...."

"No, Steve!  This has gone on long enough.  Either strip totally, or get
out.."

"But what's looking at my private parts got to do with it?"

"How can Philips' Fighters be sure you don't have unsightly tattoos on your
ass?  And I need to make sure that the caning you told me about has not
permanently damaged your flesh.  Or perhaps you even have a tattoo on your
dick - some men have a fetish to have their dicks tattooed, you know.  So
strip, or get out."

I had no choice.  I bent down and pulled off my socks, then let my briefs
fall to the floor and stepped out of them.  I wasn't smiling when I turned
around in front of her this time.  And especially not when she told me to
do it again - and this time with my dick pulled away from my balls, as she
needed to ensure it was only the sweat holding it close to them, and not
some deformity.  I was flushing with embarrassment and shame as I did this
- I mean, a guy normally only touches his dick in front of a woman when
he's about to fuck her, doesn't he?

"Seen enough?"  I was almost shouting, trying to keep my anger under
control as she was humiliating me in this way.

"Yes.  But I need to examine those cane marks in more detail.  Please bend
over the desk."

I went to protest, but what was the point?  If I didn't do this, I'd become
a slave.  So I did as she'd ordered, and she got out of her chair and the
next moment I felt her hands running over the bare skin of my butt, and
then her fingers digging into the muscles.  That hurt - I was still very
tender - and I shuffled my feet as I tried to stop myself from crying out.

"So, Steve, you're not used to a lady touching you....."

"Of course I am!  But not like this...."

"Anyway, Steve, I don't think there's any permanent damage from the caning.
Those nice tight butt muscles of yours will soon recover properly.  So you
can sign now."

I stood up, realising to my acute embarrassment that her hands running over
my butt had caused my dick to start to stiffen. I held my hands down, to
shield it from view.  She reached across the desk, holding a pen.  I went
to pick up my briefs before accepting it.

"NO!  Stay naked!"  Her tone was harsh now.

"Like fuck I will.... You can't keep a guy naked like this...."

"Steve, I told you that my webcam would act as witness if there were any
dispute about your indenture.  But some smarmy lawyer might argue that you
were coerced into signing - so what better way of showing that to be untrue
is there than by having you totally naked when you sign?  That way anyone
watching can be sure that there are no marks on your body from torture, no
wires to electrical devices....  In any case, if you persist in disobeying,
there'll be no point in continuing.  So either sign as I record you, or get
dressed, leave, and become enslaved."

Well what choice did I have?  I stood there, my dick swinging in front of
me, now totally exposed as I had had to take my hands away to get the pen.
I scribbled my signature on the contract.  She detached the webcam in some
way and walked around me, taking pictures of me in all my naked glory - I
could see they were being recorded by the amount of disk activity on her
laptop.

When she was finished she told me I could now dress, and she'd call a cab
to take me to Philips' Fighters.  But perhaps I was getting used to being
naked in front of her, or, as I've so often found out, "if you don't ask,
you don't get"... So with my anger dissipated I smiled at her again.  "So,
now you've had a good look at what's available, how about postponing that
cab.... Or taking it back to your place....? Doesn't a condemned man have a
last wish granted....?  And I bet you can imagine what mine might be with a
lovely lady like you...."

As I said all this stuff - some of my buddies think I'm really good at
chatting up women - I could feel my dick start to stiffen even more with
excitement.  She peered down at it, and that only made me more excited, as
I thought I was succeeding.

"You're indentured now, Steve.  Your body belongs to Philips' Fighters for
the next four years.  They have exclusive use of you for gladiatorial
combat and associated activities, if you remember what we talked about in
the contract.... And do those activities include fucking, do you think?"

"Hey, you're kidding me.... Of course not!  What a man does in private is
his own business."

"But you're not a man now, Steve.  You're indentured.  In fact, it would be
easier to think of yourself as a slave for the next four years.  Your body
is no longer your own, as Philips' Fighters have the say in what you do,
and what you don't do."

She picked up the phone and dialled a cab company, gave them the addresses,
then turned to me again.  "I might fuck you, I suppose.  Me and a group of
friends come to the arena often, as we like to see men with strong hard
bodies beat the shit out of each other.... And we sometimes get together to
see a private entertainment afterwards, too...."

"What do you mean?"

She didn't reply, as a cab drew up outside and honked its horn.  She almost
led me out, as if I was no longer capable of independent action And I hated
the way she argued with the cab driver about the fare, and told him he was
to take me straight there, no detours.  She even paid him, and it was as if
I was no longer capable of dealing with stuff like that by myself.  As we
drove away, I wondered what the fuck she had meant about all that "private"
stuff.

End Of Part Three.