Gladiator

Bastion resisted the urge to paw at her as she moved close to him while eating. Poor thing was probably just cold; despite dropping the blanket on the ground she still had gooseflesh. As gently as he could, he wrapped one massive arm around her shoulders, and rubbed her arms. He feared that he was being too rough with her still bruised flesh, but being this close to her was spurring his desires. When she sat this close, he could smell her natural scent. Her hair had been recently washed and braided into tiny little braids. He imagined wrapping one of his meaty fists in that braided hair and pulling her head back, forcing his mouth onto hers, forcing his tongue into her, feeding his cock into her mouth.

He shook his head and ran his other hand down his thigh, as if nervous. His cock leapt at the accidental brush he gave it. He knew that he had to have this woman, and soon. But he did not want to ruin her. He did not want to see the fear and hatred in his eyes that so many others gave him.

He popped another olive in his mouth and began to murmur under his breath a fairy tale his mother had once told him as a child. Anything to get his mind off her warm flesh pressed into his side and the soft feel of her skin underneath his heavy calloused hand.

She forced herself to not pull away when his arm touched her, and she was pleasantly surprised that he did not try to pull her against him. She was still very afraid of him and more afraid of him rejecting her and being sent someplace worse. She felt comforted especially by his stream of words. It was so different from the harsh curses she had endured the past couple of days. She rested her head against his shoulder and knew that she might come out of this with a protector. Her leg was pressed against his and her eyes had drifted down again. It was both horrific and amazing; she was glad she was not a virgin and began thinking of whether he would hurt her unintentionally due to the increasing size and length of his cock. He was uncut and at it took her a while to realize this and she wondered briefly where he had been born.

His words stopped, she watched as he ate another olive and spoke again. She shook her head, as she did not understand unaware that the soft braids were caressing his body. Her life had completely changed and she was now faced with two choices. One live in fear and dread - close herself off and ignore the world, or two-face reality and try to make the best out of a bad situation.

She was already thinking of how it could be worse and how Bastion was not the devil incarnate, just another poor enslaved soul. She sniffled, and realized she had been crying all the tears repressed for weeks were now flowing freely.

"I am sorry," she mumbled feeling rather pathetic, her muscles ached, she was cold, and she was crying. Margaret was about to wipe away the tears when she felt his hand gently touch her face and he did so for her. The last thing she was thinking about was mating and she knew it was probably the first thing on his mind. "I am used to being free." She knew the words did not translate but she said it all the same. More than her body hurt, her heart hurt, and she just wanted it to all go away.

His hands remained on her face and she became still uncertain of what response would be the correct one.

"The food is good, yes?" He asked her, knowing she would not understand, but saying it anyways simply to talk, to feel more human and less like the animal he wanted to be. He had no idea that the words he spoke in an attempt to comfort her would have the exact opposite effect.

She sniffled first, and then began crying. Her tears had been held back a long time that much had been quite obvious. His first impression of her as a strong woman may have been correct, but now he was seeing her emotionally bared. As the sobs began to wrack poor Margaret's body Bastion first took hold of her firmly. Then as she began to lose control of her tears he gently turned to face her and took her face into his rough hands as gently as he could. He did nothing but look into her wet eyes, spilling hot tears down her lovely face.

She spoke to him through sniffled sobs, talking again despite the fact that they both knew they would not understand each other. As he gazed into her face he realized that it did not matter. That their captors had turned them into slaves, into beasts, beings that did not need communication, living only to serve, in the arena like he, or the bedroom like she.

Her words falling on his ears in between sobs reminded him of the nobility he once held, and how far he had fallen. Her body trembled, and he realized that it was part from crying but also part from the chill. He felt foolish, of course she was probably still cold. She had not been used to living in the dark like he had, her skin was a golden bronze, used to the sun, which shone much hotter here than in Bastion's homeland.

Still cradling her face as gently as he could, he whispered to her, "Mahr-gah-ret, please do not weep. I will not hurt you. I know how they treat us, and it is not right. A farmer would not treat his cattle this way. But we are not cattle, you and I. We are man and woman. I will not hurt you. I will make you understand, even though you can not understand my words."

He then took the tray of food and set it on the ground near the bed. Laying back on the bed, he gently, but firmly pulled Margaret to his side, she stiffened at being moved about forcefully, but he smiled as softly as he could, as a father would to a child, to convey that he meant her no harm.

With her at his side he folded the blanket around the two of them, covering her shoulders but leaving his arms outside of the nest. He wrapped his massive arms around her, outside of the blanket and began to softly stroke her, working the blood flow back up, warming her with both his hands and with his body that she lay against.

He spoke again softly, almost under his breath. His words did not have any real meaning, he just began telling her of the dream that she had woken him from. Perhaps the talking would relax her.

She was not sure how it had started or where it was going to end but the tears finally stopped and he moved again, with such grace it was difficult to imagine him fighting, killing, and she was compliant as he pulled her body against him. She had no idea the effect of a crying woman has on a man as she felt her body touch his wrapped up feeling the warmth of his body. It was soothing and his voice was pleasant as he rambled. She had no idea what he was saying it was like a lullaby. She tried to recall when she last felt so peaceful as she closed her eyes and snuggled in, she had not realized how tired she was, having been on alert for weeks. She yawned and became aware of the wounds on her back each time she moved.

Margaret opened her eyes as the pain pushed her thoughts to the present; she cautiously, slowly, deliberately rolled over. She felt awkward facing him, but she would not be able to rest on her back or sides for a while, she had rested half standing or sitting while among the slavers. She felt small compared to him despite being more muscular than most of the slavers. She was still surprised by the feel of his manhood against her belly, and she wondered how long he would give her before demanding that she tend to his needs. "My wounds," she started to explain her movements it seemed so futile. The look in his eyes was of concern and more. The more she was not ready for, she figured she was just another breeding cow, not that it might be anything more.

It took Bastion a few moments to realize what she was trying to say to him. One of her words sounded somewhat familiar, "Woohunds" she repeated. He knew he had heard the people of this land say that. His mind flashed to the last time he had heard that said. Ah yes, after a particularly vicious match he had quite badly injured his opponent. He remembered the slave master berating him in the other language, yelling the word repeatedly and pointed to the half broken man.

"Woohunds," he repeated back to Margaret, not quite understanding if he understood what she was saying correctly. Then when she nodded at him, he suddenly realized what a fool he was. He cursed his ignorance and short sightedness; of course he had seen her injuries. She was still in pain. Disentangling himself from her smaller form, he stood from the bed. Covering her back up gently he went to the door of his cell. Raising one massive fist, he began pounding on it.

"MARAXIUS!" He bellowed at the solid wooden door, calling out the name of the guard who often brought him food. He was a pleasant enough fellow who did not seem entirely bad, and never made Bastion feel too much like dirt. Often times he would point at the food tray, laden with extra food, and give Bastion a sly wink. Bastion suspected that Maraxius had won quite a bit of money on his arena matches over the last few months.

"MARAXIUS!" He bellowed again, pounding on the door almost hard enough to damage it where it met hinges and lock. "Get your filthy dog loving ass down here you piece of shit." He added in the last part knowing that no one around would understand it anyways. Secretly he did enjoy Maraxius's company more than most of the other guards.

Eventually however Bastion heard the turning of a key in the lock in the door. He quickly backed away from the door, as it swung open quickly. Maraxius stood in the doorway with five other armed guardsmen behind him. They probably assumed that he had hurt this woman also.

"Maraxius," Bastion started calmly, then faltered, digging for the word he wanted in their strange language. "Mahr-gah-ret," he pointed to the woman laying on her side on his pallet, "Woohunds." He frowned and put on his scariest most fierce scowl at that word. "Maraxius," He pointed at the somewhat befuddled guard then down the hall, indicating that he should go, "Bahn Dodge Ihess." He finished with a solid grunt, and then changed his mind. "Bahn dodge ihess," he started in their tongue, then forgetting the word that he wanted, he switched back to his native tongue, knowing they would not understand him. "And also some water and balm." He finished by pointing to his water jug, and mimicked drinking from it, and then pointed to a scar on his arm and brushed his fingers gently over it, mimicking the action that applying a balm would have.

Maraxius spoke to him in the drawling tongue of his and gave him a little leer and wink. Bastion was not sure what he meant, so he repeated himself firmly. "Mahr-gah-ret, woohunds, bahn dodge ihess." He crossed his arms across his chest and stood there, defying any of the guards to enter the cell without the items he asked for. He could see Maraxius thinking things over for a minute before nodding and moving off, closing and locking the cell behind him. Bastion moved over to the pallet again and sat down on the edge, gently rubbing Margaret's body through the blanket.

"There now Mahr-gah-ret, do not worry, if anyone can get me some bandages, Maraxius can. I have dressed quite a few wounds in my day and will be very gentle with you. As gentle as I can." Bastion continued talking to her softly, about how he was very good both on the field of battle and afterwards, tending to a broken leg, or cut arm. Meanwhile, he waited for Maraxius to return.

She saw a flash of understanding and then he was in motion, he reminded her of a wild animal that had stumbled into the village one day and had terrifying and undoubtedly scared. She listened to him shout and bang on the bars and only understood the way he said her name and wounds, it took a few times to understand he was asking for bandages. She heard the guard leer and say something about Basschun being rough towards her. She almost felt ill as the guard winked, but Bastion kept shouting and repeating his request.

When the slave had washed her it had helped clean most of her wounds, but many were fresh or tender in spots that were repeatedly hit. She could only imagine that her backside was a map of red lash marks, bruises, and such. She kept still as Bastion's anger while aimed at the guards was still on his face.

"You had better take good care of this cow, I doubt your master will pay for another if you break her." The main guard said as he slide the tray into the cell.

"She looks pretty damn sturdy, I would not mind giving it to her," another guard teased.

"Lets just hope she does not affect his performance in the stadium." The last guard stated before they headed away, content that neither of them would be going anywhere soon.

She shivered at how they talked about her like she was not even there. She watched Bastion gather the items. She was warmer now and hoped it was not a fever as she slipped the blanket down revealing the red whip marks as well as green and purple bruises. She would have to let him touch her, and it took a great amount of will power not to pull away when his large hands approached her.

"Mahr-gah-ret, do not be so afraid of me," Bastion said, his huge hands reaching for her slowly. He saw her body tense slightly, still afraid of what he may do to her, and it saddened him in a way. All he would ever be is a big lumbering ox. Of course this woman would be scared of someone barely human like himself. Why was he even fooling himself into thinking he was anything other than a fighting slave, there to entertain his masters. No, he must not think that way!

His mind thought to the way the guards had looked at Margaret and made comments. He could not understand their words, but he knew the tone they took and the way their eyes raked her body covered by the blanket. He had wanted to smash them right then, but Maraxius had brought bandages and salve, so he had thanked him as best he could before they closed the door and locked the two of them in again.

She was nearly trembling as he drew the blanket back off her body. Again the sight of her body stirred him sexually but he pushed that down. He knelt on the floor at the pallet and softly turned Margaret so that she was laying on her stomach. Bastion hissed in anger as he saw the layer upon layer of crisscrossing welts and cuts on her back. His jaw clenched in determined rage and he vowed that if ever had the chance to find out who did this to her, he would make that person pay ten fold for every stroke of pain they had caused her.

Making gentle shushing noises, as he would to a child, Bastion began slowly rinsing off the worst of the wounds with a cloth and cool water. Resisting the urge to let his hands linger on her firm, muscular butt, he washed her as gently as his rough hands would allow. He heard the small whimpering noises as he washed the raw cuts, and again made cooing noises, in an attempt to put her at ease. He rubbed the salve into the worst of her wounds and bound the worst of her cuts as he could. Still, looking at her back he realized that he was no doctor. There was still a lot of raw flesh on her back, and it would be days in healing fully.

Standing up, he made a tsk'ing noise, partially unhappy with his job, the best he could do, but mostly unhappy with whoever would do something like that to her. He moved the bandages and salve to the wall of his cell, and as gently as he could slide back onto the pallet along with her. As softly as he could manage, he lay on his back and positioned her so that she was laying on her side, her warm breasts squished into his side. Resting her head into the hollow of his right shoulder he made sure that as little of her back was touching the pallet, or his body as possible.

He hoped that he had done everything he could to make her as comfortable as the situation allowed. While he felt that there was probably no way a woman such as this would ever love a beast like him, he hoped at the very least, she may consent at some point to willingly partnering with him. He had been without the touch of a woman for so long his body ached for her. Her touch at his side was both painful reminder of such, and yet, at the same time, it also made him feel wonderfully lightheaded.

Bastion sighed knowing that no matter what happened, tomorrow was another match and whenever he entered the arena, there was always a chance he would not be walking back out. Fear gripped him and he suddenly thought of something. What if Margaret was only to stay in this cell for today? What if they came to take her away while he was fighting for his masters in the arena? The thought made his body tense, and he squeezed her fearing that she may already be slipping away.

His hands were strangely tender, as if he wanted to cause as little pain as possible. She flinched a little in the beginning from the pain and when his hand lingered just a little on her firm behind. She had been given no instructions, what if they were going to pass her around? She did not want to think about it or what might happen if she did not conceive a child. That was her real purpose, to bear the gladiator's child who would in turn be enslaved. Her body ached, and as she lay pressed up against him she hoped she would remain with him. He had shown her such kindness and she resolved that she would return the favor. She was lulled by the steady beat of his heart and got used to the feel of his turgid manhood pressing against her belly.

She wondered how he had ended up here as she drifted off to nightmares of crackling fires and the sound of whips cracking. She awoke to the sound of metal on stone and realized she had napped away the morning, as first she thought it was the sound of more food and then realized that it would be foolish to feed slaves more often then needed and as she was not being required to work and Basschun had not been doing any exercises this morning. She wondered how much she had interfered with his routine, perhaps they had forgotten about her; perhaps she was just intended to mate him before being dragged away to clean or to the next cell.

It was the sound of the guards dragging their weapons along ground, the sound enough to make anyone resting take notice. She listened to their conversation hoping for some clue about what would become of her, but unfortunately they were talking about Bastion's next fight. The more they talked the more nervous she grew, what if he was seriously wounded or worse? Would she be left to the guards' mercy?

She felt so safe against him; she dreaded moving, except that she needed to go to the bathroom. The water she had so eagerly gulped down had worked its way through her body. She did not want to soil his bed and was unsure of where exactly she was expected to relieve herself. There was no privacy and as the guards' voices grew louder she doubted she would get any peace. The one from earlier Mar-something was talking to Bastion.

"You know if you fight good I might let your lady friend give you a private bath after the fight." The way he said lady made her shudder even as she hoped to get bathing privileges. She felt his arms tighten slightly and she groaned slightly.

Bastion had not even realized he had drifted off to sleep with Margaret in his arms until late that night. He had awoken slightly stiff from laying as perfectly still as he could, cradling her in his arms. Not wanting to wake her, he stretched out and used the covered slop pot in the darkened corner to relieve himself. Then he figured he should at least work out a bit. He did not want to be stiff from lack of movement tomorrow. However the fact that they had not taken him out of his cell for exercise today told him one of two things. Either they wanted him to be stiff so that he would have a bad match or they were trying to give him enough time with Margaret to satisfy his desires. He thought more on that as he gazed down on her sleeping form.

Why had the masters given him another woman after the first? Were they rewarding him for a job well done in the arena? He hoped that was so, but on the same note, he had heard that spilling your seed before a battle made you lose the fighting edge. He did not know if that was true or not, but if the masters did want him to lose they may be taking a few extra shots at costing him his edge.