"Last one," Nick whispers to me as he unties me. "Tell him that. The last one."
Skinner is breathing far too heavily for my liking, and he looks a mess.
"Nick says it's the last fight of the evening." I take his head in my hands and try to get him to focus on me.
"Yeah," he manages a weak grin. "But have you seen who it is?"
"Who?" I turn, and my heart sinks.
"Matt," Skinner murmurs.
Matt is being oiled up, his pristine skin unmarked by the bruises that now liberally adorn Skinner. He sees me looking at him and smirks.
"The bastard waited until now before challenging—he knew he didn't stand a chance against you when you were fresh." I'm seething, and about ready to go over there and take care of Matt myself when I catch sight of Saunders. Before Skinner can stop me, I find myself grabbing Saunders' arm and turning him around to face me.
"This is a fucking set-up," I snarl. "Skinner's taken all the challenges this evening. It isn't fair."
"Life isn't, though, is it?" Saunders smiles and then glares pointedly at the hand I have on his arm. I find myself removing it. "You really don't want to anger me, Fox," he says dangerously. "I'm quite satisfied with the slave I have already, but I might decide to make a pitch for you myself one of these days. How would you like that?" His face is angled to one side as he regards me keenly.
"I don't belong to anyone but Skinner," I tell him evenly. "And this 'challenge' is a heap of shit. Stop it now, Saunders."
"I can't," Saunders says with a lazy wave of his hand. "Matt issued the challenge before the hour was up. Skinner has to respond. It's the way Mithras functions at its most basic level, Fox. If a man has a particularly desirable slave, he has to be strong enough to keep him, even if that means having to do a lot of fighting. Of course I can see why you'd be concerned." Saunders flashes me that creepy grin and glances over my shoulder at Matt. "I would be, too, if I were you. You really shouldn't have upset Matt so much when you first arrived. He's just itching to get his fingers on you. He's been polishing his crop all evening. Cross your fingers, Fox—because if Matt gets his hands on you, then I'd hazard a guess you'll be one docile slave by tomorrow morning. Docile—and well marked. I look forward to seeing those marks at breakfast tomorrow. That's if you can still walk." He laughs out loud at his own macabre sense of humor. "Of course, Matt is an exhibitionist so it's possible that he'll throw you in the sand and take you immediately upon his victory with all these witnesses. I do hope he does. I enjoy watching." Saunders chuckles again at my outraged expression and then turns his back on me.
I return to Skinner, seething inside at the injustice and the way we are being forced into accepting every piece of shit these people hand out to us.
Skinner is getting his breath back; he takes a long, deep drink and does some stretches.
"I'm not finished yet, Fox," he says. "Don't write me out of this contest before it starts."
"You could beat him with one hand tied behind your back," I state in a feeble and transparent attempt at showing a confidence in him that I'm not sure I feel.
"No, you're the one that gets to have all the tying up shit done to you," he grins. "I get to have my brains beaten to a pulp by mindless wackos while you just have to stand around looking pretty. Some guys get all the luck."
"Kismet," I grin back. "I was born prettier than you, so I get the slave boy option." I'm trying to joke, but somehow I don't think it's a good idea to mention to him at this point that the only top here who has beaten Matt is Saunders. That wouldn't be a good psychological place to be coming from in a fight like this.
I return to the post once more for another session with the handcuffs, only this time I'm even more scared shitless than before. I really don't want to watch Skinner getting the crap beaten out of him, but I'm only human and at least some of my concern is saved for myself. I don't want to be raped, and I don't want another taste of Matt's riding crop. I can't see how Skinner can be expected to defeat Matt after all the fighting he's done tonight. My fingers are crossed and my heart is pounding in my chest as the two men begin to circle each other. Matt is about the same height as Skinner, but not as broad; however he is sinewy and obviously well toned. He's clearly a formidable opponent.
Matt feints forward, drops back, and then repeats the move again and again, making Skinner snarl with angry frustration. Finally Matt follows through, taking Skinner by surprise and landing a solid blow to my man's jaw. Skinner just shakes his head and keeps moving. He's like a goddamn ox, charging on regardless. Matt goes through the same dancing, darting crap as before, wearing Skinner out even more before landing another good punch to Skinner's ribs. Skinner lashes out and manages to get a blow to Matt's face before Matt skips out of reach, but even so, it isn't a very convincing shot. Matt is definitely ahead on points. The whole circle can see that Skinner is tired. A low humming sound starts, full of menace, repeating one word with a pounding rhythm: "Kill."
It's whispered over and over again, and the sub tied up with me to the stake backs up against me, his eyes wide and scared.
"What's happening?" he whispers. I recognize him from breakfast—he's the kid Matt made eat from the plate on the floor.
"I don't know." I find myself reaching out with my free hand to comfort him, and we both stand there looking dazed and scared. The crowd has turned ugly. They want Matt to win; they want Skinner to drop, to finally be defeated. They want one of their own to be the victor, to bring this outsider down and trample him into the sand. Then they want to see me raped, subdued, and finally brought into line. Buoyed up by the sound, Matt shrieks a war cry and launches himself at Skinner, bringing him down with one blow to the midriff. He strikes him another on the face, kicks him hard in the shins, and then pins my boss to the ground with his body. I see Skinner glance at me over Matt's shoulder, and I close my eyes, unable to watch.
When I open them again, Matt is delivering one final, decisive punch to Skinner's head. My boss, my lover, falls back onto the sand, out cold.
"Yes!" Matt stands up, raising his arms in the air, a look of triumphant glee on his face. He turns towards me, and I actually hear myself whimper. He's looking at me with those Nightmare-on-Elm-Street eyes of his and I know that I haven't got a chance. He's crazy, full of bloodlust, and it's me he wants to vent it on. I tug blindly, frantically, at the cuff around my wrist, trying to escape, knowing it's hopeless, twisting to get as far away from him as possible.
He grins and pursues me, grabs my shoulders and pulls my head against his for a sweaty, revolting kiss. I kick him, pull away, and duck under him, but he just grabs me again, his hands closing around my neck as he yanks me back up.
"I'm going to share my victory with you all!" Matt yells, putting one arm around my chest while he holds onto my neck with his other hand. "Watch and enjoy!" he laughs, his free hand moving down to the front of my jeans, as he starts to unbutton my fly. His breath is hot against my flesh and my stomach is heaving so much that I think I might puke.
At that moment, I feel him forcibly wrenched from me and I twist around just in time to see Skinner headbutt Matt across the bridge of his already crooked nose. Matt lets out a squeal of pure pain, and Skinner lands another satisfying punch to Matt's stomach and then, standing up straight, he takes aim and kicks my assailant squarely in the groin with as much force as he can muster. Matt curls up and whimpers in agony. Skinner stands over him, takes a fistful of his dark hair, and pulls his head back.
"I don't believe I said that the challenge was over," Skinner growls. "Did I?" Matt shakes his head, still whimpering. "So. Your. Victory. Celebration. Was. Premature." Skinner punctuates each word with a savage punch to Matt's body. "Wasn't it?!" He shakes Matt bodily as if he's a rat.
"Yes!" Matt manages to pant out.
"And the words you're looking for are?" Skinner waits patiently, his fist drawn back.
"Challenge over," Matt gasps. "You win, Skinner."
Skinner nods and smiles, and starts to put the bleeding man down, and then casually, as if in afterthought, delivers one last brutal punch to Matt's face. When he flings Matt back into the sand, the guy doesn't even move. Skinner stands up stiffly, glaring around the circle, and I see the grudging respect in the eyes of the other tops.
Skinner walks slowly over to Nick and holds out his hand. "Give me the key," he says.
Nick stares at him blankly, still lost in the drama of the moment.
"I said, give me the goddamn key!" Skinner snarls, and Nick snaps out of it and obeys. Skinner comes over to me and undoes the cuff.
"What is it with you and last minute rescues, anyway?" I hiss under my breath.
"Nag, nag, nag." He shakes his head. "Didn't your mom teach you any manners? Like when to say 'thank you,' maybe?"
I don't have a chance to reply because Saunders is coming over, a look of immense approval on his face.
"So, Mr. Skinner—you've turned out to be a worthy addition to our little circle." He smiles. "I do hope you enjoyed yourself this evening."
"Enjoyed…?" Skinner looks dumb-struck. Saunders nods—he's quite sincere.
"The roar of the Arena, the smell of the fight," he murmurs, his face almost orgasmic with pleasure. "There's nothing like it, is there?"
Skinner puts his glasses back on and nods thoughtfully.
"No. I can honestly say it's like nothing on this zhaiyuedu.com," he agrees with a sidelong glance at me that suggests he thinks that Saunders is definitely one french fry short of a Happy Meal.
"And of course you deserve your reward," Saunders grins. "I hope you still have some energy left to enjoy it, Mr. Skinner." He clicks his fingers and a troop of subs is ushered over. I recognize them as my various companions-of-the-post. "All yours," Saunders smiles. "You won them, fair and square."
"All of them?" Skinner casts his eyes over the little huddled crowd of be-jeaned slave boy specimens.
"That's right." Saunders grins.
"Don't even fucking think about it," I murmur to Skinner under my breath.
"Hmm," Skinner pauses and peers at the assembled subs with a show of interest, and I'm pretty close to landing another punch on him to add to the ones that he's already taken this evening. "I guess I'll have to take a rain-check," he says at last with a regretful sigh. "I think I've got my hands full with the sub I've already got. I don't need any more trouble."
"Wise move, boss," I mutter. "All right, guys—back to the pen or wherever you sleep. He's mine, and he doesn't want you, so get lost. Now!" They back off, startled by my tone, and I notice Skinner is starting to sway. "Come on." I take his arm and sling it around my shoulder.
