IN THE ARENA
Snuff/ gladiator/ rape 

    Tall and lithe, she was a blonde northern tribeswoman. Her long legs were shapely with well defined muscles. She had a flat belly under large firm breasts. A body made for pleasure but now learning the ways of the arena. A slave that committed the unpardonable sin of refusing her owners advances once too often and too vigorously. He grew tired of her stubborn defense of her lost virtue and had sent her to the training school to learn a new way of pleasing her betters. 
    In many ways it was almost a return to the days when she was still free and living in the forests of Gaul. The days were long and hard but there was a sprit of comradeship that had been missing in the slave quarters on the estate. Not friendship for that was a path to weakness and pain but rather a sense of sharing and common purpose. Every girl here knew she might be hurt or killed in one of the shows but the knowledge was suppressed by the common belief of youth that one will live forever. Still the knowledge helped bind them all together with a common bond. With her size, reach, and quickness she was being trained with the two knives. A style that demanded all of her abilities but one that also was a crowd pleaser. To see a naked girl armed with only two large knives fight against those armed with swords, shields, nets, tridents, and all the other weapons of the gladiator was to see a demonstration of skill and courage. 
    They had progressed to the point where they were now staging mock battles for larger and larger groups. Mostly those who owned them but there was also increasing numbers of others that came to the small arena at the school to watch. And it was worth watching, a score or more of young fit naked girls battling on the sand was fine entertainment. The red paint that passed for blood was real enough looking to incite the lust in the crowd and the acting abilities of the girls allowed the deaths to seem real enough to sate it. All in all it was a better life than she had when she was destined to be a bed toy for her master. 
    What she and the other girls failed to realize was that the weapons they used and the skills they learned were not proper. The balance was wrong, the techniques were flawed, and that it was intentional. Rebellious slaves could not be tolerated. But slaves were expensive and fine bed slaves even more so. What was an owner to do? To sell such a slave was just to pass the problem, besides bed slaves were not much good for other work. To kill one out of hand seemed a waste even if it was enjoyable at the time. The answer was to be found at the school. The shows more than returned the cost of the school and within a fairly short time the owners had recouped most of the costs of their slaves just from that source. But the big return would come in the arenas of the larger cities. While deaths were only to be expected on the sand the deaths of comely girls who fought nude was a guarantee of large crowds and good returns. 
     So the day came when it was time to travel. Of course the girls were excited. It was rumored that the governor would come to watch the show and for once the rumor was true. The stands were packed when the troupe paraded past his box seats. Oh it was exciting, each girl dreamed of being noticed and somehow winning the wooden sword that meant freedom. They had been lied to in this also, there was no hope of any of them ever even seeing the wooden sword. It was only awarded to those who had demonstrated skill and courage in the face of death and had done so in such a manner as to stand as gods of the arena. This show was nothing more than an execution dressed  up as something else. 
    That something was different became clear soon enough. The troupe did not follow the usual practice of staging a battle. Instead they spent time just demonstrating drills and showing basic skills. Then they were marched out and taken to a waiting area. There they were told that the governor wished to see such beauties perform in single combat and furthermore he wished matches against new opponents. Therefore each girl would go alone to the sand to fight and she would face an unknown adversary. The Gaul Girl as she was known was to be the last to fight as she was the centerpiece of the group. 
   So she sat and waited as one by one the others left. She could hear the crash and clatter of weapons and the noise of the crowd but could not see anything. Still it sounded like a good show and she was eager to display her prowess. It was a good show and the crowd loved it. Each girl entered the arena and marched around it once before presenting herself to the governor. He charged each one to fight bravely and to die well, a charge that most thought was just part of the show. They soon found that it was a deadly serious charge. Instead of facing another show girl each was matched against a real fighter carrying sharpened steel and intent on using it. And all were men, something that none had ever fought before. Needless to say the matches were short even as the men tried to spin them out into something more than a simple killing. Those that fought bravely were afforded a clean death, those that turned to run were hamstrung as they sought to run and then were gut stabbed and dragged off  to die slowly and in agony.
   Then it was her turn. She picked up her weapons and marched out into the bright sunlight to the wild cheers of the crowd. For she was a fine sight. The training had refined her body until it was perfection, the sun had tanned her skin and bleached her hair. She carried her knives and wore only forearm braces and grieves on her shins. She was a leopardess stalking her hunting ground. The charge from the great man washed over her and filled her with a passion to win. She would win the wooden sword and return to her forest home. 
    Her opponent entered to take his march and to present himself to the governor. He was large and strong. Light on his feet and armed only with a short sword and wearing even less than she was.  She might be a leopardess but he was a lion and she was on his ground. 
    Within the first few seconds she knew the truth. She was here to die. Her weapons were blunted, his was sharp enough to wound the wind. He easily blocked her attacks or just moved out of their way. All the moves she had so laboriously learned failed her. He was a trained killer, she was just someone acting out the part. His sword was a carefully balanced tool fit to his craftsman’s hand, her knives were blade heavy slow props meant for a play. 
    He allowed her to control the fight, holding his ground or backing slowly away as she tried desperately to find some way to survive. With proper weapons she might have had some glimmer of a chance. She was faster than he was but the betrayal of her knives slowed her too much. She actually had the reach on him but did not know how to use it. So she fought her doomed fight with just the courage of her bloodlines. 
    As the crowd cheered he changed tactics, no longer did he allow her to attack him freely. He had her measure now and sensed the crowd wanted more than just a dance. His first counterattack stunned her and had he wished he could have ended it there. But that was not the plan. Her owner had instructed him clearly as to what he wanted done to her. Now he taunted her with words as well as with blades and movement. She allowed herself to anger and her training was forgotten. A wild swing was met with the flat of his sword and the bone in her left forearm snapped. As she stood in shock and pain his blade licked out in two quick movements that left both breasts slashed and bloody. Somehow she pulled herself together and found the strength and will to continue the battle. Wounded and only half armed there was no chance she could win but the northern blood in her demanded that she not go quietly into the dark. The fierceness of her attack forced him back at first but his skill defended him and as she slowed he slashed her belly. Just a shallow cut it nevertheless would slow her still more. Another cut in her knife arm and one over her eyes left her almost helpless. It was time to finish it. 
    A fast strike broke her blade and as she stared dumbly at it he reversed his blade and drove the hilt into her gut. The unexpected blow dropped her to her knees and another to her jaw laid her out. The he was on her and before she could respond in her. She had noticed the stiff member pointing at her as they had fought but had not taken the time to realize what it meant. Now she was impaled on him and the arena rang with the cheers and jeers of the crowd. Her weak resistance was nothing as he rolled her over to enter her back hole. Her tears fell and dampened the sand. She was defeated and humiliated and would soon be dead. All her work and all the punishments were in vain. She was at last reduced to just the toy that she had fought to prevent herself from becoming. The warm spray in her bowels signaled his climax and she laid there waiting for the death blow. Instead he rolled her over and helped her to her feet. As she stood swaying he whispered to her, “Sword sister you fought well and I honor you for it. Now stand to receive your death blow with your head held high as befits a daughter of Frieda and the cold northern gods.”
    She managed a nod and forced herself to stand tall and to look him in the eye. The stroke was not long in coming. A fast thrust with the point entering her flat belly just above the mound on her sex. The sharp edge opened her up and as her guts began to spill onto the sand the point continued up to slide behind her ribs. As her heart was split in two by the steel he moved close to her and embraced her. He held her close as he watched the green eyes lose the fire and go blank. Her last thought as she died was how good the strong arms felt around her. Then nothing. He gently lowered her to the ground and without looking back walked away. Just another day in the arena.