Narella fights a Gladiator
By TheSword
Gant faces Narella in the Arena and dies on her sword


The following should not be read by those under eighteen, those who
do not want to read about violence and sex and those squemish about
death by the sword.
The description of an unusual gladiatorial fight might be termed
fantasy in the twentieth century but remember that it was actually
happening once. Gladiators did exist and many of them were not
forced to fight but some deep urge made them want to. This even
applied to women. The organised matching of willing combatants
putting their lives in jeopardy for the thrill of the fight was surely
more acceptable than forcing slaves and prisoners to an unequal fight
and slaughter.
Human nature has not changed that much in two thousand years,
there are still those keen to fight and even more wanting to watch.
The proliferation of violence on TV and in films is surely an
indicator of this. Guns and explosions seem to be the modern method
of killing - known as distance weapons, these are for ungallant and
indiscriminate killers. How much better to face your opponent in
hand to hand combat where skill and stamina count and the best man,
or woman, can win. And don't think carnage is only possible with
guns;  in 216BC Hannibal killed 60,000 Romans in one battle with
swords and spears!


GANT MEETS NARELLA AT TEGEA

The veteran gladiator stepped out into the arena to the applause of
the crowd. Gant had lost count of how many opponents he had
defeated in the past twelve months but he could remember killing at
least fifteen. He could have had his freedom but he preferred the life
of training, fighting and killing with the ever-present chance of being
killed himself. The crowd cheer as he removes his cloak to expose
his heavily-muscled, two hundred and fifty pound body. Dressed
only in boots, jock, forearm protection and helmet, his sword at his
hip, he makes a formidable sight. Opponents who assume he is
muscle-bound and slow soon realise how fast he is, usually at the
cost of their lives.
The gladiator knew he was facing a female today. He had done so
before - the crowds seemed to like the unmatched game of cat and
mouse and, if she lived long enough, the victims rape. He didn't
relish killing defenceless women, it was just part of his job, so he
made it as quick and painless as possible. He would have liked to
have met a worthy female opponent but today looked just another
routine day, or so he thought.
The door opens at the other end of the arena and a tall figure in a
short cloak emerges. At first the gladiator only notices her six foot
plus height, the calf muscles spilling over the top of her boots, a
massive tear-drop of quad muscle revealed below the cloak which
obscures what is obviously an athletic body. Then his eyes move to
the fair hair tied back from a face that was not beautiful but
nevertheless attractive, despite an old scar running across one cheek.
Finally he sees her eyes; blue eyes that are as cold as ice and that
don't show the usual fear.
The crowd go wild as she slips off her cloak to reveal a stunningly
muscled body. Wearing boots, leather G-string, wide leather belt,
chainmail sleeve on her left arm and helmet she flexes her enormous
biceps. Large pecs push forward her small but firm breasts, wide lats
taper to her narrow waist, lumps of muscle make up her abdominals.
Old and fresh scars run across her flanks, chest and stomach -
reminders of the hard fights she has won. Only twenty pounds lighter
than the male gladiator she is probably the stronger and certainly the
faster. Today's fight was not going to be routine and one-sided; the
gladiator was face to face with the legendary Narella.

As they faced each other waiting for the command to fight the
arousal in each was obvious; the gladiators shaft was rock-hard in his
jock, Narella's nipples were erect and she could feel dampness
between her legs. She was often matched against other weaker
women or men who were half her size. She killed them but felt no
satisfaction in the one-sided fight. Today she was going to have a
real fight on her hands and her muscular body trembles in
anticipation.

The word is given for the fight to begin.

The two gladiators circle each other cautiously, muscles tense,
swords held ready, sizing each other up. Gant makes the first strike,
moving in with a powerful blow aimed at Narella's neck which she
parries with disconcerting ease before bringing back her heavy sword
for a swipe of her own. Gant stops it but is surprised by the power
behind it, greater than most males he has fought.
The onslaught of the woman gladiator is merciless and Gant finds
himself almost entirely on the defensive. The two gladiators thrust
and parry, feint, lock swords. Gants extra weight helps him very little
as he finds Narella so strong and fast but he takes advantage of it
whenever he can. The fight has gone on for ten minutes and both
gladiators have received superficial wounds; Narella a stab to one
side of her lower abdomen, Gant has a cut to his leg and forearm. He
finds himself tiring and is pleased to see that Narella is as well.
Defending himself against a feint he lets out a cry as Narella's sword
thrust catches him low in the stomach and a grip like iron grabs the
wrist of his sword arm. He drops his sword as Narella pushes all
three foot of her blade through him and he feels the blade erupt from
his back. They stand for a moment their sweating, oiled bodies
straining before she pulls and  hears the satisfying gurgle of blood as
her sword slides out. Letting him go she shoves him to the ground
and puts the razor-tip of her sword on his chest just below his large
left pectoral. She could finish him now but she's only just started on
this one. She pushes the sword in between his ribs hard enough to cut
skin and Gant tenses, waiting for the pain as the steel is thrust into
him but she is only playing with him and pulls it out again. Gant is
mortally wounded, his intestines sliced and poisoning his
bloodstream but he still has fight left in him. Recovering he gets up,
favouring his damaged abdominals and back muscles, retrieves his
sword and faces Narella who looks amused. Desperately he goes on
the offensive and catches her unawares and a swipe to her sword arm
is deflected too late slicing into her right obliques, nicking her
biceps. She involuntarily drops her sword and with a cry of rage
grabs Gant's sword arm at the wrist. He feels as if it's been locked in
a vice as his hand quickly goes numb with the power of her grip and
he drops his sword. She then gets him in a bear hug, her long arms
fitting neatly around Gant's massive chest and gradually increases the
pressure. Her grip slips on his oiled body and he throws her to the
ground and lands on top of her. Quickly she gets her legs round him
and squeezes. Her twenty seven inch quads bulge with the pressure.
He resists for a while but then a rib cracks and the incredible
pressure forces blood and fluids from his damaged abdomen. Narella
judges the moment just before he would pass out and releases him.

It's the first time in this arena that a woman has beaten a male
gladiator but then it's the first time this arena has seen a woman
gladiator rather than a defenceless female. It is also going to be the
first time that the male gets raped. When she's not training or fighting
Narella likes sex, lots of sex, preferably three or four times a day,
and has no trouble finding a male with the same idea. She can
actually be very gentle and it only takes her chosen man a day or two
to recover. Today she hasn't had sex yet and her victory has really
turned her on, her nipples are almost painfully erect and she can feel
her juices trickling down the inside of her muscular thighs. She
decides that Gant is going to get a taste of his own medicine and only
after he's emptied all his cum deep inside her will she kill him.

The crowd, already wild, go berserk as Narella strips off her G-string
and begins rubbing her clit. Despite his mortal wound Gant has not
lost too much blood yet and his erection stiffens as he watches her.
She is certainly the most magnificent women he has ever seen. She
stands over him tall and muscular, her wet pussy swelling and he can
see her large, erect clit.
"Thought you'd be doing the raping and killing today, big boy?"
Gant can only groan as she rips off his damp and bloodied jock to
expose his rock-hard shaft which she grips in her vice-like grip.
"Not when Narella's about, sweetie. She's going to rape you - then
kill you"
Sitting astride him he lets out a cry of pain.
"That stab wound hurting then, big boy? What's the matter, it's only a
fatal sword wound. I'll try and keep my weight off if you like.
Perhaps it'll help if I sit on this"
Gant lets out another moan as she slides her dripping cunt onto his
penis riding it deep into her velvety vagina. He suddenly feels the
vice-like grip of her vaginal muscles as she tightens them on his shaft
and starts to move herself up and down in powerful thrusts.
"Feel my nipples, lover boy"
He does as he's told. He only dealt out pain, fear and death to his
victims, this woman warrior deals out pain, fear, death and heaven
together.
"Harder, wimp"
She gasps with pleasure as he grinds her tits against her massive
pectoral muscles. She feels his large rod filling her as her internal
muscles grip and coax it, juices drip and every muscle pumps and
relaxes in rythymic power as her world is filled by the sensations in
her body.
With a loud cry her massive muscles go rigid, then convulse as she
orgasms. The shattering experience of having two hundred and
twenty pounds of muscular, orgasming female sitting on him makes
the dying gladiator come with deep thrusting spurts. Ignoring the
pain in his abdomen he thrusts and squeezes until he feels his
scrotum dry up.
Narella finishes her orgasm, calmly reaches for her sword, places the
tip on Gant's chest and this time drives the razor-sharp steel right
through him and deep into the sand. He clutches at the blade with
both hands as his whole body goes rigid, the last of his spunk spurts
deep into Narella as he goes limp. She slides off his shrinking penis,
stands, dripping spunk and juices and watches his dying convulsions;
muscles twitching, legs kicking and blood frothing from his mouth.

She puts her G-string back on, tightens the belt, pulls her sword from
Gants chest and does a victory run round the arena to loud shouting
from the crowd who've never seen anything like her before.
Narella quickly feels tired as blood drips from her wounds, running
down her leg to fill her boot. The gash to her side has not begun
hurting yet but she can feel a stiffness in the small abdominal stab-
wound and her bicep. She leaves the arena to get her latest wounds
patched up; forty stitches to add to her collection. It will be two
weeks before she can even begin to train again and another two
months before she is fit enough to fight. It is not the first time that
her wounds have stopped her fighting but she still gets frustrated,
longing for her next fight.