Mercy at the Coliseum - Sex Stories

Mercy at the Coliseum

I had always been told that prison cells were places where no one would want to end up, that they were incredibly unsanitary, littered with muck, mold and encrusted excrement that had slowly become one with the straw floor. The straw would be damp and you could feel bugs skittering between your toes, the only relief being to flick them off with your paws, but that could only last for as long as you kept your hind paws from slipping back into the insect abundant canopy bed. What they didn’t tell me, though, was that I would find myself in one, wanted for three counts of murder, before I even reached the age of twenty-five. Sure, there’s a grand story behind how I didn’t do it and I was innocent, but let’s face it, the courts didn’t care to listen to my side of it, so I doubt you will either. To be as concise as possible, I’ll just state that money can buy a lot of headway in the corrupt house of the law and I didn’t have much coin to keep myself from burning. The sentencing had been yesterday, the trial a week beforehand, and when I was informed that I had the choice of either death by bleeding out as each of my fingers and toes were cut off or to fight for my freedom and honor through duels in the Coliseum, I figured a quick death would be far less gruesome and miserable. I was then transferred to the Stonewall prison yard, the holding place for all slaves and prisoners doomed to die in front of thousands at the paws and blades of swift warriors. Here, my name would be ...

... announced before all in attendance before I would pick the weapon that would be my undoing. The rules were simple: the challenger, either being a slave, prisoner or brave and stupid nobody, chose the weapon they would fight with. Their opponent would equip themselves with the same and then mock them for a few minutes to the crowd’s delight before crushing their skull, breaking their bones, severing their spine, decapitating them…the list goes on. Suffice to say, they had many options of disposal in front of them. My first, and more than likely, my only fight, would happen tomorrow morning, just minutes after the first rays of the rising sun graced the sandy surface that would be my ultimate grave. I hissed as some bug bit one of my toes, shaking my foot in irritation. They liked to call this area of the prison, “the dead that hath breath” for we all knew we were going to die very soon. We were left with no light and only the most meager portions of food to sustain ourselves on. When my eyes had passed over the maggot ridden, rock hard bread and moldy cheese, my stomach revolted and I quickly threw it into a corner, refusing to eat such trash. Slender and lithe, I could have been a great warrior, but I had never practiced with anything but my bare paws, finding blades or shields to slow my speed down severely. I was graceful in combat and rather well trained in martial arts, but when I was told I would have to select a weapon from the table, I knew I was likely to have no chance. My ...