He was the Champion of Liverpool. In the last two years four strapping Liverpool guys had tried to defeat him, and all four had ended up with his foot planted on their groins and his trident thrust into their chests. Steve�s four conquests - Lee, Sean, Jamie, Mickie - were now buried side by side in the gladiators� graveyard outside the Liverpool coliseum, each man�s gravestone bearing the epitaph "Defeated by Steve, Champion of Liverpool". There was nowhere for Steve�s victims to hide from the ignominy of defeat, not even in death.

Lee had been Steve�s first victim. He had been the long-reigning champion and was thought invincible. But reputations meant nothing to Steve. He had looked into Lee�s eyes, at his salt-and-pepper shoulder-long hair and puckered forehead, and had seen an ageing champion, ripe for slaughter. Lee�s notorious pronged mace had cracked many a skull, but it proved impotent against Steve�s swiftness on his feet and his fast work with net and trident. Steve had defeated Lee with the blow to the stomach that was to become his trade mark. Then with the champion helpless on his back, Steve had dispatched Lee with a knife to the throat. Sean, victim number two, had been a beautiful Anglo-Pakistani lad. He had fought Steve with an axe, but Sean�s dreams of carving a gaping wound in Steve�s neck had been dashed when Sean too received the three tell-tale wounds in the belly. Sean had collapsed on the sand on his front, and Steve had mounted astride his back, yanking up his head to present a full throat for his blade. "Goodnight, pretty boy!" he had whispered, before slicing Sean�s throat from ear to ear to the cheers of the crowd. Jamie had been his easiest conquest. A gangly, acned teenager, fighting with sword and shield. He had been easy meat. He had soon been enmeshed in the deadly embrace of Steve�s net. Steve recalled Jamie�s pathetic attempts to hack away at that net while Steve speared him with the trident, sending him to the ground and to his death. Mickie, a rough skinhead from Walton, his most recent opponent, had presented a much tougher challenge. The muscular swordsman had carved several wounds on Steve�s thigh. Spectators thought Steve had finally met his conqueror. But Steve had tripped up Mickie�s feet with his skillful use of the net, and once the skinhead was helpless, writhing about on the sand, it was easy to inflict the three gaping stomach wounds that would earn him the thumbs-down and death. Yes, he had enjoyed slitting the throat of this most dangerous challenger.

Already a fifth grave had been dug - for the vanquished of tonight�s combat. Steve licked his lips at the thought of adding a fifth gravestone to his glorious tally.

Tonight he was to fight another challenger, a gladiator from Dublin, a secutor called Desmond. Steve hoped that the defeat of an Irish gladiator would be the first step in his campaign to become European gladiatorial champion.

Desmond entered the Arena. Slightly shorter, more muscular, red-headed, freckled and hairy, the Irishman wanted to take the life of the handsome English blond. He held strongly in his hands his sword and his shield. Desmond too wore a loincloth and it was as easy to detect his massive erection as it was to detect Steve�s. Both the Irishman and the Englishman were highly excited by this fight to the death, a fight only one male could survive. Steve looked at Desmond�s chest, broad and hairy. A nice, big target for the deadly prongs of Steve�s trident. Steve longed to see the three bleeding wounds on that chest which would make him victorious. He lusted to plant his foot on Desmond�s cock having won this latest virility contest. He remembered the sights of his four defeated hunks being dragged from the Arena by their bare feet and lusted to see Desmond dragged feet first too as the crowd acknowledged yet another victory for their Champion.

A horn sounded and the fight began. Steve circled his prey. He was a master of the weighted net. He flung it to enmesh Desmond. But the Irishman was fast on his feet. He managed to avoid Steve�s thrust, and the net fell impotently to the sand.

Now it was Desmond�s turn to grin.

"Not so cocky without your net, eh, �Champion�? Death is near!"

"Yes," snapped back Steve, "YOUR death!"

Steve advanced menacingly with the trident. He had not given up hope of regaining his net from the floor of the Arena, but first he must wound Desmond.

He tried for Desmond�s broad chest, but Desmond intervened with his sword. It turned into a trial of strength, as each gladiator tried to penetrate the other�s defences. And it looked as if the Irish guy was losing this trial of strength, as the trident advanced nearer and nearer his vulnerable naked flesh. Steve�s feet advanced as Desmond�s feet retreated. It looked like the Irishman was losing the fight to the death. Desmond�s face was lined with the contortions of a man trying desperately to stave off an opponent of superior strength. The crowd were already predicting another magnificent kill for their Champion.

Steve lunged with one more ferocious blow. But in a brilliant move Desmond ducked with lightening speed, so that Steve�s trident was lunging into thin air. Then Desmond slashed his sword into Steve�s stomach, a long, horizontal wound. The Liverpudlian crowd gave a collective horrified gasp. The thin line of blood began to emerge, and then blood started to trickle from the wound down Steve�s stomach towards his loincloth. The crowd could see Steve clench his teeth and clench his toes in agony, but this was not the agony of defeat. Steve was not finished yet.

"First blood to me, Steve, now it�s TIME TO DIE!" sneered Desmond.

"No way, Desmond. You�ll be joining my other conquests in the graveyard!"

Aggressively, Steve plunged his trident again, and the bottom-most prong stabbed Desmond just below his shoulder. But Steve, wanting to deepen the wound, failed to remove the prong quickly enough. It was to be a fatal mistake. Momentarily the two men were locked together. Grimacing in agony, the brave Irishman aimed low with his sword, stabbing Steve�s thigh, slashing a vein, a deep, bleeding, slash. They stood there, frozen, Steve�s trident penetrating Desmond�s shoulder, Desmond�s sword penetrating Steve�s thigh. But the wound to Steve�s thigh was the wound that had the potential to devastate. With a manly grunt of satisfaction the Irish gladiator pushed the blade deeper, smiling with satisfaction.

Blood gushed out of his thigh, drizzling freely down his leg and foot. A retiarius robbed of his agility is dead meat. Steve tried to limp away but the grinning Desmond viciously exploited his foe�s new weakness. Within moments Steve�s thigh wound had been joined by two others on his stomach. Finally, Desmond slashed cruelly at his wrists, forcing him to relinquish his trident, which fell to the ground.

There was an eerie silence in the Arena. The crowd knew that Desmond had defeated their man. All that remained was Steve�s death.

Steve knew it was all over. Slowly, the feared Champion sank to the feet of his conqueror. Desmond placed his foot on Steve�s shoulder and pushed him forward, knocking Steve onto his back. Then he planted his foot victoriously on Steve�s pulsating loincloth. The bested Englishman knew the game was up. He placed his hands softly and submissively on Desmond�s foot. With his foot sandwiched between Steve�s conquered cock and surrendering hand, the victor curled his toes around Steve�s penis slimy with cum, raising his arms in victory pose. What a victory, to have a long-standing Champion admit defeat to him in this way.

In this Arena of Death, the outcome was a matter for the victor. He would decide whether his conquered foe lived or died. Desmond was in no mood for mercy. He had come to England for a kill, he would get a kill. He teasingly jiggered his thumb up and down, only to point it decisively down.

"Steve. I have defeated you. The defeated gladiator must die, no matter who he is."

Desmond removed his foot and allowed the Liverpudlian to get to his knees. Steve knew how to die like a gladiator. The victor stood before his vanquished foe, his powerful legs and feet wide apart. Steve knelt on one knee, his foot thrust out, the edge of his bare foot just touching the edge of his conqueror�s foot. With gladiatorial nobility, Steve bravely swelled out his chest to receive Desmond�s death-stroke. Desmond thrust the sword straight into Steve�s left pec, straight into his heart muscle. With a groan Steve collapsed in death. Desmond could see Steve�s erection slowly turn to limpness while his own cock remained massively erect in victory-thrill. In the end the most virile male had been Desmond.

As Steve was dragged out feet first, Desmond - ecstatic at having defeated the Champion - raised his strong, thick, muscular arms in victory pose. He grinned broadly at the thought of the fifth grave now being filled with Steve�s corpse. He grinned at the thought of that final gravestone recording forever the crushing defeat of a great Champion.