12/98
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o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o  	The 'Bookshelf collection' offers a very wide variety of  o
o  stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the  o
o  world.  Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups).   There is no  o
o  particular  order  other than offering them to you in  alpha-  o
o  betical directories.                                           o
o   	Lest we forget!!!   This story was produced as adult en-  o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors.   Kristen         o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

The Horsewomen - 9 (FF, f-beast)
a Love Story
by Jeanne de Stein

Nine parts posted separately. This is # 9
(this chapter in two parts due to re-mailer limitations)
Parts posted one every weekend to this group.

8. FINALE AND CODA
(second part)

     The storm broke without warning. Most of the women were out of camp,
hunting together. One of the scouts---it was Ipparki---galloped in, screaming at
the top of her voice that the Red Sisters were on the rampage, and approaching.
An infernal noise broke out, women ran in all directions and the males tried to
make themselves invisible. The women had scarcely time to arm themselves, find
their horses and form up before a ragged line of yelling riders appeared over
the
crest of the nearest ridge, waving lances.
      They were too many. Atossa screamed a command---for in battle all would
instinctively follow and obey her---arrows flew and two or three gaps appeared
in the line of the raiders. But still too many remained, and there was clearly
nothing to do except to roll with the punch. The defenders swung out on the
flanks, and the two battle lines dissolved in a series of individual duels.
Fallou stood as transfixed.  Then he saw one of the attackers and Aryana coming
toward
him with a noise like thunder, screeching and exchanging blows with lance-butt
and club. The sight tore him out of his trance, and he dived under a cart. The
horses flashed past but something big hit the ground with a thud. He raised his
head cautiously.
      It was the red woman. She was quite and unmistakably dead, her temple
crushed by a blow of Aryana's club. She was on her back, her unseeing eyes
looking into the sun. She was a sight: her head was shaved, and it, like most of
her completely naked body, was painted with red in strange
patterns. She was not tattooed. Her chin had fallen, making her look amazed---at
her own sudden demise, perhaps?---and Fallou could see that her teeth were
filed. In the distance, the screaming, the neighing of terrified horses and the
sound of hoofs died away.
      Fallou looked around. The only living thing to be seen was the dead
woman's horse. It must have been trained to remain with its rider, he thought,
for its normal behaviour would surely have been to follow the other galloping
animals. It was a nice roan mare, with simple tack, but a
fine spotted fur was strapped across her back and a bow in its case and a full
quiver hung by her side, with a large water-skin opposite. The only thing on the
dead woman's body was a knife, the sheath hanging by a thong around her neck.
      Without thinking, Fallou walked up to the horse. She shied a little at
first, then she calmed down and let him catch its single rein and tie it to a
cartwheel. There was still nobody near. Fallou looked at the dead woman again
and tried to remember what he had heard about her kind and their habits. They
were not nice. They kept female slaves, not males: captured males were tortured
to death and then eaten.
     Once, when Atossa had tied him on his back, which she still did
occasionally, she had wanted to spin out the foreplay, and she had told him
horror-stories about these terrible women. They used to crush the testicles of
their captives, like this. Atossa had demonstrated the method with two flat
cloth-beating sticks tied together at one end. She had not squeezed hard, just a
little, and he had not been seriously alarmed, knowing Atossa and her ways. He
felt completely safe with her, apart from the likelihood that she would inflict
pain on him, and that he accepted as a matter of course. But the thought of what
these strange women did had been terrifying; he knew that for a male, this was
the ultimate pain, and that it would be intensified by the horror of knowing
that he was being emasculated. He did not want this to happen to him.
      He looked at the horse. Something within him made a decision. He must save
himself. In a sudden hurry, he rushed into Atossa's empty tent and found a bag
of pemmican. He returned, took the dead woman's knife, mounted the horse and
trotted away, scanning the horizon suspiciously. Still without thinking, at
least consciously, he chose a direction that would take him to the coast.
      He rode with many pauses, keeping a sharp lookout and avoiding high
ground. He did not want to meet these she-devils again. He saw nobody. But as he
rode, he became conscious of his rings and his neck-iron and the dangling chain
again, in a new way; he had of course not been on
horseback since he left En-Tor's repulsive entourage. The experience made him
think of his life among the <B>horsewomen</B>, and of the women themselves. That time
had been a part of his life, and he had belonged among them. 
     What had become of them? Aryana had killed the woman whose horse he was now
riding, but what had happened to Atossa and Sarissa? Were they dead on the
ground, or wounded, or even worse, captives? And the rest of them---the sturdy
and merry Ariti, Ginesse who had been good to him and who was bound to him by a
common, unique memory, Silini with her hopes and ambitions, the frank and erect
Halanna, Atossa's daughter ... he even caught himself hoping that
Niki was safe and sound. She was a terrible brat, probably utterly rotten, and
still he recoiled from the thought of her body limp and dead in the grass,
mangled by hooves, smeared with blood. Would she ever make her Passage? Would
she ever go to Tarrati?
     He tried to think of his home instead, the white city by the sea, the dark
and cool house where he had been born in one of the high-ceilinged dark-panelled
rooms. Wryly, he thought that he was back were it all began, as if more than a
year of his life had simply vanished. He was on his way again. But then he felt
the rings anew, and his mind returned, against his will, to the women he knew
and had lived with, and been used by, and feared and loved, and his sorrow and
his feeling of loss were unreasonable, perhaps, but he could not drive them
away. In a sense, he would never be free again.
      He found a water-hole, watered the horse and drank his fill, in spite of
the evil taste of the bitter water. He had to save his own supply as long as
possible. Then he rode on slowly until the sun sank below the horizon like a red
hot iron ball and both the sky and the grasslands turned purple in the gathering
dusk. At last he paused and let his steed graze.
      He did not light a fire, but he chewed some pemmican. It grew darker, but
he was finding his night-eyes and he could see a little. There was a rock
outcrop close by; perhaps he should find out if anybody was bold enough use fire
this night? He climbed it with great caution; it would not do to break a leg.
     His heart stopped. Some distance away---it was difficult to judge how
far---a fire burned on the top of a hill. Whose fire? He weighed the situation
for a long time, but without conscious thought. Then he climbed down, armed
himself with the bow and the quiver and started a long, stealthy approach,
leading the horse. After half an hour or so, he felt it getting wind of
something, and did not dare bring it along further for fear that it might betray
him by a sudden
whinnying. The people around the fire might well be deadly enemies. He tied the
horse and continued alone, worrying about sentinels, but found none.
     He had arrived at the foot of the hill. Horses moved in the dark, but made
no sound. He could see but one human being, though there must be several around
the fire. She had been tied to the broken trunk of a dead tree. Was she one of
the Red Sisters? Then her captors would be his own
<B>horsewomen</B>. Should he then steal away and try to keep his new-won freedom? Or
was she one of his own ... Very cautiously, he crept forward on all fours.
Somebody rose in front of him, near the fire, a black silhouette, impossible to
identify. The captive woman started to sing, and he
recognised words, words of hate and defiance. So she was a woman of his own
Sisterhood. His hair stood on end, and he recognised her. It was Atossa.
      He must save her. Forgetful of his resolve to regain his freedom, he
continued his advance, crawling on his belly so as not to catch the light of the
fire. He hoped to the Nether Gods that his rings would not snag. In front of
him, the song rose to a savage crescendo. He raised his head: the enemy woman
was standing in front of Atossa. With one hand, she grasped one nipple and
pulled, with the other she plunged a narrow, shining object into and through her
aureole, piercing it. He shivered with the memory, but Atossa did not scream,
nor did her song of defiance falter.
The enemy woman pierced the other breast. Fallou was now so close that he could
see that there were two other women around the fire; both sat up now, their eyes
fixed on Atossa. A little closer ... it was an unfamiliar bow, and he was out of
practice. And then his hand touched human skin,
and a woman gasped and whispered: who's there? and he recognised Sarissa's
voice. He bade her to keep silent and got his knife out; he could feel that she
had been brutally tied with rawhide straps, crisscrossing her body, digging deep
into her flesh. Her arms were bound behind her back; he freed them, handed her
the knife and took store of the scene in front of him.
     Nobody had taken alarm. The standing woman returned to the fire, but her
eyes were blinded by the light and she did not see what had happened. She bent
down, took a firebrand and returned to Atossa. He must act. He rose on one knee,
drew the bow and shot her in the back. He heard the sound of the arrow hitting
and she toppled, coughing. Atossa fell suddenly silent.
     Where were the other two enemy women? One of them sprang to her feet,
screaming with rage, a bow in her hands and looking for her unseen adversary. He
loosed two arrows in quick succession and she froze, dropped her weapon and fell
to her knees, then down on all fours before rolling over on the ground. A sound
and a movement to one side caught his attention: the third woman was rushing
him, a knife in her hand. There was time for one arrow only, and she ducked and
was over him. He got one knee up, blocked her knife-arm and managed to get a
hold on her wrist. But her other hand caught his throat, and he could not remove
it. She was strong, and she thought of death only. She grew dim in front of his
eyes and he thought, Kakou; and then she collapsed all of a sudden on top of
him, blood gushing from her mouth.   He pushed her away. Sarissa stood over
them, knife in hand, and the blade was red to the hilt.
     He was weak with the shock, and his legs failed him, though he was
repeating the name Atossa, Atossa, over and over. But Sarissa cut Atossa loose,
put her on the ground and reached out to remove the two skewers from her
breasts.  Atossa shook her head and said hoarsely, don't. They will bleed to
much---let the wounds heal. Sarissa hesitated, but obeyed. Instead, she pulled
out a little box, and she treated the wounds with salve, just as Atossa had done
that time ages ago, under the shady tree where her horse grazed.
     Atossa made no sound. Fallou managed to rise and he stumbled over to her.
Sarissa was peering attentively into the night.
     There was nobody there. She checked that their foes were safely dead, then
she collected two bows and a supply of arrows, knives, cloaks, water-skins and a
lance. There was dried meat too, but Sarissa would not touch it. She told Fallou
to stand guard and disappeared in the dark, returning with two horses; Fallou
had told her that he had a mount of his own. They managed to get Atossa up on a
horse, wrapped in the cloak of one of the dead enemies, and departed at a
cautious walk, Fallou collecting his animal on the way. The place was decidedly
unhealthy. They left the fire burning so as not to alarm someone who might be
watching from afar.
     They rode in silence for several hours, the horses stumbling occasionally
in the gloom. The moon rose and improved the visibility, but did scarcely
increase the danger; it was not possible to see very far. With the moon nearly
overhead, they found a deep little canyon with fresh grass and low trees, and a
sound of running water. Here they should camp for the rest of the night, said
Sarissa, breaking her silence for the first time. Atossa nodded agreement but
seemed content to leave the decision to her lover. She seemed dazed by her close
escape.
      They made no fire, but rested very close to each other, rolled up in their
cloaks. Hesitantly, they began to sort out the events of the day. What were the
losses? Nobody was certain. Ariti and Silini had got away, it seemed, and maybe
Ginesse. Lykomaki was definitely dead: she had been seen going down in a swarm
of enemies, her head bashed in while she was knifing one of them between her
ribs, and leaving one other dead on the ground. Hakki had fled, doubled over the
back of her horse and with an arrow in her shoulder, but nobody knew if she was
dead or alive. The fight had continued after Sarissa had been struck down with
the shaft of a lance and Atossa had stayed to protect her, and they had been
taken captive after killing one adversary and wounding another badly. What had
become of the others?
     Nobody knew, but the attackers seemed to have had their hands full. And the
males? They might well be both dead and eaten. Fallou felt sick; little Mikrou
and the frank and guiltless Ippou deserved to live. It occurred to him that each
human being is an endless source of possibilities, of future choices, deeds,
words and songs, and that the loss of a life, even that of a slave, makes the
world of men poorer---and the world of women, too.
      Silence fell again. It was late in the night. Sarissa told Fallou to sleep
by Atossa and keep her warm; she would stand guard over them herself. Fallou
made her promise to wake him up after a couple of hours so that he might relieve
her. The last thing he saw was Sarissa's black shape against the stars.
     The moon was going down when he took the last watch of the night. Nothing
disturbing had happened. After a while, the sun rose; the horses shook
themselves and began to graze. Sarissa opened her eyes, stretched and scrambled
up to the rim of the canyon in order to check the surroundings. 
     Fallou followed her with his eyes, then he brought out the pemmican. He
found Atossa looking at him, gave her to eat and assured her that this was no
cannibal abomination, but
her own make. She grinned at him and ate; he was relieved to find her in such
good shape. When she sat up, the coarse red cloak fell away and Fallou could see
the outrage that had been committed on her breasts. She followed his gaze and
said: 'So now I am pierced too. Do you think I would look as good in rings as
you do?' He did not know what to make of the expression on her face.
      Later in the morning, they moved up to a little hillock above the rim of
the canyon. There were some large boulders there, and two or three low bushes,
so that they could keep a lookout without being seen. Both Sarissa and Atossa
agreed that they should not travel before nightfall. They would then try to
return to the camp in a roundabout way, if the enemies were gone, see what other
sisters had got away and try to pick up the pieces. Perhaps the Sisterhood could
recover from the blow. If not, they would call on the friendship and the oaths
of the Scithi Sisterhood further to the south and join them; later on, they
might be able to establish themselves as an independent sisterhood again.
     Then they both looked at Fallou. Atossa made a false start, shook her head
and said: 'Fallou, you saved us. It would not be right to deny you your freedom.
Go your own way, and may
the Guardian Ladies watch over you. But remember us, and do not forget that I
loved you.' And her savage face contorted, and she was silent.
      She had torn the lid off a sealed jar. Fallou was in a mental turmoil; all
his emotions and his thoughts of the previous day and night flashed past in a
jumble. Then they suddenly arranged themselves in the important and the
unimportant, without his conscious help, and he stuttered
and was incoherent, but managed to put over his conviction:  He would not
willingly abandon them. He loved them. He wished to share the danger with them,
serve them and adore them. The two women listened without gainsaying him. Then
Atossa said: 'But Fallou, you know that you cannot be our slave any more. I
would be happy to keep you, and I would regard you as a friend and lover, and so
would Sarissa too, I am sure. But you also know that any male amongst us
horsewomen must be treated as a slave, whoever he may be.  Would you accept
that, even if you knew of our love of you? Would you accept being walked on a
leash after my horse? Would you accept to cook and clean and gather food, and to
serve the other women when they want you? I know that you like Ariti and Silini
and Ginesse-- may the Ladies have saved them---but the old women, and those that
think that you are just a contemptible man-slave? Would you do that?'
And he answered, yes, yes, and yes. He would not shame them by behaving in a
manner improper to a slave. He just wanted to continue to belong to them.
      The women were silent for a while. Then Sarissa said, we may not be able
to return. There may be too many of the abominable women around. Then we may not
even be able to get to the Scithi camp, and we will die.
      Fallou followed a sudden impulse. Then they should follow him to the sea,
and his city. He was of a highly regarded and prosperous family; Atossa and
Sarissa would be his guests, and he would continue to love and honour them.
Atossa laughed, but not contemptuously. Were horsewomen not regarded as
she-savages by his people? Would they be tolerated as anything but his,
Fallou's, slaves? He insisted that whatever others thought of them, he would
continue to
love them; he did scarcely notice that Atossa had extended her hand and taken a
grip on his member, and that it responded. Yes, said she, but would he not be
obliged to treat them the way slave women were treated?
      Now it was Sarissa's turn to laugh. That would serve them right! The boot
would be on the other foot! They would have to obey him, or else... Atossa
joined in the argument, a curious glint in her eye. Horsewomen were an obstinate
breed. He would probably have to chain them, and give them a good whipping now
and then, to make them behave. Yes, he would whip them, and then he would
perhaps fetter them on his bed, by their wrists and ankles the way they had done
with him, and use them. Maybe that would be a good thing.  Perhaps they needed
chastising. And now that Atossa had been pierced, she should of course wear
rings, too. And what should be done to Sarissa? Rings and a chain, like Ippou's?
(And may the Ladies have saved him, too.)
      They fell silent and watched him. Suddenly, he became aware of Atossa's
caress and of his own erection. Atossa opened her cloak and rolled over on her
back without releasing him. She parted her legs. He should use her right now,
and she would find out what it was like to be a slave woman and a concubine.
That might help her to make her decision. Now, what was he waiting for? He would
please support himself on his elbows, so as not to press down on
her lacerated breasts, but she would have loved to feel his full weight. After
all, they had not fattened him unduly, had they? Yes, now she felt that being
his slave would be an acceptable fate. He was no wimp but a man a woman could be
proud to belong to, and to serve. She would probably be a difficult slave to
manage, and need lots of caning and whipping, but he knew that she could take
that. And Sarissa was just the same. But he would let them remain together,
and make love often to each other, would he not?
      He swore that he would be the most considerate, though stern, slave-owner
of all time. In a peculiar enclosure out of time, and space, he worked in and
out of her body, gazing down on her grotesque, beautiful face, and he knew that
she was serious. They would not be parted. They belonged to each other, utterly
and for ever. Whatever path lay before them, they would ride it together.
THE END