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 - 1 (FF, f-beast)
a Love Story
by Jeanne de Stein

Nine parts posted separately. This is # 1
Parts posted one every weekend to this group.

1. THE CAPTURE

He ran, without knowing why. He knew that he was lost. They
were mounted, he was on foot. They could have taken him
anytime, but they were probably playing him, the way you
play a fish on a hook.
   Why, by the Nether Gods, had he been dumb enough to try
to cross the Grasslands? Especially on foot? Out here, he
was helpless. He should have found a way through the forest
instead. It might have taken him two weeks, three weeks, but
so what? He would have made it. But now ... he tried not to
think of what lay in store for him.
   Instead, he ran. Not that it would change the outcome;
but there are times when reason is not applicable. His
breath seared his throat, his lungs fought for air and his
legs were growing ever heavier. Still, he ran, while the
horizon rocked slowly in front of him and the ochre grass
grew fuzzy.
   The Coastlands and the Marches were alive with the
rumours of what the Horsewomen did to the males that fell
into their hands. If you were lucky, they knifed you before
cutting off your member for a trophy, but you could just as
well be out of luck. Those who screamed were sometimes
silenced by having their testicles thrust down their
throats. If you were really out of luck, you would be
spared for the moment, only to be slowly tortured to death
later, for the amusement of the sisterhood. These women were
said to delight in torturing males. Even staying with the
Lord En-Tor and accepting your punishment for
insubordination would have been better. At least, he would
have stayed alive---presumably.
   They were close now. He could hear the sound of hooves,
hear the pursuers yelling in their harsh voices, like birds
of prey on the wing. There were other stories of course,
about how captive males were used, yarns that had been spun
with delight mixed with horror. It was known that the
horsewomen kept male slaves, too. But just now these stories
lacked credibility. Therefore he kept running in a gathering
red mist.
   The ground was rising in front of him, and the horizon
closed in. He felt his legs wobble. Near the top of the
little rise---it was not six feet high---they folded under
him and that was the end of it. The ground reeled under him.
The grass was dry and coarse and tasted of dust, a bitter
mineral taste. He heard the rumble of thunder coming up
close; or was it the hoofs?
   He stayed face down, desperately clutching at the grass
that stung his skin, waiting for the cold steel between his
shoulderblades. He would have preferred to meet them
standing, but his body deserted him. Now he felt a knee in
the small of his back; he froze but caught a glimpse of a
leather boot, and further away the other horsewoman,
mounted, black against the sun and with a lance pointing in
his direction. He fought desperately for air. The woman
behind his back yelped a command and gripped him above both
elbows. He felt her strap his arms together behind his back,
very hard, very close to each other, and his face was again
ground into the warm, bitter dust. His brain seemed to have
ceased to function; his wits had deserted him completely.
   She rose and nudged him between his ribs with the toe of
her boot. Again she yelped; groaning, he rolled over and saw
her as a shadow above him. Her foot against his shoulder,
she pushed him down and tore off his loincloth. The mounted
woman barked and they laughed, both of them. A knife
flashed. His belly muscles contracted, but the dismounted
woman put the blade between her teeth, and in her hands she
held a long lariat-strap of rawhide. Then the knee again,
and roughly, roughly the strap was tied around his testicle
bag. Her hands were hard and purposeful and awakened no
response in him. She jerked the lariat---no misunderstanding
on his part was possible-- and she rose, standing over him
with her hands on her hips, dark against the dark blue
dry-season sky.
   So they would not kill him at once. The only thing he
could do was to obey them and bide his time. Perhaps an
opportunity to escape would offer itself, if only the two
horsewomen would grow careless. His eyes were working better
now, though his throat was still hurting and his heart
thumped; he could discern the women clearly. He had never
seen horsewomen before. They were naked like
thrall-women---well, nearly---but they had no masters, that
he knew. The mounted one, with the feathered lance that was
still pointing at him, was older than the woman who had
captured him. The young one had a quiver on her back, the
strap tight between her breasts, the older one a
rawhidelariat with a eye made of bone, looped across her
shoulders. The older horse witch wore her straight,
raven-black hair in a topknot slightly to the side of her
head, the young one had gathered it in the same place but in
a waving plume. Both wore necklaces of animal fangs on
strings.Their only real article of clothing was a crotch
clout. From their broad belts, decorated with cowrie shells,
hung pouches, ivory cases, knives with fringed sheaths and
carved bone handles and the straps that held the
crotch-length soft boots, also embellished with fringes and
lines of cowries.
   But the most striking thing was not their nakedness or
their strange outfits but their tattoos. The dark blue
patterns began at the hairline, changed their faces into
cruel tiger masks, covered their arms and bodies and
continued into the tops of their boots. Even the nipples of
the young one were tattooed. The right breast was completely
covered by a whirling pattern, on the left one the skin
shone untouched between the starry rosette of the aureole
and the ornaments of her chest, where birds and beasts
seemed to be tearing each other to pieces among swirling
lines and tatters of blue-black ornament. The older one was
so dark of skin that her patterns were difficult to discern.
The impression of unbridled savagery was overwhelming. If
the rumours were only half true, the impression would be
correct.
   Their horses were shaggy, with long manes and tails. The
women rode with wooden stirrups and with furs over their
saddles; when the hand-horse walked past he could see the
bow in its case by the saddle. They seemed to use no other
rein than a strap around the lower jaw of the horse.
   The young one was jerking at the lariat again, pulling
him to his knees. The horizon was still unsteady, and he was
not getting enough air. An inner voice told him though, very
insistently, that he must not make these strange women
impatient. Submissively, he tried to rise, but got only to
his knees, reeling. Now the woman was holding a leather
flask. With her other hand she grasped his hair, with her
teeth she pulled the plug and then she stuck the neck of the
bottle into his mouth. It was water. It had a stale leathery
taste, but it was life. He shook his head and he regained
his feet, reeling. More water? He shook his head again, but
gratefully, hoping that his emotion was showing. What more
did he need? Freedom? Just keeping alive, perhaps.
   The young one mounted her horse. She paid out enough
lariat so that he could march behind her horse, and started
out in an easterly direction at a walk. The older one
brought up the rear with her lance nonchalantly balanced
across the withers of the horse. What could a prisoner do,
on foot, his hands tied behind his back and towed by his
balls? They rode slowly, fortunately.
   He felt dejected, as if walls had suddenly closed around
him. He hadbriefly tasted freedom, and now it was gone. The
sunlight and the sky had lost their sparkle. His limbs felt
heavy, and there was a metallic taste in his mouth. Was it
real, or was it the taste of captivity? The water had
helped, however. He felt stronger, and soon he no longer
experienced that stinging sensation in his back when he was
thinking of the lance point. The woman in front kept the
strap taut, however. He trotted along, his eyes fixed on
her. They followed the back of her head with the tightly
gathered hair, the slender but strong neck, where the
pattern lines of her tattoos ran from her cheeks down to the
muscular back; her shoulders, broad for a woman, her narrow
waist and curving hips. Her buttocks rested in the
saddle-fur but her thighs were hidden by the boots. Without
noticing the change, he was starting to see her as a woman,
not only as a mounted she-savage. She would have been comely
without her strange body decoration and in proper dress---or
completely naked, for that matter.
   What sort of woman would she be, this being out of a tale
only half believed, a story out of the plains that had given
birth to so many legends? Was she a merciless killer, or an
equally merciless user of male flesh, as some would have
it---or was there some trace in her of humanity (whatever
that might mean), or even of womanhood as he had known and
appreciated it? She would not be soft and submissive, of
course. Mastering her would be like taming a wild animal.
Still, in spite of her fierceness, she would be good to
touch, good to bed.
   It was perhaps idle thoughts like these; perhaps it was
the sight of her shameless nakedness---he was used to seeing
civilized women, well protected from unchaste eyes --or the
constant pull of the strap around his testicles, but after
about one hour's march he had a respectable hard-on. When he
became aware of it, he was terrified: would his guards
discover it and be offended? On no account did he want to
arouse their ire, now that he was completely in their power.
   He did not escape his fate however. The young one looked
behind herself, saw his impudent erection and reined in her
horse. His heartbeat came to a dead stop. But a grin cleaved
her grotesque mask, and she called to her companion, who
came up alongside them, thrust her lance into the turf,
jumped off her horse and stood close to him; the corners of
her eyes wrinkled merrily. Unceremoniously, she gripped his
shoulder with one hand and his member with the other, while
she exchanged comments with her companion.  To his
amazement, he felt himself grow even stiffer. How could this
horse-witch make him horny, in spite of the fear that he
felt of her (he admitted this to himself: when she laid her
hand upon him, only his stiffness had saved him from pissing
out of sheer terror). The young horsewoman put a question to
the old one; the witch laughed and shook her head. She
mounted her pony again and the caravan moved on. But for a
long time, the two women continued to crack jokes about him
and laugh loudly and without restraint, and he could only
guess at what they were saying.
   They travelled slowly and with many pauses while the sun
drifted west. Near the evening, when the shadows were long
and the sunlight was an orange glow suffusing the world,
carrying only a memory of the searing heat of the day, the
ground began to sink ahead of them and look greener. Bushes
were growing in denser clumps now, and a little later, they
became sparse trees; the steppe had changed into park-like
savanna. They were now following a clearly visible track,
running alongside a skittish little brook bordered by green
foliage. The track rounded a rocky knoll where the boulders
seemed to have been shattered like skulls by a giant's axe
in ages past. Behind it, the brook tumbled noisily into a
little pond edged by gravel and small stones, and there were
sheltering walls of stone and a hut or rather a windbreak,
open to the south, of loosely piled rock and with a simple
ridged grass roof held down by more stones. Here they
halted.
   The women did not take the trouble to tether him. He
could not hope to escape anyway, with his arms immobilised
and without a horse. They busied themselves with the horses,
which were hobbled with straps around their front legs, and
then put out to graze on their own. The water-skins were
filled. The older woman made a fire and fetched water in a
leather pail. A bronze kettle was lifted from its hook under
the ridgepole and put on the fire.
   Now he could have a closer look at them. The young one
might be twenty or a little more---it was not easy to judge
the age of a woman of such strange aspect. Her skin under
the tattoos was olive brown, smooth over firm muscles; she
was very erect and walked with a nonchalant swagger that he
had hitherto seen only in men---and only in the strongest
and most self-assured among them. The older one was even
more difficult to assess, but she had a few grey hairs in
among the black. None of them had an ounce of superfluous
fat on their bodies, but while the young witch was made up
entirely of muscle, the older one seemed to have been
braided, knotted and twisted out of bundles of rawhide. Both
had small, pointed breasts, the young one's firmer, but the
older woman's were still springy.
    What did their faces look like behind their bestial
masks? His first impression was that they were outlandishly
ugly. They had slightly sloping foreheads, long prominent
noses (the older one's boldly hooked), high cheekbones,
broad mouths and receding chins. In the face of the older
woman,wind and sun had wrinkled the skin around her eyes,
and decisiveness and cruelty were written around the corners
of her mouth. Both of them had peculiarly light brown,
nearly yellow eyes, like animals. But boldness and power
shone like an aura around them. They moved like lionesses,
and suddenly he saw that, though abominable, they were
beautiful.
    The young witch rested her quiver against the saddle, by
the wall, and without embarrassment she took off what little
she had on. He tried not to show that he was stealing a
look. With the aid of her teeth she untied the left arm's
leather bowstring guard, unhooked the bronze buckle of her
belt and stepped out of her boots. Her tattoos continued
down to her toes. Then the crotch-clout, and she was naked,
apart from the necklace. Without condescending to give the
captive a look, she walked into the water-hole up to her
hips and washed with visible pleasure. When she emerged from
the water, she shook herself like a wet dog, shedding water
in all directions while she passed close by her captive. Now
she stopped and looked at him, covered with sweat and dust
as he was. Then she smiled---inscrutably, but still a
smile---picked up the strap and led him into the water.
    It was cool and refreshing; the bottom of gravel and
stone was firm. She was quite considerate: she made him sit
down and she washed his face and shoulders; she stood him up
and rubbed him clean with her hands. Now they had the older
witch for company, just as naked as they were, and she
scrubbed his back and behind while the young one washed his
member andballs carefully. She was very close now; while her
companion washed, she grasped his shoulders and rubbed
herself against him. Though he was tiredand cold, her touch
lit a spark of lust inside him. Her face was very close to
his, but he could not bring himself to look into her
eyes---perhaps he should avoid doing that and try to look
completely subdued. Instead he looked past her and saw the
older horsewoman, her arms raised while she gathered her wet
hair; and to his amazement, she too fanned that spark. What
could make him lust for women such as these?
   Back on dry ground, the red sun was still giving off a
feeble warmth, but he started to shake. He felt desperately
tired. They rubbed him dry with a bundle of hay, as if he
had been a horse, and put a coarsely woven riding cloak
around him. When his shaking had ceased, they stood quietly
watching him. The young one caught his eye, laid her hand
between her breasts and said: --Sarissa. Then she indicated
her companion and gave her a name too: --Atossa.
   It was an introduction. Of all the things that had
happened to him since his capture, nothing had reassured him
more than this simple act of communication. You do not
formally introduce yourself to somebody you intend to
torture to death. He told his own name but got shakes of
heads andtwo indulgent laughs for an answer. Ha ha! Androu!
Androu! Were males not allowed names in their world?
   They rested around the fire. He was beginning to feel
warm again, and more at ease. Slowly, strength was returning
to him. The women, who had dressed again (if one may call it
that) gave him to drink and fed him strips of dried meat,
boiled with herbs. His arms were still tied very
uncomfortably together and they had not taken the trouble to
remove the bag-strap either, but the fire gave comfort, the
sight of female bodies was somehow comforting too, and the
behaviour of the two women was not in the least alarming.
Sarissa and Atossa talked softly between them; now and then
they glanced at him with a mischievous look in their faces.
By and by, they grew exhilarated. They laughed between them,
sat down on both sides of him and pushed him over, felt and
squeezed him.
   Soon, they were caressing him. He was resting in an
uncomfortable position, his back arched and his hips high as
his arms were tied under him. Still, he felt it prudent to
accept this. The two women set to work in earnest. They were
good, even the young Sarissa seemed to know exactly how to
make a male randy. An unreasonable but uncontrollable fear
of what their hands would do to him, when they got down to
business, possessed him at first. When finally this fear had
abated, his real excitement began. He banished all thought
of what would become of him and thought of the present only.
He groaned with pleasure while Sarissa pulled the skin of
his member up and down. Atossa tickled, pulled, wrenched,
pinched and bit his nipples. She hurt him, but curiously
enough, the pain increased his randiness instead of
quenching it. They both observed him carefully: obviously,
they did not want to lose control of him.
   Atossa departed but returned with an oblong object made
out of horn, in the shape of a thick male organ. He looked
at it in dumb horror. He had begun to expect a pleasant
night; had he misjudged the situation completely? Gesturing
at their knifes, the women had him lie face down across
Atossa's saddle. He knew better than trying to resist; after
all, torture and death were not quite the same thing.
Torture could be worse than death itself: he had seen this
himself, and this fact was the very foundation of Lord
En-Tor's rule. But it could also be a temporary horror,
possible to survive. Atossa gave him a last shove, and then
she put the tip of the unspeakable instrument to his anus.
Then, slowly but inexorably she pushed the rod into him,
impaling him. It hurt him, but he would not reward them with
more than a groan, in spite of his fear. This seemed to be
all that they required, however. Atossa pushed and turned
the tool; when he felt it moving inside him, a warm
sensation spread across his crotch and reach his sex in
spite of the pain. Again, his member stiffened.
   But his suspicion was aroused again when Sarissa hammered
down four tethering stakes into the floor of the hut with a
stone maul. Now they released his arms, but Atossa stood
erect with her hand on the knife: no, he was not going to
provoke her. Moving clumsily because of the rod, he suffered
Sarissa to turn him on his back and tie his wrists to two of
the stakes, then his ankles to the other two. The straps
were pulled taut, and he was utterly helpless. He was
telling himself again and again that nothing in their
behaviour threatened actual death or mutilation ... at least
he tried to convince himself that it was so. Fear and
excitement were struggling for his attention; excitement
won. Then the two  witches started their game anew. They
threw off their crotch-clouts and were naked again, except
for their belts and boots. They met, kissed avidly, sucked
each other's breasts and stuck their hands into each other's
sex in a rising fury. Panting, they rubbed their bodies
against each other. Nothing had prepared him to believe that
these women would actually make love to each other. With the
usual smugness of the male, he had believed---and nothing in
the tales of the plains had suggested otherwise---that the
horsewomen had to rely on males exclusively for their sexual
pleasure. That this was not so was a deeply disturbing
thought, but at least, they did seem interested in him in
his capacity as a male. He was so fascinated with the
spectacle of the two furies in front of him that the thought
never occurred to him that his virility might desert him.
   Finally, Atossa disengaged; she crawled all over her
prisoner, straddled him and rubbed him with her wet vulva.
Soon she was sitting on his face, and his mouth and nose
were enclosed by her labia. She had a wild smell in spite of
her bath. He saw her body in a grotesque but exciting
perspective, the demon-like face looking down on him between
the jutting breasts, and then she changed her position so
that she was facing down his body. She pulled roughly at his
nipples, and, half suffocated, he felt Sarissa sitting
astride himself, burying her nails in his scrotum and
member. He whimpered. His signs of pain seemed to increase
their excitement. Atossa rose, and he saw Sarissa's dancing
body and narrow, slanting eyes in the flickering light of
the fire.
   Atossa returned a second time. Horrified, he saw the two
long, coarse skewers in her hand. He scarcely noticed that
Sarissa raised herself and guided the tip of his member into
her body. Again, Atossa's sex was all over him. They rode
him unmercifully, and now he was aware that he was inside
Sarissa and pleasure was rising like pain inside him. But
there was real pain, too: she was coming down hard on his
balls every time she rode down on him. He was close, and
they noticed it. This was when Atossa grasped his right
nipple, pulled it savagely and thrust one of the skewers
through the aureole. The pain was a shock that ran through
his entire body. He screamed without restraint  into her
sex. The witches exulted and Sarissa took the gallop. Atossa
pierced the other nipple while her dripping wet vulva
suffocated his screaming and he came, unable to sort out the
pleasure from the pain; Sarissa gave a cry. They collapsed
on top of him while the jerking of his body slowly died
away.
   They were strangely gentle afterwards. Atossa was lying
with her arm around him, panting, Sarissa was rubbing her
face against his. But they would not set him free: that
night, he had to sleep with his arms still tied to the
stakes, and with both the rod and the skewers in place. His
last thought, before his soul began its night-walk, was that
a repetition of this evening's experiences was an idea too
horrible to contemplate; but at the same time, he knew that
he desired these two women so much that he would soon be
willing to face the music again, just in order to earn their
attentions. Next morning, they continued their march, now
with Atossa leading; she rode leaning back and swaying in
the saddle; occasionally, both of them sang. His arms were
still tied behind his back and Atossa was holding the
lariat, but they had at least pulled the rod out of his
ass-hole (and he had been made to wash it, of course, his
anus still searing with the memory of it). Sarissa rode next
to him when the ground permitted it, and once or twice she
looked down and smiled at him. But the two skewers remained
where Atossa had pierced him, and they were spreading a dull
pain which changed into a sting whenever he moved his
shoulders. He was still afraid of the two horsewomen, but
for a different reason: now he feared their caresses, not
their knives.
   At noon, Sarissa reined in her horse, gazed at the
horizon and exchanged a few words with Atossa, who nodded
and urged her prisoner on again. But Sarissa trotted north
and disappeared. Atossa walked him toward a shady
umbrella-tree nearby, one that he had already cast longing
eyes at for a while. Here they paused. The witch spread her
cloak on the ground and he was allowed to lie down. The
horse was free to graze, but soon it too withdrew into the
shade. Around them, the grasslands quivered and danced with
the heat. Atossa's mind seemed to have mellowed; she gave
the prisoner water and felt his arms which were swollen
around the straps. She thought for a moment. Then she tied
his ankles together, freed his arms and pulled them up above
his head. At first he thought that she would fetter him the
same way as the previous evening, and to the same purpose,
and for a moment, he was simultaneously scared and
expectant; but she tied his wrists around the trunk of a
sapling that grew close to the large tree, and then she
untied the strap around his ankles again. Relieved, he
understood her intention: she wanted to keep him under total
control while she rested, but at the same time, she would
give him a chance to recuperate. The new position was a
relief to his aching shoulders. She went as far as
unknotting the strap around his scrotum that he had worn for
a day and a night now without respite. He felt a sting of
lust, together with the crawling sensation of the blood that
circulated freely again, but Atossa was businesslike and
quick and it was soon over.
   Now she bent over him and examined his nipples, still
pierced by the two skewers. She grunted and fetched a box
that contained a salve with a strong smell of herbs; she put
on a little of it with her finger on each nipple. It hurt,
but he kept a straight face. She clearly wanted to help and
heal him, not torture him. And strangely enough, her touch
awakened a vivid memory of the past night, and not only of
the pain and the terror but also of the lust and the
pleasure, which now seemed to him the greater and more
important memory.
   Involuntarily, he sighed. Atossa pricked up her ears. She
regarded him for a while and this time he returned her gaze,
looking straight into her yellow eyes. Not a muscle moved in
her face. Then she laid herself down by his side and grasped
his member. Gradually, it stiffened under her fingers. She
squeezed, and then she began to caress him slowly. She took
her time, lots of time. But when, after what seemed an
eternity, his breath grew irregular, she pressed her nails
into his rod and slapped it with her palm. She saw him
grimace and she smiled a she-wolf smile, but her eyes were
more amused than cruel. She gripped his testicles and
squeezed them, but now he had gathered his wits and he did
not show any fear. Atossa looked searchingly at him; then
she rested again, still with his bag in a firm grip. He
wished she would caress him again, but she did not. After a
while, his excitement and his erection receded. Still, they
were resting quietly, looking into each other's eyes when
Sarissa returned much later with a little grass antelope
slung in front of her saddle.
   Again, the two women made a fire with a stone and a piece
of steel out of Atossa's belt pouch. The meat was grilled
and eaten, and the captive too was fed. When the sun moved
west, they continued through the heat and the blinding
light. Atossa was her harsh self again, but the memory of
her unexpected charity remained. She was human after all.
She could even be tender. His arms were tied behind his back
again, but by his wrists now, and he was better able to move
his shoulders. But he was still treated very
unceremoniously. After a while, his bladder began to trouble
him, but he dared not try to make the women halt. When the
urge grew so strong that he could not restrain himself but
began to urinate, writhing inwardly with shame, he had to
continue to do so while walking. But when the women
understood that he had to ease himself more, they stopped
and had him squat in the high grass.
   That night they slept in the open, under another
umbrella-tree, warmed by a dying fire and by each other.
Atossa shared her cloak with him. She seemed interested in
his welfare, even protective. He had wondered, half scared
and half expectant, if they would amuse themselves by
playing with him again, but they seemed to be completely
sated. He rested for a while, listening to the deafening
night concert of the grass and tree creatures and the sound
of the wind in the high crown of the tree, but at last he
slept. What his spirit did that night, he did not know.
   He woke up with a hard-on, and again, he felt Atossa's
hand around his member while he disentangled himself from
his night thoughts. But that was all, and after a quick and
frugal breakfast, they continued their way. They marched for
most of the morning, rested without eating, but also without
tying him up, and continued. The ache and the swelling
around the skewers were subsiding, but he wondered how long
the march would be, and how many days he would spend walking
on a leash.
   Still, it was with some trepidation that he saw Sarissa
halt on the crest of a ridge and understood that this was
the end of the voyage. Below, a watercourse zigzagged
through a nearly dry bed---months had passed since the great
rains. Beyond it was a cluster of brown tents. Smoke rose,
dogs barked, horsed moved on the slope beyond the camp.
Atossa rose in her stirrups and gave a call that seemed to
turn somersaults in her throat. Human figures stood up and
emerged from the tents, and the call came back, faint
because of the distance. They continued down the slope,
crossed the brook where the water felt tepid around his
ankles, and the march was over.

(To be continued with part 2)