~Subject: HORSEWOMEN # 5
~From: an438434@anon.penet.fi (Umbra)
~Date: Sat, 23 Dec 1995 13:26:59 UTC
~Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.femdom,alt.sex.stories

NOTE: this story is for adults only.  As will be evident,
   all characters and settings and all action are entirely fictitious. 
===========================================

   THE HORSEWOMEN a Love Story by Jeanne de Stein

   Nine parts posted separately.  This is # 5 Parts posted one every
weekend to this group.

   5.  RITES OF PASSAGE

   They continued their slow and deliberate voyage across the grasslands.
In a green field near a stream, flowing abundantly in this season, they
camped and feasted with women of several other sisterhoods, women with
names that were often the same as those that he knew, but with tattoos and
hairstyles and equipment that were all subtly different.  They eyed him
coolly and commented on his advantages, sometimes complimenting Atossa on
her pleasant slave, but they too had slaves of course.  Some of them seemed
to treat their males much more harshly than the women of his own Sisterhood
did, sometimes even keeping them chained by their balls or, in two cases,
by rings through the little skin folds beneath the glands of their penises.
These two slaves were boys as young as Mikrou or even younger.  One adult
male had a ring through his nose.  One or two bore whipping scars.

   Slaves were traded, too.  One sisterhood seemed to have a surplus to
sell, but only Aryana bought one, an attractive boy with an open, trustful
face, slightly younger than herself.  The price was correspondingly high,
six horses.  One or two women actually asked Atossa the price of her slave,
but she just laughed the offers away.  Her slave was not for sale.  Fallou
warmed to her; it was nice to hear that you were appreciated.

   There were games, horse races and foot races, archery and wrestling. 
Sarissa won the archery contest, leading away the prize horse, and Atossa
beat all comers at wrestling until a giantess of a woman, nearly black of
skin, managed to subdue her after a mighty struggle.  After the match, they
both went down to the brook to wash off the dust and sweat, and then Atossa
followed the victor to her tent, amid much laughter and jesting.  Sarissa,
who seemed to be torn between merriment and jealousy, explained that this
was the victor's prize: to possess any one of the women she had got the
better of, and this time Atossa had been chosen.  For a moment of horror,
Fallou thought that Atossa would be a slave herself, and that he would be
separated from her for ever, but Sarissa reassured him: this was for one
night only, and it was even regarded as an honour.  There was henceforth to
be a bond of mutual obligation between these two women.  But yes, there was
actually one group, the Red Sisters, that took and kept and used female
slaves.  They scorned males completely.  But these women were enemies, foes
of all right womanhood, and he should not wish to see them!

   If he ever did, they would kill him, and then they would eat his flesh.

   There was much talking and some singing around the campfires that
evening, but Atossa was not there, of course.  When Fallou was alone with
Ariti for a moment---his attraction to her had at last overcome the
revulsion he had felt for some time after that scene by the stake---he
asked her what would be done to Atossa.  She looked pensively at him,
hesitated but told him at last that she would be treated like a male.  But
it would not be proper, even for a Sister, to ask her afterwards what had
been done to her.  He had no further questions.

   Immediately after this jamboree, it was clear that Pirritta, the
un-tattooed young one, was to be singled out for special attention.  She
was repeatedly secluded in a tent with the old women.  She went out with a
hunting party one day and returned proudly with the carcass of a bush-cat
that still had her short hunting-spear through its body.  The teeth and
claws were added to her necklace, secret charms and preparations were made
from other parts of the animal.  Then something strange was done to the
girl: she was buried alive, tightly bound in a pit in the ground, lined
with hay and furs but completely covered with sods, resting on dry
branches. Around the covered pit sat the hags, chanting and chanting for
one day and one night, until at sunrise on the
second day the girl was resurrected and her child-name was taken away
from her.  After a merciful time of rest, she spent the next night in a
small leather tent with two of the oldest women, one of them being Hikati,
the chiefess and resident witch.  Strange herbs were burnt, and their smoke
inhaled, and Atossa explained to her slave that spirits appeared out of the
dark to guide the Nameless One along her passage to womanhood, and to

fortify her for her coming ordeal.  She told the slave, in a forthright but
compassionate manner, that he had been designated to play a part in this
ceremony.  She let him know what it was, and for a moment, he was
horrified. They were sitting, cross-legged, opposite each other, and he
felt all blood leave his face, but then he gathered all his courage and
returned Atossa's burning stare and spoke to her.  He would not only submit
willingly to the treatment that awaited him---though his attitude would of
course not make the slightest difference---but he would ask to be given all
that was given to the Nameless One, provided only that it would be given to
him by Atossa herself.

   She sat silent for a while, gazing inscrutably at him.  Then she told
him that she would ask Hikati for this favour.  She left him trembling with
fear and excitement.

   Evening came, and they marched away a short distance, an hour's walk or
so, and came to the Passage-place.  It was a small rise of the ground,
crowned with four great upright stones, like fingers against the dark sky,
groping for the moon.  It reeked of holiness.

   Fires were made.  The women arranged themselves in a rough circle, all
of them in company with their lovers and their males.  Atossa however left
Sarissa and Fallou standing outside the circle and joined the older women,
the leaders of the ceremony.  Fallou saw that the stones had been erected
in pairs, and each pair was joined by a stout crosstree, making two great
gates---and then he recognised them for what they were, two gallows.  He
felt a lump in his throat, the tongue seemed to grow in his dry mouth and
his heart thumped.  He was scared.  His decision of the previous night
seemed foolish, even preposterous.  Why ask for more of this outrageous
treatment than necessary?  Would his courage and devotion be appreciated,
would it even be recognised?

   And then Sarissa whispered in his ear, and he knew.

   Atossa had been impressed.  And yes, she had secured permission to be
his executioner.  He was still scared, but now he felt surer of himself. 
Sarissa was holding him in a tight grip, and the feeling was somehow
reassuring.

   The Nameless One, who had also been kept waiting outside the circle, was
now ceremoniously led in among the chanting women.  The firelight that
flickered on the four great monoliths shone bright red on her naked body;
she seemed half dazed but walked erect and without hesitation.  She joined
in the singing.  Sarissa took Fallou firmly by his arm and led him forward,
until he stood between two of the stones, under the ominous crosstree.  He
saw that two heavy ropes hung from it, and he knew what they were for.

   Sarissa called out softly, and three of the women came forward to help
her.  The slave's wrists were secured to the ropes with soft leather
straps; the helpers took the loose ends and pulled the ropes until his arms
were raised high above his head.  For a moment, he thought of Mikrou.  But
Sarissa hugged him briefly and kissed him, and whispered again, and then
she joined her comrades and helped them to hoist him aloft.

   It did not hurt---not yet.  His arms seemed to be pulled halfway out of
their sockets, his wrists would begin to smart by and by (though he doubted
that he would notice it) and his breathing was slightly strained.  But the
most immediate sensation was one of helplessness.  With his feet twelve
inches above the ground, what could he do to protect himself?  Lying on
one's back, tied hand and foot in preparation for the rape, should be just
as bad.  It was not.  He remembered that he had once been told that peoples
far to the south hanged criminals and sacrificial victims by their arms,
not by their necks.  They were just left to hang until they were dead.  He
knew that this would not happen to him, but the thought was still
unnerving. He squirmed, just in order to remind himself that he was still
alive.  Sarissa looked up at him; her face was set in a mask of
determination and he sensed that inwardly, she had already left him to the
fate that awaited him.  She had given him what encouragement she could, now
she would just be one of the several participators in the rite.  He felt
his heart thump against his ribs.

   The chanting ceased abruptly.  The Nameless One had already been
prepared for her own suspension, and Hikati asked her if she was ready for
the ordeal.  Yes, she was: her voice was quite steady.  How many, to prove
her worth as a horsewoman and a brave?  Thin but clear, her voice rang out:
four dozen.

   A collective breath was drawn.  Atossa had of course told Fallou about
the ceremony, and what he could expect for himself---exactly what the
Nameless One demanded.  But this was more than the usual ration.  He felt
his heart sink.  And then the women could hardly wait to see the subject
properly suspended before they turned to the slave.  And Atossa rose and
came forward, and she was holding a whip.  She spoke to him.  He understood
that these were ritual words, necessary words, but they still hurt.  He was
a male, and by definition a slave.  Women were real people, but males were
half-human only, little monsters that existed only to serve their
mistresses.  Women were hunters, warriors, braves.  Males were timid,
fearing for their skin, fearing pain.  The whip would prove it; his
screaming and begging for mercy would prove it.

   Atossa raised her whip.  But she did not yet swing it; for across the
circle stood another woman, a young brave, Silini, daughter of Hikati.  And
she too spoke, to the Nameless One who was now also suspended opposite the
slave, between the other two monoliths.

   She spoke of pride and fortitude, the marks of the true horsewoman.  The
Nameless One had promised that she would take four dozen lashes on her
naked skin, without succumbing to fear or pain, without debasing herself.
Her courageous silence would prove, together with the sacrificial slave's
screams, that woman was superior to man, that she was born a fighter and a
ruler and he a slave.  And the Dark Ladies, ever waiting outside the light
of the fires, would receive and accept this offering, hallowing the name
that the Nameless One would receive.

   And so the ordeal began.  Atossa swung her whip at last, and it made a
dull sound, unlike any other, when the lash connected with the hide of the
slave; and then Silini followed.  Both subjects, the male and the female,
jerked violently, dancing in air, their faces contorted with pain.  But
both were silent.  The only sound, apart from the gasps of the subjects,
the heavy breathing of the two executioners and the cracking of the whips,
came from the onlookers who murmured in a chorus, counting the lashes: one,
two, three...

   He had never been whipped before.  He had been caned as a boy, beaten as
a man, but never whipped.  He had seen men being whipped, though, as a
punishment, and women, both for infractions of the arbitrary rules that
wives and daughters and slave women had to obey, and for nothing but the
amusement and the cruel pleasure of their husbands or owners.  They had all
screamed, sometimes even before the whipping had begun, always before it
had progressed very far.  But he had always understood that they had
screamed more from fear than from pain.  He did fear the pain, but he did
not fear for his life: he would receive no more than the young girl
opposite him.  And she was expected to survive, and hunt, and fight, and
rule men.

   The pain was severe, however.  Every lash burned like a branding-iron
laid across his naked skin.  He danced his pain-dance, clenched his fists
and jaws, but he would not scream.  He would show them.  The pain increased
as that of every new lash was added to that from the previous ones; still
he conceded the women only gasps, no scream.  He would show them that a
male could be as courageous as a horsewoman.

   For a moment he closed his eyes, but he opened them again at once: his
only comfort was that it was Atossa who was doing this to him, and he
wanted to see her, to see her face and her eyes, and be seen by her.  His
love of her was as important as his pride in carrying him through this
ordeal.  He caught a glimpse of the girl opposite; she too danced the
whip-dance---and she too was silent.  But their condition was not the same.
He was expected to scream, but would not; she was expected not to, and must
not.  Thus, her ordeal was greater than his.

   After the first dozen, the whip-wielders changed their positions and
started to flog the backs of their subjects.  That was worse: now he could
not see Atossa anymore.  He saw only the Nameless One, the girl who had
been the fair-skinned Pirritta and who was now just a body, striped by
whip-marks but animated by a soul that had to prove its mettle.  He tried
to concentrate on what he saw.  He had often looked at her with cupidity,
thinking how fine it would be to possess this young body, and always
immediately how desirable it would be to be possessed by this straight and
beautiful young soul.  Now they were two contestants, and she had to defeat
him.  But he would show them ...

   After the second dozen, the third began.  Atossa started anew with his
shoulders, working down his back inch by inch.  The buttocks had been less
agonizing.  But the pain was not increasing anymore, it had reached a
plateau, a maximum.  He felt as if he was being burned alive, but he was
not consumed by the fire.  The pain was unendurable, but he endured
it---and he was still silent.

   Atossa finished with his buttocks for the second time.  There was a new
pause while she returned to her original position.  For the first time, he
heard that the women were murmuring excitedly between them.  Fine---he was
showing them!  He was really proving that a male could be as brave as a
woman.  But his courage wavered when he saw Atossa and her whip again.  She
stared at him as in a trance, or a passion of anger; and she raised her
whip and started on the last dozen.  The body of the Nameless One was
disfigured by the red welts that crisscrossed her chest and belly.  How
terrible it must be, in spite of all the preparation, for a young girl, a
child really, to suffer thus.

   And it struck him like lightning that he simply had to scream.  If not,
the girl would have to ask for more, and more, until he broke down, or she
broke down, and if she did, then she would be disgraced.  And if she did
not, then she would still have suffered unnecessarily, because of his
wilfulness.  She did not deserve that.  She had never wronged him.  He
wanted to be her friend, not her enemy, both because it would be bad to
have enemies among his rulers and because he wanted her, or wanted to be
desired by her.  He had to scream before the four dozen were all given.

   Only half conscious, he counted one, two.  These hit, the first above,
the second below his nipples (which Atossa had not touched; she was a
virtuoso with the whip).  Then he released his grip on himself and did what
he should have done all the time---screamed, howled his agony and his
terror and despair, and his love and his compassion with the girl opposite.
He continued even when Atossa had laid the last cut across his pubic bone
and lowered her right arm.  It was a relief, a release to do it.  He
screamed until he was unable to continue for lack of air.

   It was over.  Atossa stood like a statue in front of him, but with
stooping shoulders and hanging head.  What did she think, what did she
feel? But the Nameless One was lowered to the ground, and released, and
supported, and cheered like a victor by the women.  She was led to the
nearest fire, and they gathered around her, touching her, and there was a
cry: four dozen!  four dozen!  And Hikati looked on while Silini held and
kissed the girl she had whipped so cruelly, for her own good and for that
of the Sisterhood, and then Hikati gave her a new name, Ginesse.  And the
women cheered, because she had vindicated them.
But not for long.  Their eyes went to Atossa and her slave, and Atossa
was still shaken by what had happened to her.  And she raised her head and
straightened her shoulders and screamed out, into the darkness, for the

Dark Ladies to hear: five!  five dozen!

   Her sisters were clearly horrified.  They thronged around her, begging
her to retract her promise.  But she would not: three dozen was what a girl
asked for when her time came, and that was what she herself had asked for,
and been given, when she made her Passage.  Pirritta's four had been a
challenge, a way of asserting herself and gaining esteem.

   Now her own slave had taken three dozen---even more than that---in
silence.  Had they not counted them?  Did they not know that her slave was
brave, a woman's equal in courage?  Now she would have to prove superior to
him, for a woman must not be inferior to her own slave.  Five dozen!  Would
they deny her that?

   They would not.  They did murmur and mutter, and indicate that they
found Atossa's pride excessive, but it was also clear that they admired it.
Or rather, they would if she could take it.  And so, while Ginesse rested,
warmed by a heavy cloak and caressed and congratulated by her friends,
Atossa took her place.  And Ariti had consented to swing the whip.  Sarissa
had offered to do it, but Atossa would not hear of it: for not only were
they lovers (which Silini and Ginesse also were) and bound by holy oaths,
it would also hurt her soul (and this she did not deny).  Ariti was a dear
friend, but not her lover.

   The slave was not released.  He remained suspended, his body one single
dull ache that had spread, as he had known it would eventually, to his
arms. He had the best view of Atossa's coming agony of any one present.  He
watched as she was swung from the crosstree and as Ariti, the friendly and
cruel Ariti, prepared to whip her.

   This was his second whipping on that night.  For he suffered with
Atossa, feeling the sting and the bite, the searing pain of the red iron,
jerking and shuddering as each lash struck his mistress.  And Atossa
danced, her face a rigid mask of pain.  A red reflection of the nearest
fire, a hot coal in her dark face, revealed that she was looking at
him---at her slave who had unwittingly caused this horror.

   For a horror it was, and it seemed to go on for ever.  First the usual
dozen in front; with exquisite skill, the smith spared her friend's
breasts. And then one dozen across her back, two dozen, three dozen; and
now Ariti hesitated before each cut, placing it in her mind before she put
it in place on Atossa's back.  And still Atossa was silent.  Now she was
not looking at her slave anymore---she threw her head back, staring at the
black sky and only the sky could see the expression on her face.

   Four dozen; and Ariti, looking pained, came around for the last twelve.
These were dealt out quickly, so as not to let Atossa suffer too long.  And
then she hung motionless, as if dead, until she could be lowered and set
free.  Then, she walked up to her slave, pushed the supporting hands away
and asked for the whip.  She looked up at him.  She spoke.

   Yes, she was proud of him.  But he did understand what he had
unwittingly done to his rightful owner and mistress, did he not?  He did
understand why she had to do what she had done?  All right---then he would
also understand why she had to do what she would do now, to him.  He nodded
dumb assent, and she seemed to understand him.  She raised the whip and
dealt him three mighty blows across his chest and belly, and he screamed at
once.  A great sigh was heard from the dark throng of waiting horsewomen.

   And then they released him.  He saw that Atossa was greeted by Sarissa,
her lover, and her kiss was returned; and by her daughter Halanna who came
rushing up to her, looking as if she had been in a great anguish.  And then
Ariti who hugged Atossa cautiously and kissed her and whispered long with
her, and what they told each other he never learnt.

   And when Atossa had been bedded down by the fire, next to Ginesse, then
Sarissa and Ariti, and Lykomaki and Aryana and even little Niki (who was
too excited to sit still for long, however) came to comfort Fallou and
reassure him.  They told him not to be afraid.  Atossa had been so clever
with the whip that his skin was unbroken, and she was not angry with him.
He had not known what he had done, being ignorant of what the Nameless One
would ask for, and of the consequences of his own silence.

   He too was allowed to rest.  His closest friends (yes, they were
friends) sat around him, talking softly.  He did understand that Atossa had
to reassert her authority over him, did he not?  And they were all very
impressed; he was certainly courageous and they would think him very nearly
the equal of a brave.  But he was still their slave, and they would still
do with him as they pleased, and they expected him to obey them without
question; he did understand that, too, did he not?  Yes, he did.  He looked
at their eager, sincere faces, and felt their gentle hands touch him where
the whip had spared him---including his nipples and his sex---and then up
at the stars which had come out, and then he closed his eyes and let his
soul drift away.

   He was not required to do any work for the next three days.  Instead he
rested in the tent, or under a shady tree during the day, wrapped in a
large woollen cover with Atossa.  She would not speak of their respective
ordeals.  She had made herself clear already, had she not?  But the other
women were right, she was not angry with him.  On the contrary, her pride
of him was mingled with an even greater pride of herself, for no woman of
this Sisterhood had endured five dozen in anybody's memory.  Now they all
knew her for what she was, the bravest of the brave.  And this was all
because of his silly conceitedness!  She kissed him, and then she actually
took his sex and masturbated him and she told him to fondle her breasts and
play with her nipples.  He was capable of that much work, eh?

   And the pain, his pain and her pain, would go away, and her wounds would
heal (yes, her skin had broken under the whip in two places, in spite of
Ariti's skill) but the pride would remain, and the esteem of her fellow
horsewomen.  When she was rested, she would use him more ruthlessly than
ever, now that she knew that he could take it.  He would not forget to whom
he belonged, would he?  Stammering, he tried to explain that he was more
than ever her slave, and she rested listening with her eyes nearly closed,
purring like a cat.  After some time, she asked him if his erection had
helped.  At first, thinking of the hard-on he was presently enjoying, he
did not understand what she meant.  The one he had when the whipping began,
stupid.  Was he serious--- had he not noticed it?  She laughed tolerantly
at him.

   On the second day, she used him several times, mounting him and taking
him into herself, but without riding him to the finish.  Instead she rested
on top of him, motionless until he could not hold his erection any longer,
and even beyond that stage.  His body was still aching, as her body must be
too, but he did not complain.  What she did served as proof of the
sincerity of her words.  On the third day, she copulated with him and rode
him to orgasm, and this time she used the ring.

   After the ride, she talked.  She told him about the things that she
would do to him in the near future, what she would have Ariti do to him. 
He would be treated more harshly than any other slave of this sisterhood,
more cruelly.  But she would do this because of her regard for him, and
because he was braver than any other slave she had ever known or heard
about, and clearly demanded a stern regime.  And he told her, as he had
done on that evening of the rite of passage, that he accepted whatever she
would to do, and that it would not diminish the love that he felt for her.
Not until then did he remember that he had never before dared declare
openly his feelings toward her.  A slave should keep his emotions to
himself, except when he was punished of course, or tortured for the
pleasure of his owner, who would then find satisfaction in his show of
distress.  But Atossa was not displeased.  Instead she conceded that she
held him in higher regard than was common with mistresses and slaves.  And
that, he presumed, was the nearest thing to a declaration of love on her
part.

   On the fourth day, he got up and worked.  As he was labouring at turning
the hand mill, grinding cornmeal, Silini and Ginesse walked by, stopped and
looked at him.  Both his and Ginesse's body were still marked with the
purplish stripes from the whipping.  But she was proud and merry, and she
and Silini cocked their heads together and whispered and giggled.  They
behaved like lovers.  They were of course lovers, and it was perhaps a
special favour that one had been given permission to whip the other. 
Silini spoke first to him.  She wanted to borrow him.  He indicated his
submission, but she would have to ask Atossa's permission first.  She
departed; Ginesse made him stand in front of her while she scrutinised and
felt his welts.  Silini returned after a while, brandishing the pain-ring
as proof of Atossa's consent.

   In the tent that belonged to Ginesse's mother Timesse, who was out
hunting, they pushed him over and played with him.  Silini gave her friend
a thorough demonstration of male anatomy and its use.  Ginesse was made to
toy with the nipple-rings, caress the slave's balls and squeeze and pinch
his erect member.  She was fascinated, but hesitant.  Perhaps she should
leave the male sex alone until she had received her tattoos?  All right, if
she felt that way ...  so Silini used him instead, tying him to the four
stakes, pulling his gland through the ring and then mounting him and riding
him very roughly, as if she wanted to impress Ginesse with her
imperiousness and her disregard of the slave's comfort.  She kept herself
firmly under control, and as he was still tired and had been used by Atossa
the previous evening, she enjoyed a long ride.  While the pain of the ring
and the ache in his member rose and slowly drowned him and robbed him of
his own self-control, he was still able to drink the sight of Silini moving
rhythmically above him.  She had lovely breasts, small and conical but so
firm that they pointed out and up even when she was on her back, and with
strange, long nipples that reminded him of almonds, and then his orgasm
came and he was no longer a subject being used but one with his rider.

   And then he was made to serve Ginesse too, lying between her thighs,
kissing and licking her sex, caressing her breasts and nipples while he
pushed his tongue as far into her vagina as he could.  She was very pleased
with him.  Yes, he was well versed in the art of satisfying a woman now. 
Atossa had been a good teacher.  (To be continued with part 6)