======== Path: news1.sunbelt.net!news.sprintlink.net!news-dc-10.sprintlink.net!panix!feed1.news.erols.com!howland.erols.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!mr.net!news.mr.net!news.protocom.com!usenet From: "Christopher M. Kirkham" <motif88@netlinkcom.com> Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories Subject: Repost: The Island (FF, Violent) Date: Wed, 6 Nov 1996 16:27:10 -0600 Organization: Ramp Parking Management, Inc. Lines: 286 Message-ID: <01bbcc32.6ca05aa0$166092ce@motif88> References: <55qb7k$b17@geraldo.cc.utexas.edu> NNTP-Posting-Host: port2.netlinkcom.com X-Newsreader: Microsoft Internet News 4.70.1085 Hi Ya! Here's the txt repost of the story. -Motif -------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------------------------- ATTENTION*ATTENTION*ATTENTION*ATTENTION*ATTENTION*ATTENTION*ATTENTION* This story contains or may contain any number of scenes depicting graphic violence, nudity, sex, impolite language, lesbianism, and other elements which may cause undue stress to people of a sensitive nature. Consequently, this story should not, (and I can't stress this point too strongly,) *NOT* be viewed by minors or people who may be offended by the story elements outlined above. If you are reading this and either of the above conditions apply to you, please take my advice and move your mouse pointer up to the little box with the 'x' and click on it. OK? OK. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------------------------------- --- The Island Part 1 - Invasion Lydia Jane Wickham was undoubtedly the most deeply unpopular person on the entire island, and with good reason. Of course, it didn't help that she was part of the invasion force which score of years ago had conquored the small nation; decisively beating the orginal inhabitant's ill-equiped army in a single battle. That alone was enough to make her roundly despised by the defeated natives. But even her fellow conquorers shunned Lydia and, although her family was very powerful and influencial back home, few of her own people wanted anything to do with her. For Lydia, what made life on the tiny tropical island tolerable, what kept her there despite the low regard in which she was held by native and invader alike, was the very thing that made everyone on the island avoid her like the plague. Lydia lived and throve on the reaction her reputation inspired in everyone who heard it, and she greatly enjoyed seeing that reaction on the faces of the people she met. In short, Lydia Jane Wickham lived on fear. Striding purposefully down the dusty street that ran through the center of Coromita, the island's only town of any significant size, Lydia reflected on the moment when she fully realized that what most mattered to her was the fear she inspired in other people. ------------------- The beach they'd landed on was a deserted length of sand baking under a hot tropical sun that Lydia would soon become accustomed to, and even enjoy in the years to come. The young officer had felt the natives eyes watching her from the tree line fifty yards back from the shore as she formed her unit into ranks for the march into the interior. But it wasn't until they actually began their struggling advance through the lush, steaming forest that the invaders met any sort of significant resistance. After half an hour of tramping through the forest, a pair of soldiers hacking and cursing at the undergrowth as they cut a path before her collumn, an arrow sped from surrounding trees to strike one of the brush cutters squarely in the chest. Even before the stricken soldier had fallen dead an answering volly of panicy musket fire from the collumn echoed through the tall trees. After that incident, Lydia kept her soldiers alert and in close order, so when another arrow buried itself the great bole of a tree near a brush cutter's head, their next volley brought the shrieking, half naked form of their ambusher plummeting from her high perch to the forest floor. A half dozen times her soldier's shot sniping natives out of the trees around them, but it was the last encounter with one of these lone ambushers that affected the young officer so strongly. An arrow peirced a brush cutter's forearm and as a howl of pain rose from her throat, a dozen muskets behind her pointed at the spot the arrow had come from and roared. The ambushing warrior plunged from a tree some twenty yards ahead, her high pitched, spiraling scream abruptly ending as her body thudded into the forest floor. Lydia advanced on the spot where the sniper had fallen, her rapier clutched in one sweaty hand, and the undergrowth parted to reveal the writhing form of a half-naked young woman lying broken on the ground, mortaly wounded but somehow still alive. The dying native warrior was slender, her soft, dusky brown skin gleaming slickly with perspiration and blood beneath the oppressively hot sun. One hand clawed weakly at her petite body while her other arm lay twitching on the ground, bloody wounds on it's upper arm and elbow. Her only attire was a bright length of multicolored cloth wound around her tiny waist, barely wide enough to cover her slim hips and sex. Above a short jaggedly cut mop of corse black hair, her narrow, triangular face shone with surprise and agony, her sharp features twisting into a desperate snarl as she stared hatefully up at the tall, brown uniformed woman standing above her. Lydia's own usually impasive expression changed as she looked down at the dying sniper. She stared with growing interest at the native woman's wounded body, bright crimson blood pumping from a large bullet hole just below her small breasts, trickling down her shining brown skin to pool on the flat concave expanse of her belly. The young warrior's chest heaved jaggedly as her breath rasped painfully in and out of her lungs while her slender, smoothly muscled legs kicked feebily against the forest floor. Lydia's own breathing grew shallower, a flush slowly creeping over her skin as she looked down at the woman dying at her feet. Slowly, as if her hand had a mind of it's own, the young officer brought her sword around until it's sharp point rested lightly on the dying woman's throat. The young native's sharply tilted eyes grew wide with fear as she looked up the shining length of steel at the strange blonde woman standing over her and saw Lydia's pale blue-green eyes growing brighter and brighter with savage blood lust. Inwardly, Lydia reveled in the warm, sensuous feeling of power thrumming through her. The forest's hot, damp air that made her uniform stick to her skin seemed to intensify the tingling electric sensastion suffusing her entire body. For a long moment the young officer drank in the sight of the native woman's terrified face until she felt something deep within her snap and with a small flick of her wrist, slashed the dying woman's throat. Blood gouted from the woman's throat and her pretty, narrow face shone with horror as she briefly intensified her writhing. Above her, Lydia gasped in surprise as jolts of pure pleasure shot through her slender frame, making her tremble with an ecstasy stronger and more deeply felt than anything she'd ever experienced in her young life. After a long moment, Lydia noticed the native warrior was dead and a small sigh of regret escaped her flushed thin lips. As she strode back to her waiting soldiers, and then all through the rest of the march, Lydia marveled at the earth-shakingly intense feelings she'd experienced while watching the young warrior die at her feet. -------------------- After the revelation of that first encounter, the battle later that day seemed anticlimatic to the shaken young officer. The invaders filed out of the jungle into the broad open fields surrounding the town that was their target to find a much larger group of native warriors awaiting them. They were massed on the far side of the clearing before the town, grouped into various sized units by clan in no particular order. They were clad much as the other native warrior's they'd seen, although some wore a longer, sarong like affair. A long, leather shield stretched over a wicker frame was on each warrior's arm and long spears seemed to be their weapon of choice, although some held either shorter throwing spears or the occassional bow. Lydia's shouted commands mingled with those of her fellow officers and their well drilled troops formed a line of three ranks, the first kneeling. All in all, the invading force was heavily outnumbered; perhaps six or seven to one by the opposing native warriors. Never-the-less, their muskets and steel blades gave them a significant advantage over their more numerous foe's wooden spears and shields. A brief hiatus ensued while the larger native force psyched itself up to charge the patiently waiting invaders. Clan chiefs and champions haranged their warriors, drawing ever louder and more enthusiastic responses until the field fairly range with their war cries. Some of the bolder warriors seemed insulted or contemptuous of the unusually quiet invaders, who stood silent and unmoving across the clearing, and flung short throwing spears or shot arrows which fell short of their enemies brown uniformed ranks. Finally the native's matriarch, a tall broad shouldered warrior, raised her spear and with a deafening shout the entire mass of island warriors charged their enemy. Feirce, ululating war cries rose from the warrior's as the pelted across the clearing, intent on overwhelming the smaller force. From her position on the left flank of the line, Lydia tore her gaze away from the wall of shining brown flesh thundering toward her like an unstoppable human wave and fixed her attention on her commanding officer. The tall, muscular captain kept her heavy sword firmly raised above her head, her ebony skin gleaming darkly in the hot sun. Long, tense seconds passed as the invading soldiers waited for their commander's order to open fire and with each passing moment Lydia felt a sweetly aching fire grow and swell unbearably in her lower belly. The mass of charging natives were a scant dozen yards away from the invader's first rank when their commander's sword slashed down. A score of junior officers shouted the order to fire in voices tinged with relief, though the cause of Lydia's relief was far different from her fellow officers. The invader's first volley decimated the leading group of astonished native warriors, their bullet riddled bodies dropping like puppets whose strings had suddenly been cut. The second rank of uniformed women smoothly replaced the first and unleashed a torrent of lead that felled more natives, slowing their charge as warriors tripped and stumbled over the bodies of their fallen kinswomen. Lydia's eyes shone wetly as a third devistating volley struck the native warriors, punching through their useless wicker shields and sending more fighters screaming and spinning to the ground. The invader's musket balls often passed straight through a warrior and struck the one behind her, knocking both fighter's down, shrieking in agony. Stunned by the sudden death erupting from their enemies weapons, the native force's charge faltered. A few exceptionally brave warriors managed to leap over their fallen comrades and continue the charge, emerging out of the thick white cloud of smoke only to be spitted upon the long bayonettes topping the ends of the invader's muskets. Two more volleys tore into the howling native fighters before they finally reached their foes orderly ranks, turning the battle into a vicious hand to hand melee. Lydia managed to fire her pistol one last time into the face of a charging warrior before dropping the useless weapon and drawing her sword. A snarling native fighter thrust a spear at her midsection and the young officer parried the blow and immediately lunged at full extention. Though the shorter fighter swiftly moved her shield to block her enemy's thrust, it's bright steel tore through the uncured hide and sped on, drawing an outraged wail of pain from native woman as her attacker's sword plunged into her unprotected midriff. Lydia grimly held on to her sword as her wounded foe dropped to her knees, screaming and clawing at the blade protruding from her stomach. With a hard yank she pulled her blade pasted the native warrior's clutching hands and immediately thrust again, driving her sword deeply into her opponent's chest. The stricken warrior lurched back from the impact of the blow, her arms waving madly as she emitted a last choking scream and sprawled backwards on the ground. Lydia watched the woman's dying spasms as if hypnotised, her eyes shining wetly with a dreadfull mixture of triumph and lust. Around her, soldiers and warriors fought and screamed and died; the cacaphony of battle punctuated by an occassions musket shot. When the young officer finally looked up, most of the surviving native fighters were trying to flee back through a battle ground thickly covered with their fallen clanswomen, leaving a handfull of warriors to fight to the death. Somehow, the native's matriarch had survived the carnage and managed to battle her way to the spot where the invader's commanding officer stood. Crimson streaks ran down the huge warrior's face from a bayonette cut on her forehead and more blood hemmoraged from a bullet hole high on her broad chest, painting the round slopes of her heavy brown breasts a shocking red. Despite her wounds, the tall champion feinted a thrust with her blood slathered spear at the brown uniformed woman's head, then lunged foreward, slashing at the invading commander's chest. The large warrior's spear tip ripped lenghwise down the front of the muscular soldier's shirt as she danced backwards, leaving a long shallow cut between her full, shining ebony breasts. Bringing her long sword on guard in a two handed grip, the uniformed woman stood her ground, her broad, handsome face set in a look of stubborn determination. The matriarch stamped foreward and the captain's sword swept up, parrying a second, then a third thrust from her taller adversary. Growling a curse in her native language the muscular warrior lept at her foe, aiming a savage thrust at her head, but the uniformed woman still held her ground and dropped to one knee. As the large fighter's spear sped over her head, the experienced soldier's sword lashing out in a wide cross cut, leaving a deep slash across the native matriarch's belly. A wild, despairing scream erupted from the huge warrior and her spear fell from her hands as she brought her arms down, pressing them against the gory wound on her stomach. The captain's back stroke flashed across her throat, turning her howl into a choking gurgle as more blood fanned from the her slashed throat. The stricken matriarch fell to her knees, one hand scrabbling weakly at the hilt of a knife sheathed at her waist, the other futily attempting to stem the flow of life blood from her wounded throat. Lydia's captain rose and stepped back in surprise, her dark eyes widening as she watched her dying foe grasping at the blood slick handle of her knife while trying to stumble to her feet. Finally, the native warrior's knife fell from her nerveless fingers and with a last defiant glare, the tall matriarch collapsed, crashing to the ground at the feet of her enemies commander. An eerie silence claimed the battle field, broken only by the cries of the wounded and dying. Heaps of native warrior's lay dead on the blood soaked ground, only a few brown uniformed soldiers among them. As Lydia surveyed the carnage, a small grin stole unnoticed across her thin lips. She was home.