12/98
	             ____________________________
                    |                            |
                  /)|     KRISTEN'S BOOKSHELF    |(\
                 / )|         DIRECTORIES        |( \
              __(  (|____________________________|)  )__
             ((( \  \ >  /_)              ( \  < /  / )))
             (\\\ \  \_/  /                \  \_/  / ///)
              \          /                  \          /
               \      _/                     \_       /
                /    /                         \     \
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 - 4 (FF, f-beast)
a Love Story
by Jeanne de Stein

Nine parts posted separately. This is # 4
Parts posted one every weekend to this group.

4. THE RING AND THE STAKE

Had he been too hard on the boy? In spite of his revulsion
immediately after the act, he tried to convince himself that
he had not; the boy did not in fact seem to avoid him or to
bear him any grudge. Very probably, he had not been a
virgin. But then he remembered that slave-girl again, and
thought that he had seen something of the same expression in
the boy's eyes. Being raped by a woman was a pleasant
experience to a male, or could be one; he always thought of
his copulations with Atossa and Sarissa and the other women
as rapes. But being raped by a male would really be a
different matter. After all, it had never happened to
himself (except when Atossa had used the horn-penis on him,
and then she had been a very different kind of male!)
Perhaps he had hurt Mikrou more than he had hurt himself?
Again, he told himself that he should be more considerate in
the future. If he wanted pleasure from the boy---and the
sodomy had been physically enjoyable while it was going
on---then he should find out what was acceptable or not.
    And he had not liked that forlorn, deserted feeling
afterwards. There had always been a sense of belonging, even
when Atossa had slept in Sarissa's company after using him,
and that sense had become stronger now that his mistress
occasionally showed her appreciation. Did he actually think,
without really being aware of it, that he had been
unfaithful? Atossa ruled him absolutely: surely she should
also be the absolute ruler of his sex. Yes, he should have
sex with other partners, female or male, only when she
ordered him to do it.

The weather grew colder. Snow fell at times. He was often
miserable when he had to work out of doors, but he had
enough to eat and the two horsewomen kept him warm at night.
Then there was a storm, and immense quantities of snow came
down, smothering the forest. After it, there was silence and
whiteness under the blue-grey sky.
    There was a bath-hut on the edge of the winter camp.
After the great snowfall, a fire was made under the stones
in its centre, and when they were red hot, a great throng of
naked women piled in, and poured water on them, making a
great cloud of steam. His mistress had brought him along,
and there he sat wedged between her and Sarissa, half buried
in a great heap of tattooed female flesh. He had seen all
the women naked, or near-naked before, of course. He had
even been used by them. Still, the situation was peculiarly
arousing---perhaps it was the feeling of utter abandon in
the crowded bath.
    Steam billowed, half hiding the massed breasts and
ornamented rumps and decorated backs, and he broke into a
sweat. So did the women. Suddenly, switches were produced.
Ariti whipped Halanna's back, Silini scourged Pirritta and
the squealing girl was soon more red than pink and sweated
profusely. In no time, a general whipping orgy developed,
the women lashing out indiscriminately at backs, buttocks,
bellies; women who were lovers even whipped each other's
sexes. Only the breasts were spared. This was when it dawned
on him that this was not just the normal procedure in a
steam-bath, but sexual foreplay---a savage caress. Then
Lykomaki discovered that he had an erection and lost no time
in pointing it out to the other women.
    There was a howl of delight. In no time, he found
himself lying face down across two or three writhing female
bodies that he could scarcely identify, his wrists and
ankles held immobile by unseen hands. His head was tightly
clamped between two thighs that he suspected were Sarissa's;
he had difficulty breathing in the damp heat and he nearly
got himself in a panic. Somebody---Atossa?---used the switch
on his back. It stung him. The stimulated skin produced
rivers of sweat, running in rivulets down his back, in the
armpits and down the cleft between his buttocks. He gasped;
women laughed and screeched and joined in the fun, using
their birches on him.
    Atossa called out. The whipping ceased, but only in
order to give the women a chance to turn him over on his
back. Bodies closed in on him, cutting off his view, hands
were laid upon him, his member and his balls were squeezed,
his nipples pinched. When he was securely held by the
expectantly grinning women, a girl pushed forward between
them. It was Niki, clutching her switch. Her eyes were half
closed, her mouth half open; she knelt between his widely
splayed-out legs and raised her right arm, and then she
started to whip him.
    She whipped his chest; it hurt, but no more than it used
to do. She whipped his flanks; she beat his belly, and that
hurt more; she lashed at the insides of his thighs, and
finally she whipped his private parts.  Half suffocated, he
made incoherent sounds and fought, but the women that held
him were strong. New rivers of sweat were flowing, brought
forth by the sting of the switch and by his struggling.
Dimly though the steam, he could see that Niki's face was
contorted, that her nipples were erected and her labia
swollen. She was in a fury, or an ecstasy, of sexual
arousal. The little bitch, he thought. The infernal little
bitch.
    Throwing down the switch, she fell upon him. She crawled
all over him, rubbing herself against him, helpless to put
out the raging fire within. She scratched him; she kissed
him, forcing her way in and using his mouth with an
aggressiveness that was amazing in such a young girl---but
of course she was not an ordinary child but a young
horsewoman. For a moment the slave thought, as he had
briefly done at their first meeting, that she would forget
her limitations and try to impale herself on him. But again,
she sat on his face, and this time he understood her
commands and the obscenities that she was hurling at him.
Desperately, he pushed his tongue into her. He sensed that
another woman was straddling his chest; she leant briefly to
one side and he glimpsed her face; it was Aryana. She was
sitting behind Niki, caressing her body, kissing her neck,
tickling and pinching her nipples. Niki gave a half-gasp or
a half-scream, came and collapsed on top of him. She rolled
away and her place was taken by Aryana, but not until the
new rider had given him six or seven of the best with her
own switch. The performance was repeated, and all the time,
he felt other women's hands on his body. When Aryana was
finished with him, her place was taken by Sarissa. He served
her too, panting and slavering away. Hands were tugging at
his sex, masturbating him.
    Several of the women wanted to follow her, but Atossa
sang out harshly. She produced a long rawhide thong. With
Sarissa's help, she tied his wrists together behind his
back, then she lashed them to his balls and, holding the
free end of the thong---it was still four or five feet
long---she brutally jerked him to his feet and out through
the door.
    The winter air was a cold slap across his face and his
dripping body. He reeled down the path to the brook, walking
behind Atossa; she stood him on a stone and then she emptied
a leather bucket full of ice-water over him. The shock
nearly robbed him of his consciousness. When he could see
again, Atossa was repeating the procedure on herself. She
gave a hoarse cry as the water splashed all over her, from
her loose hair to her feet.
    He was not cold. On the contrary, he glowed. Atossa
shook herself like a dog, collected herself and tugged him
away. They had not to go far. She pushed him over in a large
snowdrift; nearly buried in it, he was ridden at a gallop
until first Atossa, then he climaxed.
    It was over. Lying on top of him, she shook
uncontrollably. Then, dazed, she got to her feet, made him
stand up and took him down to the water again. She washed
his penis and her own sex. Then she walked him to the
longhouse and freed his hands, but not his balls, and they
rubbed each other down as if they had been two female
lovers, and got in between the furs and rested, holding each
other tightly. She tied the leash to her own left wrist. He
felt completely exhausted, released, clean. When she decided
to use him as a mattress, lying on top of him with her arms
around his neck, he felt that this had absolutely nothing to
do with being used. There was only a great closeness. He did
not deserve it; it was a privilege. His mistress was very
good to him.
    There were times when he still worried because of this
carefree abandoning of himself to his savage goddess,
Atossa. He had been born a freeman. This had raised him
above the slave herd; slaves were of course contemptible,
and he should have despised himself. He also should have
sought a way to free himself, to escape. But he did not:
being owned and used by his mistress, obeying her least
wish, longing for signs of her gracious appreciation, seemed
perfectly natural to him. He existed only in and through and
for Atossa. That might be an unhealthy situation, even a
dangerous one. But it bothered him only occasionally.
    Instead, he dreamed. When a long time had gone by since
his last ride, his early morning fantasies explored
alternative relationships between himself and different
women or girls. What if ... what if he returned to his own
people, and to his place among them, with one, two or three
captive horsewomen? What if they were his slaves, for him to
use as he pleased?
    He would be stern. He would bend them to his will, the
way you break a filly or a wild animal. That would serve
them right. He would use them as they had used him,
fettered, helpless, raping them brutally. And still with
consideration, respecting them; for he could not help but
see them as they were, wild and free, and he could not
completely jettison the notion that they were superior to
him, and would remain so. And the writhing bodies did not
long remain anonymous, either. He always found himself
thinking of individual women. He let his thoughts dwell on
most of them, even on middle-aged ones like the robust Ariti
or Lykomaki. He considered the young girls and especially
the delights of using Aryana or perhaps Silini, Hikati's
daughter and Ariti's younger sister; but curiously enough,
Niki was also there. He was not clear about what he could
reasonably do with her, if anything, but she always wormed
herself into any scenario he could dream up. Even in real
life, he stood a good chance to be the first male to enter
her, of course.
    But he returned always to Sarissa and Atossa. Especially
Atossa. It would probably be necessary to keep them chained.
He would tie Atossa's hands (or Sarissa's?) to a ring in the
wall and whip her---who? Sarissa, probably. No, Atossa ...
until she screamed. It would be difficult to make her
scream. She was tough, she was proud. Yes, obstinate, more
than any other of these self-willed, obstinate women. But a
curious transposition always made the dream end with her
whipping him instead, until he screamed. He did not think
that he would be obstinate. He would scream freely, giving
her the stimulation that aroused her so. She would be more
cruel, more vicious than she had ever been before. And he
had an erection, and here she was, close to him, and he
moved over, edging closer, hoping that she would wake up and
feel just a little bit randy, as she used to do in the
morning, and hold him and perhaps order him to kiss her
breasts.

Atossa was holding whispered conversations with Ariti. He
wondered idly what they were up to; Atossa seemed to draw
something with her fingers in the air. Ariti nodded. Then
the two women giggled together like little girls that have
played an unmerciful joke on somebody. Perhaps he should
worry about their cabal? The joke might be on him, after
all.
    He was right. They came over to him and pushed him over
on his back. Atossa restrained him and Ariti started to
masturbate him slowly. She was really quite good; he rested
on his back looking up at her and could not help admiring
her. She was the most powerfully built of all the women,
with strong shoulders and arms, and she had a little bit
more fat on her body than the others, too, which actually
looked good on her sturdy frame. It was easy to respond to
her ministrations; would she use him? That would be nice.
    She worked up a really good hard-on. But she did not use
it---instead, she seemed to measure it with her fingers. She
nodded and told Atossa that 'it' (whatever it was) should
work out very nicely, and they laughed again. Then they
released him. Ariti went out to her little shed. Nothing
more happened for a couple of days---nothing. Atossa
caressed him mornings and nights, each time bringing him
close to orgasm, but never all the way.
   He felt frustrated. Was this a new stint of celibacy,
intended to soften him up for more dressage? But on the
evening of the third day, Ariti brought Atossa something
small and bright. Atossa was delighted and showed the thing
to Sarissa, who was very interested.
    They got up. Ariti and Atossa went out, while Sarissa
pushed away furs and hay until black earth showed. The two
women returned, Ariti with a maul, Atossa with four iron
stakes which Ariti hammered into the ground. So they would
tie him again, and probably use him. Just about time, too.
The nagging question was, what more would they do to him?
    He arranged himself in the usual manner without making
any fuss, the coming ride uppermost in his mind. They tied
him very securely. Then they looked at each other: Atossa
nodded at Ariti, who undressed while Sarissa piled more wood
on the fire. Ariti sat down by him, took his member between
her hands and very slowly, she got him going.
    It was very pleasant, in spite of the restraints. To be
quite honest about it, he got a thrill out of the
restraints, too. Ariti handled him with considerable
finesse, in spite of her calloused hands. After a while, he
had a very large and very hard erection. Then Atossa handed
her the shiny little thing, and Ariti demonstrated and
explained it to her captive, who listened and looked with
rising consternation.
    It was a brass ring. It was large enough so that the
gland of the erected penis could be drawn through it, but it
would be a very tight fit. It was very cleverly shaped to
the contour of the underside of the gland itself; it would
sit exactly where a male's sex is most sensitive, to
pleasure and to pain. And that was indeed the point, or to
be exact, the points. For all around the circumference of
the ring, directed inward, there was a succession of sharp
little barbs which would bite and claw mercilessly when the
ride started, pulling the skin of his sex sharply back and
forth. Two of the points were larger than the others. They
were placed where the curve of the ring made a sharp upward
bend, and they would press into his skin where it was most
tender, on the underside of the member, on both sides of the
little skin fold there.
    Chuckling merrily, Ariti pushed the ring down over the
tip of the member as far as it would go; then she pinched
the gland between her thumb and her first finger, and
pulled. It hurt. Not terribly, but very noticeably, and he
grimaced; Ariti saw it, and she loved it and beamed at him.
Gradually, a fraction of an inch at a time, she massaged the
ring in place, until it was home. Then she took a hard grip
on the member and pushed down violently. That really hurt.
It must have shown; Ariti was delighted. She straddled him,
rubbing the underside of his penis in the cleft between her
labia. The pain seemed to balance the pleasure exactly. She
came down on top of him, very heavy, and kissed him; he
loved that. Then she sat up, and there was a short stick in
her hand.
    She pushed the stick through one of his nipple-rings and
turned it full circle. Still holding it, she stuck one
finger through the other nipple-ring and turned that too,
and then the free end of the stick went through this second
ring, so that both of them were held under tension. This too
was painful, not unendurable, but impossible to forget. And
so she gave him a friendly smile and guided his member into
her vagina and sat down hard on him.
    Now he knew precisely what the ring did to him. The fact
that the pain was given in exactly the same spot as the
pleasure made for a most curious effect. He simply could not
distinguish between them. As she rode him at a steady pace,
his face stiffened into a mask; he must not come this early,
Ariti might be displeased with him; but she noticed his
predicament and froze. She was perfectly immobile while he
fought the orgasm back. She rested for a little while on top
of him, then she withdrew and made place for Sarissa. She
too rode him for a few paces, but when she had reached the
breaking-point, she remained sitting, looking sarcastically
down upon him. His next rider was Atossa.
    Atossa behaved more like Ariti. There was a strange
expression in her face when she observed her steed; was
there tenderness in it? But there was no doubt about the
main ingredient. It was cruel amusement. He had expected
that Atossa would be his last rider, but she too reined
herself in, dismounted and handed him back to Ariti.
     She kissed him and took possession of him. His gaze was
fixed on the powerful torso above him, but he did notice
that Atossa and Sarissa fell upon each other and made love a
little to one side. So they would not use him: Ariti would
be the last to ride him. He liked that, she was very
attractive to him, and she had of course made the ring.
Ariti panted, her mouth half open in a grin that made her
teeth show, but it was plain that she was very close to her
climax now. She gave a hoarse cry, dug her fingers deep into
his arms, and withdrew into the seclusion of her orgasm. As
soon as she had regained mastery of herself, she increased
the tempo of her ride, mauling his sex ruthlessly. He cried
out; she rode even faster, hurting him even more, and he too
came deep inside her and he cried out, and Ariti told him of
her own pleasure.
    And then she rested on top of him again, and she was
heavy and warm and told him, in a very friendly fashion,
that Atossa's invention had been a very good one, and that
she was very pleased with it, and with him. She would ask
Atossa's permission to use the ring on him on all occasions
in the future. Her expression when she told him this was
such that he returned her gaze boldly and told her that she
was welcome.
    He had expected his member to be stained with blood when
it at last emerged from Ariti's body, but the points had
only dug into his sex, not pierced the skin. The pain and
the pleasure had intensified each other until he had become
quite unable to judge the level of either. It had been a
very strange experience. Just now, he wanted no more of it.
But, knowing himself, he admitted to himself that soon, he
would want just that again.
    He did not have to wait long. From now on, Atossa used
the ring on him very often, and Sarissa always. The
innovation caught on, and a couple of other women ordered
penis rings for their own males too; and when friends
borrowed Atossa's slave, they borrowed the ring with him.
But he still felt that of all the horsewomen, only Atossa
and Ariti really had the right to give him this kind of
pain, and those two alone could awaken in him the kind of
anticipation that stimulated him---the anticipation he felt
when he knew that someone he liked and desired very much
would torture him sexually.

The winter was short. The snow melted and new vegetation
sprouted from the damp earth. The horsewomen stayed put
until the ground was firm enough to carry the carts; then
they broke camp and moved out into the plains again.
    The old routines were resumed. Hunting parties went out;
at first, they killed only for the immediate needs of the
Sisterhood, but it was good to have plenty of meat again.
Even the males could eat their fill. Atossa's slave at least
had never gone hungry, but red meat was better than both
gruel and pemmican. Slowly, the weather got warmer, and the
women discarded their trousers and jackets and cloaks, and
the slaves their rags.
    The grasslands were green, not brown and ochre and red
as the slave had seen them last. Life was good. The new
intimacy between Atossa and her slave deepened. He saw even
the ring as a symbol of it: it seemed quite natural that if
a horsewoman felt affection for a male, then considerate
sexual torture was her way of demonstrating it. But at least
in Atossa's case, it was not the only way. There was a
different mood to her games with him before using him; and
after he had served her and given her his pain and his
service, she would rest by him, holding him and telling him
of her pleasure, especially the pleasure that his suffering
had given her. He did not grudge her that. It was her right,
after all. Her behaviour was curiously reminiscent of that
of a strict but loving husband. All right, then he would be
a loving and submissive wife.
    It was simply too idyllic to last. One evening, a patrol
returned to camp with a male prisoner. They explained that
they had surprised an illicit hunting party that had dared
enter their territory. It was of course generally understood
that the inner grasslands belonged to the horsewomen, and
that you went there with their permission, or with an army.
But some people would never learn---young bloods perhaps who
had bragged a bit too thoughtlessly, carried away by drink
at a feast. Now the reckoning was coming.
    The women had not bothered to bring the captive home
slowly on foot, as Atossa and Sarissa had done once. They
had simply slung him, bound hand and foot, across the back
of a loose-horse, though that horse would have to be
ritually cleansed later in a special ceremony; if he had
actually defiled it by riding it, they would have killed it.
Now they dumped him in the middle of the camp, close by the
stake.
    The Sisterhood gathered around the victim, very excited,
in a cacophony of voices. The agenda of the discussion was
the same as when Atossa and Sarissa had brought in their
captive, but it was clear that the outcome would be entirely
different this time. The prisoner was not regarded as
especially useful or desirable; he was a smallish, swarthy,
ungainly fellow with an unpleasant face, and nobody spoke in
favour of him. They would kill him. There could be no doubt
about how they would kill him-- unpleasantly, or
entertainingly, depending on your point of view.
    Fallou did not care for the coming show and tried to
keep away, inventing some unnecessary chore that would keep
him busy on the outskirts of the camp. But it was
immediately made clear to him that his attendance was
required, as was that of the other slaves. They had better
see what horsewomen did to males who did not please them. He
was dragged along and deposited on the periphery of the
excited crowd, but with a good view. Other women tied the
captive to the pole, face out. The show could begin.
    First they whipped him. They did it two at a time, using
large, heavy rawhide whips, to the accompaniment of his
screaming. They all got in a few lashes, or rather more than
a few, depending on their various degrees of
enthusiasm---Hikati and Timesse, Lykomaki and old Ekebbe,
Ariti and Pirritta, Niki and Aryana and the others, while
the screaming got ever shriller. And Atossa and Sarissa, of
course. But the most cruel of the women, those that did not
limit themselves to a dozen or half a dozen lashes but
hogged both the whip and the victim, were the old hags, but
also the really young girls. This last discovery was really
shocking. All his experiences, both at home and in En-Tor's
house and among the horsewomen, should have taught him that
children and young people in general can be more ruthless in
their passion, more inconsiderate and cruel, that those with
more experience of life, and with personal knowledge of pain
and suffering. Still, he felt that especially Niki behaved
in a bestial, even devilish way. This was something
different and more evil than her childish cruelty to him,
different even than the thornvine torture---for now she was
ready to maim, and to kill. But all the girls joined in,
even children so small that they could not wield the heavy
whips but had to use smaller child-whips, toy-whips. He
shuddered.
    But this was only the beginning. While the last, panting
whip-wielders rested, Pirritta and Aryana fetched torches,
burning branches from the campfire. While the other women
gave air to their contempt of the man, to their disgust with
his behaviour and transgression, with his looks and even
with his maleness itself, the two girls proceeded to burn
his sex. They pushed their torches against it repeatedly
until it was all black, with soot but perhaps even charred
by the fire, and the screams were hoarse animal screams now;
but they had become the solo part in a chorus of howls and
insults. The prisoner was still trying to evade the pain,
but to no avail of course. His struggling only served to
excite his torturers even more.
    Ariti came up to him. She was holding two tongs, large
ones that she used for iron work. To the cheering of the
bystanders, she gripped one nipple with each tong, and tore
them out with one tremendous pull. Ariti, of all people ...
The victim's voice broke and was silent. But the Dark Ladies
did not extend their compassion to him; he was still
conscious.
    They used a horse to pull his balls and male member off
his body. Then they flayed him, cutting strips out of his
hide and pulling it off, again with Ariti's tongs. He was
completely silent now, but for a moment, the slave caught
his eyes. He wished he had not. They were the eyes of what
was no longer a human being, but a breathing corpse. He was
no longer alive; but neither could he die. And this was when
Atossa went up to him. She spoke to him in a voice the slave
had never heard before, and hoped that he would never hear
again, and only the eyes revealed that the victim heard.
Then she drew her knife, set its point below his left
collarbone, and pushed it slowly into his body until at last
it reached his heart and he was truly dead.
    This last moment Fallou never saw. He was on his face on
the ground, shaking uncontrollably, and the women closest to
him were too absorbed by the spectacle of the death of their
victim to care or even notice. Neither did he see how the
cadaver was dragged out of the camp. He stayed where he was,
clutching the grass, and he was back where he was caught by
Atossa and Sarissa, on that little rise far out in the
grasslands more than half a year ago. He had thought that he
had learnt to know these women, or at least Atossa; he had
not.
    His two owners came and fetched him and brought him to
their tent. They sat talking far into the night, sometimes
laughing in a dry, unpleasant fashion. They ignored him
completely, and he was grateful for that. Two days later,
when Atossa wanted him to serve her sexually, he was
impotent. Sarissa taunted him, suggesting that they should
get rid of him as they had of the victim of a couple of
nights ago. Was she serious? But Atossa spoke harshly to
her, and she was silent. Atossa seemed to understand him.
She contented herself with holding him and speaking softly
to him, soothing him with her hands on his face, even cooing
like a mother. He lost control of himself completely and
burst out weeping. She comforted him, and Sarissa seemed to
change her mind suddenly and helped her, pressing himself
against his shaking shoulders and buttocks while Atossa was
embracing him face to face. So perhaps Sarissa had not been
contemptuous after all, just thoughtless.
    Atossa continued to hold him while his sobbing subsided.
She continued to talk to him, trying to explain. What he had
seen was a punishment meted out to a culpable enemy, a
transgressor. His body had been dragged away by its feet,
behind a horse, to a place where his friends would find it,
and perhaps learn from his fate. And the women's triumph and
joy was righteous. But this would never happen to him, to
Atossa's and Sarissa's slave: they would never permit it,
and no other horsewoman would demand it. He belonged with
the Sisterhood, as property, certainly, but as valuable,
even cherished property. Yes, Atossa and Sarissa, and the
other women too, Ariti and Lykomaki and Hikati even, did
cherish him. Had he not understood that?
    She was still holding him when he fell asleep. Unlike
the two previous nights, his sleep was not disturbed by
dreams of being in the dead man's place. He woke up with his
mistress' hand around his member, and with the beginning of
an erection which she tended carefully. But she did not use
him until nightfall, and by then, he was in working order
again.

(To be continued with part 5)
