~Subject: HORSEWOMEN # 4
~From: an438434@anon.penet.fi (Umbra)
~Date: Sun, 17 Dec 1995 10:19:32 UTC
~Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.femdom
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 # 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 seeing 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)


   
