once upon the grave of a sinful nun

17 Thursday May 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, story

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Tags

grave, historical, lesbians, masturbation, nun, sin, story

I wonder why a little, why the gods
above me who must be in the know,
think so little of me, they allow you to go.

— Cole Porter

I.
The year before the Shogun banished the foreign missionaries from his lands, sending them back to Portugal, or whatever hell they had once arisen from, something queer happened. Far away in the unfashionable north, in a lonely village called Kawanishi, there lay an old, solitary churchyard. Because the missionaries who built it were hairy barbarians, no one interred in those grounds were ever cremated; there were no family graves, none of the ancestors left behind were remembered, fondly or otherwise. The churchyard’s low, curly grass now fed a few vagabond goats that daily struggled over its ruined walls, it was the sort of grass that hid little gray mice that roamed through the sad wilderness, all bordered over with glum willow trees. The rusty gate, because of course there was one, seldom opened to human touch, but shrieked in pain when the wind sang against its hinges. Only the lost souls, generations of the converted, condemned to wander in that desolate place until some vaguely explained day of reckoning occurred, which was always in the far, far distance, sang with the wind, shaking the tree boughs, wailing at their terrible imprisonment.

In this churchyard there was one grave unlike all the rest. The stone which stood at its head bore no name, even the ones spelled out in the odd Romaji lettering the strangers somehow understood, but instead carried a curious symbol: a plump, crudely carved calla lily, opening up above blood red waves.

The grave was, simply, different, covered with a thick growth of mourning band blossoms. No ordinary woman lay within, it was the grave of a sinful nun.

II.
Not far from the old churchyard a young woman lived with her old husband in a drab, wattled hut. She had been a dreamy, dark-eyed girl growing up, the sort who never played with other children, but instead loved to wander in the sun-kissed fields, lie by the banks of the boggy, soggy rivers, watch the thick water swirl this way and that, laugh with the lilies as they swung their heads on the naked breast of the east wind. As one might expect, she had grown up to become a dreamy, dark-eyed woman, the sort who continued to live a solitary life; for her elderly husband was a wild, wicked man who sat at home and drank all day, cursing the gods into the calm summer nights so that even the poor ghosts, those who were damned to wander in the churchyard under the brow of the hill, shook their shaggy heads sadly at the young woman’s plight.

Often, very often, she would disappear out into the firefly-filled night, or wander the sun-dappled meadows during the day where all her husband’s hideous blasphemies could not reach her, where she could talk with the lilies in a low, affable voice, for they were her friends.

In this wandering way she came to haunt the old churchyard as well, much like the souls of those whom the missionaries had condemned to dwell there. Some of the dead were, understandably, far from pleasant to her, for death does not stop a person from being a tomfool or a hooligan. But most tolerated her as she roamed by their crumbling headstones, tracing her fingers over the foreign words, names that had been long forgotten.

There was one gravestone, though, that she did not like, for the ghost had been a terrible pervert in life and was no better later on. Nasty, old men were nothing new to her, and truth be told there seemed to be a little pervert in her soul as well. What happened was this: one evening, right as the sun was sinking behind the trees, bursting into a thousand flaming tentacles, she turned a corner and there he was. Standing still she tried to look at him out the corner of her eye, for someone had once told her that was the only way to see ghosts. But this gave her a headache and it didn’t really matter how she stood, the ghost was lost in his own little world.

Most ghosts didn’t bother her, except for the ones who had died in amazingly violent accidents. It wasn’t just their tattered bodies, they tended to put on pompous, la-di-da airs, as if no one else had ever gotten sucked under a millstone while grinding wheat. The martyrs were almost all insufferable assholes. Sometimes, she thought, it was as if they had been told that death was nothing more than a private club and had seriously believed it. The young woman had seen the dead pervert before, though she never had the courage to ask him what he had died from; while the words “Fellatio” and “Porcupine” had never once crossed her mind whatever had killed him had left him with a curious “whittled down” look, as if a samurai once had practiced on him day and night.

The young woman watched him, wanting to see what he would do.

The ghost was sitting against his headstone, wearily running his hand through his gore-encrusted hair. His fingertips left wet marks on his neck and traces of blood on his robe as he reached for belt tie that held most of his dismembered body together.

The dead pervert closed his eyes as he tugged the belt open. The young woman stared slack-jaw as he pulled his robes to his hips, exposing something bluer, thicker and more bulbous headed than a sperm whale’s tongue. The young woman bit her lip. This dead man’s cock hypnotized her; long, mottled, pulsing in his hand as if it were alive once again. She wondered what it would feel like insider her. What it would taste like? Sex with her husband had been torture at best, an endless world of disappointments almost all other times. But this: here was a man who could fuck like a bull-god — she blushed in spite of herself.

The ghost stroked himself, moaning with dreadful long gurgling noises. The young woman found that she was getting just as excited, simply by watching him, fascinated at how his hand tightened after each stroke. She could feel the dampness of lust deep in the core of her cunt awakening, the way an underground stream slowly burbles its way to the surface. She knew she was acting crazy just by watching him; fucking around with the dead never ended well, but right then she couldn’t help it. Her fingers slipped inside her kimono. Her fingers made a slush-slush noise as she ran her fingertips up and down her mossy lips. Her wetness intensified, a cum puddle already soaking the inside of her thighs. A flood that was about to break her wide open.

“I want to cum.”

His eyes opened briefly, staring straight ahead, his blood soaking into the ground, flooding the mound he was buried in, lapping at her feet: “make me cum.”

It was a sad sound, that particular pathetic request. The dead only ask for things they cannot do for themselves. The young woman rubbed herself furiously as she thought of him — one of an army of demonic cocks brimming over with sex magic, succubus spawn and lustful poltergeists, all the phantom lovers kept by anal-fuck witches — his ghostly lips sucking away her orgasm from deep inside her, as if life itself depended on it. “I want to cum,” he said again. The young woman knew exactly how he felt, so did she.

She closed her eyes, knowing she was on the cusp herself. She couldn’t help it. She wanted to help him but her body wouldn’t let her. Instead her legs trembled and she bent in half. A long, sad wail rose up all around her.

“I want to cum …”

His words brought her back as she climaxed with sticky, sticky fingers, glowing softly in the dusk. She opened her eyes and found that she was alone; even the blood-soaked grass he had been sitting on had been wiped clean. She felt bad for the poor ghost and said a prayer for such a thwarted soul. Sexual frustration for the dead really was a unique type of hell.

III.
The nun’s grave, however, nameless, uncared for as the rest, attracted her more than all the others. The strange device of the plump, crudely carved calla lily on a field of blood was to her a perpetual source of mystery. It came to pass that, whether by day or night, when the fury of her husband drove her from their home, she would wander to the dead woman’s grave, lie among the thick grass, talk to the one who was buried beneath it.

In time her love for the grave and the nun grew so great that she adorned it after her sensual nature she was only recently discovering.

She cleared away the mourning band blooms that grew so somberly above it, clipped the grass until it grew soft like desire. Then she brought primroses she collected from the green edges of dewy lanes; red poppies from the rice fields; bamboo from the shadowy heart of the forest. She planted them around the grave so that the sleepy nun, when she finally paid attention, would be happy. For when she died, the young woman knew, she hoped someone might make her little grave look as if it had been the resting place of a grand fairy queen.

As long as she could be near the nun then she was content. All summer long she would lie with her arms deep in its swelling mound of grass, rubbing her cheek this way and that, feeling the earth and sunlight warm her, letting her fingers caress the creamy tufts while the soft wind would come to play with her, boldly lifting up her skirt, encouraging her to part her thighs a little more, to let the sun see what no living man or woman had ever beheld except late at night while she was in tears. From the hillside she heard the shouts of the village men at work in the field. Once in a great while one of them would come, to spy on her, perhaps to catch her while she squatted to take a piss, as the other village women would do. But they always left, shame-faced, awed, hushed, stealing back to their companions, speaking in whispers about the young woman that loved a grave.

In truth, she loved how the nun, the sinful nun, could bring such stillness to the churchyard; how she could make the odors of wild flowers so exquisite; cause dappled sunlight to fall through the leaves just so. The young woman would lie on her back for hours, leaving her blue-green kimono open to the world, gazing up at the summer sky, watching the white clouds sailing across it, tracing with her fingers in the air every fold and crease. But when the thunderstorms came up from the sea, which seemed to her nothing more than ancient gods bulging with uncontrolled rage, she would think of her bad husband, once again drunk on cheap rice wine, and turn over on top of the grave, laying her naked cheek against the grass as if it were a sister or a lover.

What do dead nuns dream of? All the pleasures of life that were denied to them? Drugs and waking nightmares and alcohol and cock and endless balls? Are they condemned to always wear those wooly, itchy robes and odd habits, a miserable costume party, whenever they rise from the ground? The dead only ask for things they cannot do for themselves and this nun had died unsatisfied as well, as all people who forbid themselves grace in life. The greatest spiritual gift humans possess is the orgasm, a door to the divine. The words “ecstasy” and “to breathe” come from the same root; when your ego steps aside and something from the outside fills you with a sublime rapture that gives freedom to the soul, who cares where that grace came from? The dark night of the soul is the grace of cumming. But those who have never experienced rapture know nothing about the divine. So the nun had lived and died and had a lot of fucking to make up for.

The summer wore on, passed into autumn. The trees grew sad, shivering as the time approached when the fierce sea winds would rise up to strip them naked once more. The little village was known for its cool summers and icy winters. A Kawanishi winter was not a time for lovers who could only meet under the blue sky, in the warm grass, pressing their bodies together on the rounded mound the nun was buried under. Often the young woman wet the little grave with more than just her cum, often her tears as the sadness of the season came over her and winter approached. She often kissed the dead nun as they lay next to the gray headstone, as if her lover was about to depart for years and years.

IV.
One evening towards the end of autumn, when the woods looked grim, the young woman heard on the east wind a fierce, wicked growl, as a dog gives right before the house is entered by danger. From her spot on top of the sinful nun’s grave she could hear the screech of the old iron gate swinging open. Hurriedly rearranging her kimono the young woman crouched in alarm behind the headstone with its calla lily on a sea of blood while the nun herself sighed and sank back under the brown grass, the taste of the young woman’s cum still alive on her tongue.

Coming across the churchyard were five foreign men. Two carried between them what appeared to be a long box, two more carried shovels, while the fifth, a tall stern-faced man clad in black, walked at their head. They smelled unwashed, their clothes debased, a fog reeking of rum and consecrated dust clung to their skin. As the young woman watched the men appeared to aimlessly wander back and forth, often stumbling over half-buried headstones, cursing in a curious, nasal language she did not understand; or, stooping down, they clawed back the moss and vines to examine half-obliterated inscriptions written in the stones. As she watched the young woman’s heart beat crazy-blood under her breast, saying a silent prayer that whatever god had sent these men to desecrate the graves of these poor ghosts it would also take them far away.

The men, with the tall one leading, hunted in the vines and long grass, occasionally pausing to utter blasphemes in Portuguese, German and Dutch that would have sounded at home with her old husband. At last the leader turned, walked towards the grave of the sinful nun. Stooping down he gazed at the design on the gray stone. The moon had just risen, its light fell on the plump lily. The tall man stood erect and beckoned his companions.

“I found it,” he said, in surprisingly good Japanese. “Here.”

With that the four men approached, all five of them stood by the grave. The young woman behind the headstone could hardly breathe.

The two men bearing the long box laid it down in the grass and the young woman saw a coffin of bright redwood covered with silver ornaments. On the lid, wrought in silver, was the device of the lily rising out of a red sea.

“Dig it, men, dig,” the tall man ordered. Straightaway the two that held the shovels plunged them into the grave. The young woman thought her heart would break; no longer able to restrain herself, she flung her body across the mound, cried out to the strange leader.

“Lord Priest!” she cried, weeping, “do not touch my grave! It is all I have to love in the world. Do not touch it; she who is buried here is more than my sister. I tend it. I keep the grass cut. I promise you, if you will leave it to me, that next year I will plant on it the finest flowers I can find in the meadows.”

“Idiot woman, what does a heathen know about the holiness of those buried here?” answered the startled, stern-faced man. “This is a sacred ground; she who is buried here was a young woman like you; but a bride of Christ, a saint. Now your ignorant Shogun has ordered all missionaries out of your country. It is not proper that the bones of a saint should be left behind in a country that refuses to be saved. Across the sea we have built a grand mausoleum for all the dark saints, I have come to take her with us. We shall lay her in vaults of gold and marble and pray to her until Judgement Day. Men, do your work.”

In the moonlight the four men dragged the young woman from the grave by her shoulders, tossing her into the brown grass and fallen leaves. Then they dug up the grave — through her tears she saw the white bones clotted with wet earth get gathered together — placed in the dark wooden coffin. She heard the lid being shut — saw the dark figures shovel the earth back into the empty hole. Then they took up the coffin and faded away into the night. The gate hissed once on its hinges, then the young woman was alone.

She sat silent, tearless, on the grave, listening to the shadows move about in the dark. An evening star came out and shown down the cliff to the sea far below, shown on a moving tide that appeared asleep. The young woman knew, though she was too far away to see, that somewhere out in the dark upon that boundless deep, a ship was crossing the horizon; that by the time that the sun would come up everything would be lost to her.

the woman warrior and the fey boy’s blues

27 Friday Apr 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, story

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Tags

Ankoku, Buddha, fey, fundoshi, Japan, Kenmu Restoration, Manslayer, Memeshi, Oni, Onna bugeisha, story, the blues, Tsumibukaki nuns, woman warrior

A note from the author:

“I don’t like macho, put it away;
doesn’t appeal to me, straight or gay.
But I know a boy who catches my eye;
he don’t act tough, why should he try?”
— Fem in a Black Leather Jacket,
Pansy Division (1993)

What erotica has to offer, be it a single impulse or a life-long fetish, is the desire to go “beyond” what the limits of our culture allows us. In this manner erotica is no different from many other visionary genres (think: science fiction, fantasy, horror, etc) in that all narrative is an attempt to go beyond our immediate boundaries. Be it space operas, fairy tales, ghost stories, magic or cyberpunk, we create metaphors and allegories for the things we hope for, the things we dream about. What I like about erotica is that the things we dream about almost always end in pleasure and pain, cum and kisses, a laugh and a scream. Today I am thinking about the bodies of two people I passed on my way to work. Random strangers, but in that passing, in that eye contact, in that second — whole worlds were born.

In the same way that butch bikers with tattoos who teach community college Women Studies classes have remained a long time fantasy; effeminate and androgynous boys have also been and always will be a big turn on. In Akira Kurosawa’s 1985 samurai-epic Ran, the hottest character out of the whole movie was Kyoami, played by androgynous pop star Shinnosuke Ikehata. It was Ikehata, if memory serves, whom I was thinking about when I passed someone, let’s call him the cutest boy in West Michigan, and so I came up with Memeshi.

The character of Ankoku is an Onna bugeisha, a female samurai, who used a weapon called a naginata; a long pike with a curved blade at the top. It resembles a halberd (think of what the Swiss Guard use while protecting the Pope in Rome). The naginata plays no part in this story other than a passing nod. Still, it’s always good to broaden our vocabulary. There is also mention of Nakano Takeko, who was a historical character, an actual Onna bugeisha and died in battle while leading a charge against troops of the Ogaki Rebellion. About two blocks beyond where I saw the cute fey thing I was almost was run over by a lycra-clad amazon. I am 6 feet tall and she was a good three inches taller, with shoulders that could carry the world and a waterfall of black hair that simply amazed.

Of course, both these individuals came and went in moments, they only existed on an erotic continuum in that when I got home I put them into this story. Still, isn’t this what pushing boundaries is all about? Creating worlds where it isn’t just eye contact for a moment but something else; other genres might have names for it but for me what that impulse to go beyond is called is desire.

* * *

It was dark when Ankoku drew close to the Nioi Swamp; already the white vapors were riding across the sunken wetland like October wraiths in a graveyard. Though her lover’s message had set her out in a mood of sensual delight, she had sobered considerably during the lonely ride across the hills. She was now uneasily alert; and, as her horse jerked down the grassy slope that fell away into the jaws of the fetid bog, she could see thin streams of fog rising slowly above the long rushes. As she watched they turned, gradually become more solid, blowing heavily away across the swamp.

The swamp itself was depressed, like a bowl. The appearance of the place, at this desolate hour, so remote from all proper society, struck her with a certain wonder that he should have chosen this spot for their meeting. Memeshi had been a familiar sight wandering the hills. It was there that she had invariably encountered him, the queer spirit boy with a girl’s name; but it was just like his arrogant nature to, on a whim, test her devotion by deciding upon some dreary meeting place. It’s hard to fuck when quicksand is sucking you down, she glumly reflected. The wide, horrid prospect having to sleep somewhere out there, in all that stench, depressed her beyond reason. Finally, tethering her horse upon the verge of the bog, she soon discovered a path that would allow her to cross it. For a moment she stood quiet on the brink of entering the forbidden world, thinking.

“The things I do for a good orgasm,” she sighed. Then, upon passing over the sacred boundary, she struck out boldly into the dark. The track was little used, obviously, for the reeds, which stood high above the level of her eyes upon either side, straggled everywhere overhead in curious arches, causing her to bow her head at times as she walked. She had left her armor and her naginata back at the inn, entrusting their care to the blind nun Momoku no Tojiru. A full half hour she was wandered alone in that wilderness when, at last, a sound other than her own footsteps broke the silence behind her.

Ankoku was moving very slowly at the time, with a mind half disposed to turn from the melancholy expedition altogether, damn all orgasms. It was then that she paused, for it seemed to her now that Memeshi must surely be playing a cruel joke on her. While some such reluctance held her silent, she was suddenly startled by a horrid, croaking noise, as if from some demonic bull toad, which broke out upon her right, somewhere from within the reeds in the foul mire. Walking a little further on it came again, now much closer at hand. When she had passed on a few more steps in confusion she heard it for the third time; just as horrid as before. She stopped to listen, but the swamp was silent. Taking the noise for, perhaps, a rare breed of spring peepers she resumed on her way. But in a little the croaking was repeated, coming quickly to a point only a hand’s width away. Ankoku pushed the reeds aside, peered into the darkness. She could see nothing, but now she thought she detected the sound of another body behind her, trailing through the rushes. Her distaste for the mystery grew, had it not been for her delirious infatuation with Memeshi she would have turned back, found her horse, and made her way back to the nun; a follower of some sort of distant, peculiar Western religion who only took women as her lovers. Ankoku couldn’t understand a person who clung exclusively to men or women, as if the world was black and white. The world was full of interesting choices and Ankoku wanted to taste them all.

The ghastly sound pursued her, though, at intervals along the path, until at last, irritated by such a rude, persistent, invisible companion, she broke into a run. This, it seemed, the creature could not achieve, for she heard a great splash in the mire and then no more. Finally, chuckling to herself, she continued her way slowly in peace. Her path ran out among the reeds into the smooth bowl that Memeshi had spoken of how to find him. Here her heart quickened, her gloom lifted. At the further end she fancied she could see some kind of hut looming up; but the fog, which had been gathering ever since her entrance into this forbidden world, wafted down upon her at that very moment, hiding all shapes from her eyes. As she stood, waiting for the mist to pass, a voice called to her. A voice she knew as intimately as her own heart. One that made her weak in the knees. She: the Manslayer! She saw him approach with circles of mist swirling about his body, slowly walking to her from out of the darkness.

Memeshi was unlike any male she had ever known; none among the Shogun’s concubine were as willow-like, as soft-spoken, as well-hung, as her lover. He put his long arms about her, drawing her muscular body close. They were polar opposites, physically. Ankoku’s body was scarred and tattooed; a lifetime of war had burned away everything that might once have been called feminine from her. Her short hair, towering physic, her boy-like hips, her muscled arms that, in wrestling, could crush the strongest of men in her grasp. Memeshi did not even come up to her shoulder, though she liked the way he would curl his lithe body around hers, enter her from the side, one of her massive legs thrown around his shoulder. Despite Memeshi’s fey appearance, not only could he easily carry her weight but he was possessed of a libido even the Shinto gods didn’t have a name for.

She looked down into his deep, up turned eyes. Far within them, it seemed to her, she could discern an orphic laughter, an alien god dancing in those wells of light. It was more than just an ecstatic hint — a spirit of fire — it was an otherworldly passion she noticed even at their first contact.

“At last,” he said in his musical voice. “At last, my beloved!”

He wore a furisode, a long sleeved kimono. Ankoku reached inside and caressed him, slipping her hand down into his fundoshi, a thong-like length of cotton passing as underwear, and finding that already his veins were pumping blood into what was his semi-erect nine, soon to be ten inches. He wasn’t surprised by her boldness, let a silvery moan from deep within his throat. She continued working with his monster cock, now fully erect and pulsating, thick as her arm. His breathing became more and more aroused, even for a spirit of the dark he enjoyed both tender and anal destructive fucking. She slowly raised his testicles in the palm of her hand, letting them shiver under her breath, making his cock look enraged and eager for release.

“Don’t hold it back, lover,” Ankoku whispered to him in his ear. “I know you want to cum; go ahead and enjoy this. Shoot everything you had been holding on to while I was away.”

Ankoku increased her pace, using both hands to fondle and stroke and caress; making him moan in his morning glory voice. She could see his chest and legs contracting; he was close.

“I’ve been waiting for th–”

Without warning, he mewed loudly, his hips buckling. The first spray of cum flew fast and furious, hitting her old uwagi jacket. His cock, though, was not done; it continued to explode away, spray after spray of ectoplasmic cum, making a trail that began at the tip of his cock and ended down at in the bog mud. She stroked him over and over until nothing more came out and finally, a beast in submission, his massive cock fell limp.

The world swam in front of her eyes. Even though it had been his orgasm, his cum that was dripping from her page-boy hair cut, when she looked down at him she found that he was crouching in front of her, her kimono suddenly parted at the hips. She wore nothing underneath. The mound of her pubic hair was massive, the pride of the Tsumibukaki nunnery when she last was there. He leaned forward, flicked his tongue quickly over her protruding clit, making a jolt of bliss run through her body.

“Look what you do to me, you gorgeous boy,” she moaned.

She took her fingers, wet them in her own cum and rubbed each all over his soft lips and up turned chin, turning them over and over, trailing her wetness all over his strange face. She could crush his head with her thighs if she wanted, she thought. Thighs that had ridden horses into battle; men and women to the point of orgasm; blocks of granite when she had been enslaved by the Tokugawa shogunate. They called her a freak; taller than most men, unstoppable when the blood-lust took her.

“Find yourself a demon, an Oni; only a creature possessing a supernatural libido can satisfy you,” the old shaman in her village had told her.

Memeshi inhaled, breathing in the sweet scent of her cunt. She stuck two of her cum-coated fingers in his mouth and he sucked each dry as her half hooded eyes stared into his, smoldering with lust. Her other hand was sliding fingers in and out of her ass, her tight, round O, bringing those fingers to his lips as well, letting him taste everything she had to offer.

“Why?” she finally asked, tingling at the nerves while he licked her fingers clean. “Why have you brought me out to this lachrymose location when my bedroom at the inn would have been so much more divine?”

He uttered his silver laugh, nestled against her, slipping his hand into her uwagi jacket. Her very tight jacket. The sort that clung to her small, perky breasts. He traced one of her erect nipples; her gorgeous long, brown nipples.

“Darling,” he answered as she shivered and pressed him closer. “This is my home. I swore to you that I would show you where I lived after you let me cum in you.”

“Yes, let’s do that again,” Ankoku giggled, glancing around herself. It was, perhaps, the first time she had made that noise in the presence of another person in all of her 43 lonely years. “But not here, fuck bunny. I have come and I’ve seen. I know where you live. But this swamp chokes up my lust. I want Buddha’s blessings when you fill me with your cum. Come with me.”

“You are in haste?” he asked. “There is yet much to see. Ah, my lover,” he said, waving at the bog all around, “you know what I am. This is my ancestors, I have inherited the swamp’s traits. Would you take a swamp demon with you as your mate?”

For an answer Ankoku pulled him to her, her warm lips driving out the horrid moods of the night from his cold touch; but suddenly deep within his eyes a flickering scoffing glowed, like clouds over the moon, and an odd worry struck her. She pulled away and the night grew chill again.

“I have the swamp in my veins,” he explained. “You are a fountain of the sun’s light. I am a willow’s shadow in the marsh. You make my shabbiness all silken.”

He was a lithe, lovely creature, she thought, a tangible taste of warm flesh. He lifted his magic face to Ankoku’s own. The dew of nightfall hung in his hair. His otherworldly beauty seemed to plead with her scars and missing finger on her left hand for her forlorn, solitary love.

“I love you!” she cried, “Oni or fey demon of this swamp, I do not care. You shall come with me; I have known you on the hills when you entered me from behind. I love your roving phantasma of male beauty. Nothing more do I know about you, nothing more will I ask. I do not care what your dismal haunt means. You have powers beyond what I can understand, your swamp is as queer and incomprehensible to me as your beauty. But this,” she said, grasping his already hardening cock, “is mine.”

He moved his head nearer to Ankoku with a surprisingly monstrous gesture, his gleaming eyes piercing hers with a sudden flash, the likeness of a winter owl striking prey. Startled, she fell back; as tall and broad shouldered as she was, but at that moment he turned his face toward the fog that came rolling in, a terrible thick bulk spreading itself all over the bowl. Noiselessly the great cloud crept down upon them. She was aware of him watching it progress in sudden silence. It was as if he awaited some omen she could not understand. Despite her years and training, Ankoku too trembled in fear of its coming.

Then suddenly out of the night issued the same hoarse, hideous croaking she had heard before; a noise the sort that Ankoku had only heard before on the battlefield when men made their death rattle. She reached out her arm to take her lover’s hand, but in an instant the mists broke over them like a wave, she was all at once groping about, blind, crying like a child in the emptiness. Something like a panic, a feeling she had only known once before when she had lost her maidenhead, took hold of her. She was the embodiment of the female samurai, a fighting Onna bugeisha by trade; and here she was, rushing over the bog, up to her thighs in ooze, calling upon her elfin love. A little the swirl passed by, like eddies in a river. Then, turning, she perceived him, standing silhouetted in the gray, his arms raised as in imperious command. She ran to him, but stopped, amazed, shaken by a fearful sight. Down by the dripping wet reeds crouched a diminutive, dumpy creature; a sort of monstrous toad. As she stared, the thing rose upon its back legs, disclosing to her view a horrid human ribcage and ghastly face: pasty as the bloated gaijin, Admiral Perry; cadaverous, with stringy black hair; its body gnarled, twisted as with chills and fever. Shaking, it whined in a breathless voice, pointing an emaciated finger at the fey boy by her side.

“Your lust was my guide,” it quavered. “Do you think that after all these years I have no knowledge of your lust? This is the hell that you designed for me. Now, love, would you leave me all by myself?”

The three stared at each other. For a long while no one said anything.

“Hear me out!” it finally cried, turning to Ankoku, panting, leaned upon a bush. “Listen to the tale of this foul Oni so that you may know him as he really is. He is the Bones and Marrow of Nioi Swamp. He is neither human nor devil, but simply the accursed bog brought to life, a spirit that has crept into a dead boy’s body. What you see before you lives, yes; grows more and more beautiful day by day, yes; but only thanks to this swamp. Take him away and who knows what would happen? And I, who was once a man as beautiful as he was, knows only far too well the fate of all the lovers he has cast off over the century. For six hundred years have I lived here. I ask you, whose bones lie deep in this blasted bog? Who can answer that except the one who clutches your arm? O mortal woman, O giant warrior; he has drained the living of their youth and virginity, he has sucked upon the gods and robbed them of their souls. He made me a lesser devil, a root on a decayed stump, he is the cause of this putrid husk you see before you! Lost forever in this hell! Now he would leave me to my lonely anguish. Ha, yes, go off with another victim, you boy toy, you male whore. Victim that you are, woman! I warn you now so that he might not rob you too!” — it hissed through its chattering teeth — “My hell shall be his forever!”

Ankoku’s untroubled eyes finally left the creature’s great repulsive face, turning back to Memeshi who stood by her side. He put out his arms, swaying towards her. So great was the light that glowed in his face that she took him into her embrace, their lips meeting.

“Human or Oni,” Ankoku finally said, after a long, wet pause. “I will go with you. I was once called Hitokiri, the Manslayer. I fear neither man nor demon, woman nor witch. I was Nakano Takeko’s lover; now I shall be yours.”

He laughed, leaning down toward the pathetic, wide-eyed creature flopping around in the muck.

“Dear, dear Fuzen-chan,” he said. “We both know what you just said is not true. You were a little green swamp frog once, one whom I taught the dark arts too so long ago that you have now grown sassy.”

“Really?” Ankoku asked, somewhat amazed at this revelation.

Memeshi grinned and rolled his beautiful eyes. “Believe me, the Kenmu Restoration was really, really boring. I had a lot of time on my hands.”

“But– but,” spluttered the unhappy thing.

“Well then, lover, let us be gone,” Ankoku laughed, spreading out her arms as if she could will the swamp and all its fugly denizens away.

Memeshi laughed again, his silver-ringing voice making a joyful noise inside her. He moved, clinging to her massive arm, as they slowly made their across the bog to where the trail head started.

But at the edge of the bog they were startled by a shrill, hoarse scream. Turning they beheld the pathetic creature rising up, winding its long, bony arms around Memeshi’s body, all the while shrieking out its grief.

“You stupid cock tease! Six hundred years wasted for this? You taught me language and my profit from it is that I’ve read about fellatio but would you ever go down on me? No! What’s the point of keeping naughty parchments under your tatami mat in the hut if you have no intention of getting laid?”

Stooping, Ankoku pushed the regrettable thing the author created out of their path and into a foul smelling quagmire where it quickly sank out of sight with a gurgle. With slip of his hip Memeshi guided Ankoku across the bog and onto Terra firma. Slipping her hand down inside his furisode robe she thought, “ah yes, the firmer the better.” At her touch blood rushed to fill his cock’s girth once more, its head twitching as she stroked it and ran her fingers up and down its length. Of all the ways to reclaim her lover from his swamp, perhaps sucking out the poison that kept him trapped here would work, she pondered.

She adjusted her position, sinking to her knees in the murk so she could lick the side of his cock and his curious balls; by that time she took the head of his straining cock in her mouth and sucked it in. She sucked, slurped and gagged while Memeshi did nothing save give out his odd, little cat moans, twisting her nipple gently between his finger and thumb until he pulled his cock from her mouth, letting her gum his testicles before returning to face fuck her.

“Will you love me, darling mortal?” he asked, looking down at her scars and broad shoulders.

She stopped her assault on his cock long enough to grin up at him, all ten inches still mysteriously hidden down her throat. She made a noise, it could have been yes, it could have been anything, but they both knew that Hitokiri, the Manslayer, was giving herself to her lover.

He cried out in joy, gripping her skull while the swamp faded away and he exploded within her mouth, filling her throat with desire and agony.

xenomorph, darling

16 Monday Apr 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, story

≈ Comments Off on xenomorph, darling

Tags

1960s, alien, China, Communists, cunnilingus, fiction, lesbians, orgasm, star creature, Taiwan, tongue-fucking, xenomorph sex

Even after Su’s first encounter with the xenomorph the family’s shop continued to smell like an abattoir, since that was exactly what it was.

For over ten years Su’s mother had spent her waking days amongst butchered meat from every animal that could be chopped, cut or diced upon the island of Taiwan: Sika deer, Chinese pangolin, clouded leopard, mountain dog, flying squirrel and even the tiny lesser horseshoe bat, at one time or another, all had hung, suspended from their haunches, in her display window. When her mother would come home at night Su’s little world would become saturated with the aromatic stench of primeval blood. The older woman would leave streaks of crimson slime everywhere she went; on the bathroom walls, in the rice bowl, even on the front page of the People’s Daily featuring the picture of that decadent wastrel, J. F. Kennedy, getting inaugurated as the 35th President of the United States. To Su’s mother, all that blood and butchery was simply part of the natural way of life. Indeed, 1961 was the best of all years to be alive and to be a Communist Party member, her mother would often say, always adding, unless you are a peasant living on the mainland, then you’re probably just dying from the Great Famine.

It was true that Taiwan had many advantages over mainland China at that time; for example, a lack of famine was always considered a good thing; as well as not having any of those feisty re-education camps where villagers would beat college students with sticks until they forgot everything they had learned. Rote memorization, indeed. In comparison, Su and her family were relatively affluent. They lived above their own shop — her mother and her sister Jia — in three small rooms that were perpetually saturated with the odor of their livelihood.

When Su was little she had been apprenticed to the trade of butchery and slaughter. She had become a professional meat handler at the age of sixteen and by eighteen knew everything there was to know about cutting short loins and sirloins, fingering flanks and shanks. The day the first spaceship appeared, a burning derelict that, spiraling down out of a gray cloud bank, crashed into Taipei’s famous Chiang Kai-shek Memorial Hall, destroying everything in its path, Su was up to her elbows in macaque’s viscera, grasping after choice monkey bits. Jia had just returned to the shop, a little out of breath, holding a smoldering, honeycombed clod of metal in her hands, wrapped up in a steaming cloth.

“And what do you have there?” her mother asked, putting down her hack-saw.

“I don’t know, it fell out of the sky.”

“Out of the sky?”

“Yes, the crash has set the buildings in the Zhongzheng District on fire,” Jia explained, mentioning the neighborhood that was once home to all the city’s governmental ministries.

“On fire?”

“Yes, didn’t you hear that great explosion followed by all those people screaming?”

“Screaming?”

“Yes, um, why did you think I ran out into the street just now?”

“O, I don’t know,” her mother answered, smearing red and steaming bits across her cheek. “I thought that you had heard that the local kennel was having a half-off sale. That’s usually the only reason I go out into the street nowadays.”

Wiping her hands on her apron, the girls’ mother took the clod of metal in one muscled palm and brought it up to her nostrils, inhaling deeply. Her eyebrows furrowed.

“What does it smell like?” Su asked from across the room.

“How the hell should I know? Years of working with splattering body fluids has ruined my sense of smell. Here, catch! What do you think?”

“I’m not going to put that under my nose,” Su laughed. “You have no idea where that thing has been.”

“You say it fell out of the sky?”

“Yes, mama. It crashed and set everything on fire.”

Su’s mother shrugged, letting the handle that had once belonged to an off-world containment cage — inscribed with the words, “Warning! Dangerous Specimens!” — fall with a clunk-clunk upon the cutting board.

“I wouldn’t worry. Comrade Kao-En will see to it, the Party always does. Now then, back to work, we have racks to side.”

II.

No one spoke of the strange, alien metal for the rest of the evening until it was time for bed. The girls’ mother had left the clod sitting where she had dropped it, less out vexation and more because it simply didn’t interest her. Her daughters, though, were of an entirely different mind.

“I can’t help but wonder if this metal is part of that spaceship that crashed into the city this afternoon?” Jia mused. “I wonder how far through outer space it went just to get here?”

“I can’t help but wonder why there is nothing in the newspapers or on radio about this?” Su replied. “You’d think more people would notice something like a great ball of screaming fire setting all the governmental buildings ablaze, plus that eerie pulsating glow to the west accompanied with that rhythmical humming noise, as if we were listening to the engines of some wild alien war machine.”

“I am sure the Party simply wants to downplay the accident in the event it is only some new weapon being developed by the capitalist Yankees,” her mother answered. “But don’t go making things up. Outer space? We all know there is nothing up there. Didn’t the Chairman say that outer space is nothing more than death wrapped up in darkness and silence? I am sure he did, at some point during his many, many speeches. I say we just wait until the Party declares what happened and go along with that. It will be in the People’s Daily tomorrow morning, I am sure.”

Su noticed that, unlike earlier in the day though, her mother did not speak with her usual off-handed frippery that was her way of dealing with things she did not understand. There was almost, one could say, a nervous twang in her voice.

Weird, the girl thought, settling herself down in her bed. Everything outside her little window was unnaturally dark, as if the night was nothing more than a disembodied spirit that wished to smother the city, if only it could get inside. From where she lay, naked, Su could see no city lights, no stars, nothing. She idly ran her fingers through her hair. It was as if the world had become an empty void or the the moon had been blotted out and shadows pressed themselves against the window glass.

After Su was done and closed her eyes and rolled over to one side, her fingers cum-sticky, the monstrous shadow that had been peering in at the girl all this time silently moved away, allowing the pale stars in the sky to fill up the pane of glass once more with desolate, cold-hearted light.

III.

Su muttered in her sleep. Her restlessness had left her only half covered, the more interesting half, for it was a hot night. Her breasts slowly rose and fell, her nipples were bewitchingly dark and erect. Sweat ran down her thighs, pooled around her ass, reflected in the moonlight. The soggy patch of black curls between her legs gave off the sex-stench of a wild finger-fucking. Something motherish and loverish called her name. Su opened one blurry eye.

A figure stood at the end of her bed.

No one was ever going to mistake it for a human; it glimmered in the dim light with its bio-mechanical exoskeleton, with its cylindrical skull. It was as naked as Su and shockingly mammalian; a dozen curious, small breasts ran down either side of its pitch-black chest, its ass was huge and curved, its hairless cunt puffy, large and brilliantly green — a wet sort of poison — glowing phosphorescent in the dark.

Su wanted to scream but no air came out. She heard a slow, shrill hiss as the thing swung — its? — hers? — a great, elongated head toward the girl. Su didn’t know if the thing — it? — she? — yes, anything with a cunt that glowed must be called a she — was peering at her, but the star creature had no eyes. Perhaps she could smell female blood? smell menstrual blood? or was it the blood Su continually worked in? Perhaps all. Perhaps neither.

The xenomorph reached out with a talon-tipped finger, touching Su’s exposed thigh. It regarded the warm flesh with a cocked head to one side. The human was emitting an odd scent, one that intrigued her. Leaning over the bed, she opened her mouth, revealing a huge, silvery maw, sampling the air that floated about the young woman, tasting it, emitting soft mewling-hisses of approval.

The thing — the abomination — whatever it was, seemed almost to smile, leaning forward even more, her face inches from Su’s. Cool breath, like the air from a desert cave, hit Su’s face. The star creature inched closer still, curling back her lips to brush them across Su’s. The girl opened her mouth to scream, to call for help, to do anything but was silenced as an otherworldly tongue, segmented and gleaming, forced itself between Su’s lips. It was long and wicked, probing, squeezing, pulling at the root of Su’s own tongue, forcing its way deeper into her throat.

Su felt herself begin to gag as the xenomorph wrapped one hand around her skull, the other grasping the small of her back, pulling the human closer as Su thrashed about on the bed. The thing pushed more of herself into Su’s mouth but found her tongue was too big to fit easily. In and out the queer tongue went, slowly at first, then as the star creature built up more speed, she went deeper; exploring Su’s uvula, licking around the insides of the girl’s throat in a way that made her stomach convulse. Su choked once, twice, three times. She held her mouth open as wide as possible. Over and over the xenomorph continued to explore the human until Su had spittle running down her chin and onto her breasts. The suffocating pressure was just too much, tears welled up in her eyes. The xenomorph sniffed at Su’s tears, sighed and slowly withdrew.

The human turned on her side, coughing, bringing up bile and that night’s dinner, while the star creature’s tongue once more reached out, wrapping itself gently around Su’s neck.

Su felt long, cruel fingers glide across her ass cheeks, felt something dripping into the cleavage of her ass while the tongue trailed down her back, savoring the taste of her skin. The taste of flesh was fantastic. The smell of Su’s fear was intoxicating especially since it was mixed with the xenomorph’s own excitement. She reached out with her silvery lips and kissed Su’s flesh, delighted that Su’s anus twitched as her cool, wet tongue slid over it, continuing on. She parted the human’s cunt lips and Su gasped, unable to hide something that wasn’t fear, afraid that the thing might stop. Su dug her fingers into her pillow, making low, uneven hiccoughing noises.

The star creature lowered her mouth, kissing the entrance to Su’s hair-soppy cunt. Her long tongue snaked out once more, entered the girl. It went deep, deeper, flexing, probing the magma-hot walls of her vagina. Su felt an orgasm building — she didn’t want it but couldn’t stop what this thing, this seraphine, had started. The xenomorph’s fingers played with her clit, evoking up no fear now, focusing only on making the human groan with pleasure at this crude extraterrestrial cunnilingus. We mean to please. When Su finally orgasmed, a pitiful noise from a soul so hungry, her hips buckled, her cunt contracted, a silent scream that took in the whole cosmos and she arched her back, touching the xenomorph’s carapace with both hands, wrapping her thighs around the thing’s oblong head, holding that incredible tongue firmly between her own legs, locked in place the way any lover would do in post-orgasmic bliss.

As the tongue withdrew from Su’s depths the star creature crawled up, over the human’s body, so that her own row of small, mammalian breasts brushed across Su’s open lips. It purred at the first contact, began to move its obsidian-black tits over the inviting face.

Slowly, as if waking from some horrible dream about smothering Su began suckling, her tongue twirling around each strange nipple that was offered. Purrs from the xenomorph were so strong that the bed shook and the nipple quivered under her tongue.

IV.

For two whole weeks Su was able to keep her secret lover secret from her mother and sister and for two whole weeks the Communist Party played along with the idea that the derelict spaceship had simply been an American satellite that dropped out of orbit accidentally. The mayor of Taipei, Chieu Kao-En, made speeches and the People’s Daily ran cryptic headlines about: “The Monochromatic Nuisance” and “Decadent Yankee Parasites That Do Nothing But Get In The Way Of The Workers’ Work.” Sometimes there were sightings of xenomorphs down in Gongliao Park, for the creatures appeared to enjoy hiding in the shadows of the ancient trees, but once the reconstruction of the Memorial Hall began in earnest the citizens of Taipei turned their attention elsewhere.

It was odd what different people’s impulses were when confronted with new things. Knowing her mother’s nature, what worried Su was the prospect that if her mother ever did learn about the xenomorphs she would want to know what they tasted like …

Su had asked herself the same question, except it hadn’t run along the lines of “… in a heavy cream sauce with carrots and potatoes?” but rather “… at the point of cumming?” Su wondered whether she was the first human to ever taste xenomorph cum? Perhaps.

Every night the xenomorph needed only to glimpse Su’s body and desire raged through her once again. She liked it best when, after the orgasms and fucking, the human female curled up in her amazing, double-jointed arms and sang softly to her. They were mainly political Party songs — “March of the Young Pioneers,” “CCP Is Our Mother,” “Going To The Country For Re-Education” — and the like, but the low tunes made the star creature happy and gave Su a chance to run her fingers across the xenomorph’s brilliant carapace, her scars and tattoos adorned with mystical patterns from her home planet.

“What are we going to do when mother finds out?” Su asked, one night, almost in a whisper, in what she judged was the star creature’s ear.

The xenomorph could not respond — the purring and the hissing were the nearest it could get to human speech — but it stuck out its dildo-shaped tongue, the same tongue that had brought Su so much pleasure in such a short time, as if to say, “your fate and my fate are forever joined, lover of my mine,” and pressed her cheek to Su’s, amazed that such a small creature could generate such lovely body heat.

* * *

A Note From the Author:

XENOMORPH (noun): Latin-derived phrase meaning, “alien shape” or “foreign body.”

I love science fiction but have very little patience with the question, “is there anyone out there?” Since we’ve yet to establish any proof that extraterrestrials exist most people seem to fall into one of three camps. The first are the fence sitters, folks like physicist Enrico Fermi who talk about the “Great Silence of the Cosmos,” or, as he puts it: “[Since] the apparent size and age of the universe suggests that many advanced extraterrestrial civilizations should exist why is it that there is no observational evidence to support this theory?” Call it, “I want to believe but show me proof first.” Then there are folks like the Greek thinker, Aristotle, or the religious philosopher, Thomas Aquinas, who assert that human beings are alone in all of this wild, hairy existence, fulfilling some sort of vague, “divine programme”-thingy that requires God to be a carbon-based, bipedal life form. Finally, you have Art Bell, but out of respect the less we talk of him, so much the better. None of these groups are very sexy, which might be why astrobiologists and theology students so rarely get laid.

For me a much more interesting question is: “Who was the first person who saw Ridley Scott’s 1979 movie ‘Alien’ and thought, ‘I want to have sex with that star creature’?” Because you know somebody did, it’s why freaks of the universe rule, “gonna wave my freak flag high.” Or, to be more exact, since everything in that film was bloated, Freudian symbolism for cocks and cunts, who was the first person who saw the xenomorph’s little mouth (“I wants to play, tooo!”) and thought that it would work marvelously as a bio-mechanical dildo? It would take tongue-fucking to a whole new level. I reference Scott’s movie simply because I use the term xenomorph to describe the extraterrestrial in my story and would like the reader to know I’m using the broader term here, that this is simply an unknown creature, in the same way that using the term “E.T.” doesn’t necessarily mean we’re talking about something that looks like a scrotum and flies.

I set the story in 1961 Communist China because most alien invasion stories take place in either NYC or Los Angeles and nothing in-between. You never hear of aliens attempting to conquer the world in places like Finland or Saskatchewan, which I think just shows a lack of imagination on the part of the aliens. Plus, after listening to a CD of modern Chinese folk music, “Ode to the Communist Party: 1921 – 2001” (Dang de Song Ge Te Ji: Yi Jiu Er Yi – Er Lin Lin Yi), it’s my firm belief Dr. Funkenstein and the P-Funk Mothership could have landed in Beijing and most locals would have just shrugged their shoulders and said, “ah, more Western decadence.”

Hurrah for Western decadence! Cheers!

lilith’s flamenco nuevo

12 Thursday Apr 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, Lilith, Poetry, sonnet, video

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Andalusia, Duende, exile, flamenco, grief, Lilith, sonnet, video

Poet’s Note: Lilith was Adam’s first wife, an equal, kicked out of Eden for refusing to be man’s inferior. Flamenco is a style of music, song and dance from Andalusia in southern Spain, if Grief chose a style of dance, it would be the Flamenco. Duende is a Spanish term, the poet Federico Garcia Lorca described it as the artistic power everyone feels but no science can ever explain. In Jazz it’s called Soul.

* * *

And the jackals knew that a new woman
was in town. How could they not? The snakes dreamed
of the deep well of souls you keep hidden
between your legs. Our home, this wasteland, gleamed
like a song; where each hand-clap was a scream,
every heel-smack … an act of revolt. Eve
never danced the Flamenco; her bloodstream
never ran this lewd. Let the crude fools grieve;

the moon, La Luna, listens to me sing.
I have no Duende, yet still I .. i ..
i .. i .. i, mi corazón, my heart-string.

We dance as outcasts under promised sky.
We are the owners of nights of freedom
from which blooms the blood-blossom orgasm.

(I love this video soooo much! ¡y un coñazo!)

nune: the sky maiden

22 Thursday Mar 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, Humor, story

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Tags

bath, exhibitionism, Humor, lesbians, masturbation, Nune, science fiction, sky maiden, story, tempest, zeppelin

A note from the author:

Gender and sexual politics are powerful things, though I’ve yet to see a good example of the two being combined successfully in erotica outside of certain niche stories. After all, the person who enjoys your smut today might not be the same person who you’d want to vote for in the town-hall election tomorrow, though the same could be said about most of our friends and lovers who make up this collective family.

Still, no one lives inside a vacuum; it would be a lie for me to say that the erotic world which I write about is not influenced by events in my own life. The BBC recently ran an article entitled: VATICAN ORDERS CRACKDOWN ON ‘RADICAL’ NUNS IN THE US. The article went on to say, “[that] the Vatican has ordered a crackdown on a group of American nuns that it considers too radical. In a statement from the Pope it said that the group is undermining Roman Catholic faith on issues concerning homosexuality, sex education and promoting ‘feminist theories incompatible with the Catholic faith’ …” As someone who highly values both sex education and feminist theory I’ve been giving this a lot of thought; but I do not want to single out one ideology as being more repressive than others — the truth of the matter being that almost all male-ruled societies look upon feminism as incompatible with their world views. I would never go so far as to call for the American nuns who are currently facing persecution from within their own church to separate themselves from those who seek to silence them (they are obviously on a much different path than my own) but I’ve been pondering what lesbian theorist Professor Marilyn Frye once asked: “What is it about separation, in any or all of its many forms and degrees, that makes it so basic and so sinister, so exciting and so repellent?”

Indeed.

* * *

On entering the pearl-gray sky cabin, which, evidently, had once been fitted for the use of a Guild lady, Nune saw, standing at the opposite end of the room, the duchess; a woman that she knew, every inch of her body, by sight. A lamp was burning near the large observation porthole and by its feeble light Nune could make out that her lady’s face was still pale from loss of so much blood. The wound she had received from the airship captain’s katana sword had been seen to, though; her bare shoulder now sported a magnificent bandage of many layers of blood-soaked cotton and gauze. Her robes were still torn, and yes, her hair was still in a disarray; she wore a look of grave alarm upon seeing an anonymous Yerkink pilot enter unannounced, swathed head to toe in high altitude, cold weather gear. Her mouth pressed itself into a firm line when Nune pulled off her silk helmet, allowing the cascade of her black hair to shake itself free.

“What is the meaning this outrage, ma’am?” the older woman asked with an arched brow, eying the young woman’s round face, almond eyes, blood-red lips. “Whoever you are, I warn you that the Marquise of Dzovig will take revenge upon this indignity.”

“Your highness,” Nune said, bowing, “you have no reason for further alarm; the villains who carried you off from the High Abbess’s fortress, conveying you to this, their flag ship, have been burned out of the sky. I am the hand maiden of the Prime Minister of the Guild, a devoted follower of our Marquise Siranush. Two days ago a plot against your person came to the attention of my lady. We were unable to gather our strength in time to prevent your kidnapping, but we lost no time in putting forth when we discovered that your kidnappers had taken to the skies. By good fortune we arrived here in time; a few minutes later and your enemies would have succeeded in their object, for the sky-studding sails meant to cross the Howling Stream were already being hoisted as we arrived. The vessel is now in our possession and heading back toward Berjouhi. I hope within an hour and twenty minutes that I might have the honor of escorting your highness to the fortress.”

The duchess paused, thinking about what young Nune had just said. Then, with a smile, she expressed her great satisfaction.

“Indeed? I am indeed indebted to you then, ma’am,” Yeranouhi said, holding out her hand to Nune, who, even in her bulky attire, as duty dictated, placed the fingers to her lips. “Believe me, the Duchess Yeranouhi is not ungrateful, should it be ever in her power to do anything for your lady, or even for yourself, my dear, believe me, she will see to it.”

“My lady, I see you are recovering from your wounds,” Nune began, eying the blood-soaked bandage. “As primitive as this ship is, it does boast a steam room, which we can make available for you as soon as you wish.”

“Really? Oh yes, I think if I have the time that a little hot water would be an excellent cure-all. Tell me, though,” she paused, still holding Nune’s hand, which made the young woman blush. “I have many enemies. Who commanded my abduction?”

“The leader, madam, was a certain Lady der Katar Vosgi, a Countess of Brabant, with whom my mistress had carried out a long-standing feud. It was she who has just been executed by the commander of our musketeers. There were others, as well, who have had an active hand in the matter. They too have been dealt with.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, m’lady.”

The young woman pulled her hand from the duchess’s, bowing to hide her intense emotions.

“M’lady,” Nune could not show her face as she stretched out her arm, indicating the doorway to the bathroom. “Hot water awaits.”

* * *

Lady der Katar Vosgi had certainly enjoyed bathing on top of the heavens. The tub the Duchess Yeranouhi found, when she entered the room and looked about her, was literally an observation port, a bowl of crystalline-glass, cut into the floor of the bathroom, filled with soapy hot water; allowing everything and everyone the war-ship passed over a fine view of the naked bather, sitting reclined atop an endless sea of churning clouds.

“I tend to dislike an audience when I bathe,” the duchess began, seeing what was expected of her.

“Oh,” started Nune, as if the idea of not wanting to exhibit herself to all they passed by was totally alien to her. “Er, in that case, m’lady, I can stay and wash you proper.”

“Well — normally I would say yes,” the older woman said, blushing in turn. “But I think today I would like to be by myself.”

“Why did I send her away?” Yeranouhi thought as she watched the valleys of clouds pass slowly between her naked thighs. “I am acting as if I was a vestal maiden myself, back when I thought even playing with slick mittens was a foul and sinister art.”

She was highly aware that, sitting as she was on the crystalline rim of the tube, she was spreading both her ass cheeks and her cunt wide open below her. Her old nanny would have said she was exhibiting her kunty-kussy. Whatever, the duchess snorted; exhibiting to a blind world, perhaps, all that is down there are clouds and they see everyone as the same and never comment on a royal asshole save for the occasional douse of heavy rain.

“Which is a shame, really,” she mused. “I would much rather know that a gale or hard, thick blow had occurred because the gods were turned on by seeing my puffy kunty so lewd and open as it is now, rather than hearing from some minister of weather that it’s just boring atmosphere’s moisture warming up and gravity having its say.”

As she spread her lips wider the sun streamed down on either side of the dirigible. Moments like these make her understand why people worshiped the skies since the primordial times; why her ancestors gave up their first orgasm to the high gods that protected them. She felt that if she were to cum right now — as her religion told her to do — that the divine priestesses would have been able to eat her offering up with a spoon.

Feeling the warmth on her ass, she stretched out her legs to each side and breathed deeply, slowly, recalling the memories of the scents of the sky that she kept within her. One does not fly above an endless sea of clouds without realizing why, when the rain gods cum, that the earth, over and over again, is born anew. The duchess could smell the crushed leaves oak, sage, rosemary and thyme in the bath soap; the trees that sprung again and again from the earth, the tangy scent of what she imagined to be the wool from the baka sheep that were used to weave her wash cloth. She did not know how long she sat there — the brown, wrinkled O of her asshole pressed against the great, vaulted glass, the oblong circle of her cunt, the dash-mark of her clit — all her body breathing in the same slow movement as the clouds idly passing below her. She heard some faint rustlings in the metal fabric of the hull; heard the steam-song of the engines purr change slightly; occasionally, she dreamily mused, there came the distant fan-fare of thunder, far below her.

She raised her hands to her face, lightly pressing her hand against cheeks. She moved her fingers down her throat, playing her finger tips across the submerged mountains of her breasts. What priestess had not pressed her just like this? and — and then slowly as only the messengers of gods can — kneaded her very flesh? What truth could not be found in one’s own cock or cunt? ass or tits? The duchess enjoyed how her breasts responded to the heavenly touch of the hot water, lifting them off her ribs, squeezing them as the messengers of gods would do, forgetting the pain in her shoulder, the blood-spotted cotton, pinching the skin of her aureola between fingers that would one day control an empire.

“I am a creature that loves the roundness of my own flesh,” she thought, lifting one breast and then the other with both hands. Quickly the tip of her middle finger flicked back and forth over the elastic teat. She groaned as the tension built. We love to watch others masturbate, though we find ourselves embarrassed by the same act until an occasion beyond our control occurs, something titillating that compels us to let others watch. She threw back her head and used both hands to squeeze her breasts violently. Storm clouds gathered around her cunt. Gathering tension, like a furious gale, spread ripples across her skin and the dark sky. Her knees wobbled and she gasped. Tighter now, flicking her left fingers faster and faster over her buzzing skin, her brain finally bursting wide open as she moaned aloud, knowing that her young savior, the hand maiden Nune, stood guard on the opposite side of the bathroom door. The duchess squeezed her breasts; groaning in earnest as her hips convulsed. She knelt down in the tub, feeling the deep ocean moisture in the folds of her cunt, leaving a greasy smear against the observation glass, sending shivers all over her flesh. She took a long, deep, calming breath, her cunt spasming without once having to touch it.

A tapping on the metal door.

“Wha- what?” was all Yeranouhi could get out as she sloshed about in the hot, lathery water.

“M’lady,” came Nune’s muffled tone. “We are docking in ten minutes.”

The duchess cocked her head to one side, trying to make sense of what the younger woman had just said. A distant sound — music? — came to her ears. She looked around the empty room, unable to pinpoint where the noise was originating from. Something stirred under her ass. Slowly, she peeked between her legs.

Tower after imperial tower of the the great capital, Berjouhi, passed below her. Her citizens, in their gaudy colors of green and blue, had turned out to welcome the captured pirate airship home. On one tower, she was almost sure, she could almost make out her parents, an elderly couple in their nineties, checked in their exuberant cheering as the dirigible passed overhead, their daughter’s royal ass and quivering cunt momentarily exhibited for all the city to see.

* * *

The vessel had, by this time, been brought up close to the sky docks. The duchess, now wearing a robe and cowl that stretched from her head to her cloistered toes, was determined to wait on board until the sun was no longer seen in the charcoal-creamy skies; then, and only then, under the escort of her rescuers, she returned to the fortress from which she had been abducted only half a day previously.

It was not possible that a matter of this sort could be entirely hushed up. Not many hours passed before rumors circulated through the City of Arch-Angels of the events that had taken place, though none knew what those exact details were.

There were reports that an elderly hand maiden of the Duchess Yeranouhi had, at midnight two days before, discovered that her mistress’ bed was, curiously enough, unoccupied; that she had found signs of a bloody struggle, had picked up a blue-powder revolver flung on the floor; also, it was said, that the duchess had been rescued by an armed party of Yerkink pilots, that she was unable to obtain entrance to the fortress until one of the ladies of the Empress Mother had been fetched in order to command the mechanical sentries at the gate to allow the duchess safe passage.

It was generally known, however, that a priestess had come to the Marquise Siranush earlier that day, that their ruler had at once summoned a fixed-winged sky transport bound to the Abbess’s fortress. What had happened when their grand sovereign arrived there none could say, but there were rumors that the Marquise’s voice had been heard in furious outbursts of passion for hours on end. Her majesty remained at the fortress until the late afternoon. After the captured craft returned Siranush sent for the Prime Minister of the Guild.

When Nune’s ladyship arrived she found the Marquise, who had heard from her spies the details of what had taken place, sitting in the Hall of War.

“I learn, my lady,” began the Marquise, “that it is to you that I am indebted for the rescue of my duchess. I am told that, suspecting some plot, you sent the ‘Vika’ to the Abbess’s fortress, turning what could have been a disaster into a victory.”

“It is as you say, m’lady,” replied the prime minister, bowing, her heavy breasts hanging like pendulums inside her cloak; “but the whole merit of the affair rests upon my hand maiden, the girl Nune, that you might remember as having fought with and then conquered a whole Anatora legion. You may also remember that she escaped a further attempt of assassination by your own enemies. It seems that while working the ‘Vika’s’ short wave radio she accidentally overheard a few words spoken in a voice which she recognized as belonging to der Katar Vosgi. The name of your majesty was mentioned and my hand maiden discovered that a plot for carrying off the duchess. After consulting with me I ordered the ‘Vika’ to the skies.”

“For your own part, I thank you, my lady,” the marquise said, “and, believe me, you shall not find Siranush ungrateful. As to your hand maiden, bring her to me tomorrow, when the duchess will be here as well. I wish to thank her in person.”

And thus and thus and thus; the following day Nune, in great confusion, found herself at the center of the imperial circle. The marquise expressed herself to the bewildered air pilot in a most gracious manner, saying that Nune would be, if all worked well, one of her best of starlight navigators when the war was over. The duchess gave her hand to kiss and poor Nune, knowing exactly where that hand had been, found herself at once blushing terribly as memory of the duchess’s orgasm reaching her ears through the metal bulkhead, returned to her. The girl could make no more noise than a feeble “i..i..i..” until the marquise addressed her, not as a middle-age woman having her lover returned to her but as the ruler of all Dzovig, speaking as an absolute monarch to a mere Yerkink girl.

“Tell me, daughter, what does this mean to you?”

She parted her robes, bent her head forward to show what lurked at the nape of her neck, the spot where the hair had been ceremoniously cropped; showing the sacred image, the tattoo of Apollyon just peeking from inside her collar.

“What do you see?”

“M– my lady, I cannot speak about a mystery.”

“We are witnessing ancient hands,” the marquise said, letting her robes fall to her hips, letting the whole room see the tattoo, the sign of her power, a maze of inked lines and designs. Nune became instantly aware of the marquise’s mother-milk breasts, of the tempting nipples that would feed a nation. “Hands — three fingers and a thumb — shaping mud into a form, the first bipedal life form — forming a body, the first of these organic structures that we now call human, hands devising a mouth and nose and cock with heavy balls — breathing life into the lips, the nostrils, the hard column of the shaft — watching them all stir — creating a Golem, an Adam, the first mud-based organic structure — yes, within these lines sleep the DNA of you and me. But when Yahweh, with his dark arts, crafted Adam of the Blood, he said to the angels gathered near: ‘this human is a precious being created in my divine image, you will regard him with reverence’ — yet Morning Star, the only of the angels that called herself ‘She,’ defied him: ‘as a holy spirit I will not worship a diamon made of swamp gas and mud!'”

“Little one, we are the Morning Star’s children; the word ‘demon’ comes from the ancient Greek word meaning ‘spirit’ or ‘soul’ — as the ungodly religions grew so did they start calling all those that, like ourselves, did not concur with their plans for supremacy, ‘demons’. The sky became the refuge of the outcasts. The rebel angels did not fall, child, they simply forged ships of war to conquer the infidels who saw them as incompatible with their faith. I tell you all this now because we are going to go to war, against the empire of Anatora. Not because they are right and we are wrong – rather, because that as long as we exist those god-worshipers will not leave us in peace. Such is the burden one lives with when fanatics are at your gate.”

When the Dzovig fleet, numbering some two hundred dirigibles, finally set sail from the Castle of Fribourg, it was a grand affair; a warlike sight as they rose up, like hand-crafted, antique weapons of war, from their sky ports. From the mast head of each vessel flew the colors of Dzovig — the green of the sea and the blue of the sky — below these also ran the colors of the nobles who commanded each vessel; while the pennons of the musketeer squads — as well as the flash of their rifles in the sun — all made the decks alive with color and hope that this war, a war that only haunted and bewitched two nations, could one day be resolved.

The marquise’s dirigible advanced in the van, while, floating all around her were the vessels containing her principal followers. The Queen of Tatevik, as well as the Duchesses Yeranouhi herself and old Makrouhi, were all part of the great armada. Strains of royal music rose from the city’s towers as the fleet pulled away and filled the sky.

* * *

For two days the expedition sailed on seeing no resistance; then, on the third day as they entered the Howling Stream, disaster took place.

“What is all this chaos?” Nune asked to her best chum, the buxom Vaneni, coming up upon the observation deck of the Duchess Yeranouhi’s airship. “The luft-mariners seem to be running up and down the ladders all crazy, all I can hear is a great confusion.”

“I think,” began little Vaneni, the curves of her curvaceous cleavage barely constrained in her high altitude, cold weather gear, “that we are about to have a storm of some sort. A few minutes ago there wasn’t a cloud to be seen; now that priapic thunder bank over there has risen halfway up to the heavens. The luft-mariners are accustomed to these treacherous skies, though, so I’ll leave it in their hands.”

“Which is good,” smiled Nune, fascinating the silk binding of her helmet, “since your theory of ‘fly at the lighting’ instead of away from it has yet to prove successful.”

“You are so cruel, Nune-jan!” Vaneni cried, her thighs pressed together.

Even while they talked — with great rapidness — the sky-studding sails of all the dirigibles came down as the luft-mariners ran up and down their rope ladders; suddenly the storm engulfed them.

Some of the ships whose crews were slower and less skillful than others were caught by the tempest before they could fix everything snug; their great sheets of white canvas were blown from their bolt-ropes as if made from ox-bound paper; their hemp rings holding the fabric of the dirigible’s sides together erupted. In the sudden blackness which covered them the only lights that could be seen were the storm’s numerous lightning bolts, boiling away under the clouds. There was no longer any thought of military order. Each dirigible had to shift for itself; each captain having to do her best to save those under her charge, all without thought of what might befall the others of the armada.

In the dirigible which carried both the Prime Minister of the Guild and the Duchess Yeranouhi, however, discipline still prevailed. The prime minister’s mezzo-soprano voice could be heard above the sound of thunder upon wind, shouting to the musketeers to secure themselves below. Her royal standard was lowered, the bright flags removed from the sides of the craft, the shields which were hung over the bulwarks hurriedly taken below as well. From the minute the hurly-burly winds shook them, tearing through the skies at a tremendous speed, the dirigible’s gondola shook back and forth — like a divine fist rattling nuts or silver almonds in a cage. Four of the best hands were placed at the helm, their safety lines pulled taut. It was here that the prime minister and the captain of the ship took their posts as well.

The danger that they faced was now due to their comrades in the unnatural darkness; the captain worried that they might be blown into one of their consorts. Even in the chaos of the air they could hear from time to time crashes as of vessels struck against another and — with scream and shouts — exploded, momentarily cutting through the murk in ragged reds and yellow of flame. Once or twice from the darkness ships emerged, close enough to see the anxious faces of the crew, only to then immediately disappearing back into the murk. The steadiness of their captain, however, a woman who had twice sailed around the globe, saved their dirigible from destruction.

As the storm continued these glimpses of other vessels became less and less frequent; finally their dirigible was an isolated sliver of silver in the howling dark, the captain indulging in the hope that she was now clear of the rest of the fleet.

For two days and a night the tempest raged about them. The madness of primordial gods, emotions beyond human understanding, what is called the Howling Stream, refused to abate.

“What,” finally asked the prime minister to the captain at the end of the second day, “do you think is our position? Where are we?”

“I cannot say that with certainty, my lady,” the captain replied, bowing, “for the winds have shifted several times each hour during the last two days. I had hoped to gain shelter in St. Gallen, but the wind bore us far away from there. I much fear that from the direction in which we have been running that we must be very near the mountains of Aarau.”

“Brata!” muttered prime minister, then: “That would, indeed, be a speedy end to our venture if your prediction is true. Those Anatora pirates are cutthroats. Even should we avoid the risk of being shot out of the sky, we should end our lives as slaves oi a Grimstad galley.”

the night witches [3]

14 Tuesday Feb 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, story

≈ Comments Off on the night witches [3]

Tags

Die Nachthexen, historical, lesbians, Lily Litvyak, Marina Raskova, Night Witch, pilots, Soviet air force, Soviet Union, story, war, World War II

Author’s Note:

My spiritual mother, Colonel Marina Raskova, founder of 588th Night Bomber Regiment — what the Germans in WW2 called “Die Nachthexen,” the “Night Witches” — once asked me, “what is the purpose of prose if not poetry?” She delighted in French Avant-garde theater, Dada art, surrealistic verse, and so do I. If stream of consciousness bores you, dear reader, you might want to read elsewhere. Since erotica is, by its very nature, fantasy, writing about women warriors in an erotic setting, even set during the Siege of Leningrad, can be helpful. For one, it allows me to bypass certain sexist ideas that, surprisingly enough, remain in effect even today. National Public Radio recently ran an article “Women In Combat: Inevitable?” (02/16/12) where a surprising number of readers wrote in with comments that seemed to be based on some sort of odd 1950s-era, Father Knows Best, gender determinism. While my Night Witches are based in the realm of the erotic and the fantastic, that does not take away from the fact there have always been women warriors and there always will be. As always, these stories are dedicated to those of us who have survived.

* * *

[a dream, half wild: the naked ambition of war brides]

A room in a peasant’s cottage on the Ukrainian front. A large fireplace dominates the right. On the left sits a heavy oak table with benches. Woven mats litter the floor. A door at left leads into a bedroom. In the corner rests a cupboard. At the back of the room a wide window with blood-red geraniums poking up here and there, beyond that, an open door. A few rifles are stacked near the fireplace. There is an air of homely interest and care, even tidiness, about the room.

Through the open door women can be seen stacking grain. Others pass by carrying huge baskets of apricots, still more others are loaded down with wood. Every now and then, in the distance, a bugle blows or a drum beat can be heard. A squad of soldiers, none over the age of sixteen, march quickly by the open door. Everywhere there one can feel the tense atmosphere of dread, the anxiety of the approaching war.

Pizlina Katzev, a slight, flaxen-haired girl of seventeen, enters the room. She brushes off a couple stray stalks of hay from her jacket, walks over to a small travel bag with an air of secret determination. Her mother passes by the window, stops, silently appears in the doorway. She is old, work-worn, cranky but sturdy. She carries a heavy load of wood on her back, looking even more weary. She casts a sharp eye at her daughter.

“What are you doing, girl?”

Pizlina jumps, puts the bag in the cupboard and turns to face her mother.

“Who’s going away? They haven’t sent for Zhorah yet?”

“No.”

“Is all the hay in?”

The old woman sighs, drops her load on the hearth.

“Yes. I put in the last load. All the big work here is done, so …”

Pizlina turns, looks at her mother, hesitates, while the old woman begins sorting the wood into kindling.

“I’ll do that, Mother.”

“Let me be, girl. It keeps me from worrying. What were you doing with that bag? Who were you packing it for?”

“Myself.”

Her mother turns, anxious, “What for?”

“Listen, Mother, be still while I tell you …”

“Is there any news?” her mother asks quickly. “Chop-chop! Tell me!”

“Not since yesterday. Only they say Brody is at the front. We don’t know where Jurg or Karolek are, there’s been a battle …”

Her mother sways a bit, closes her eyes.

“My boys, my boys.”

“Don’t think like this, Mother! They might come back.”

Far off a cheer can be heard. Despite the war someone, somewhere, is celebrating.

“What’s that?”

Pizlina looks out the window, shrugs.

“They are cheering the war brides, that’s all.”

“Aye,” her mother nods. “There’s been another soldier’s wedding ceremony. Someone will ask you soon, too.”

“O Mother,” Pizlina cries. “That isn’t what I want to do.”

“What is there that’s better than having boy babies for the Motherland?”

“Colonel Marina Raskova has called for volunteers all across the country–”

“Oh, her.” A dismissive sniff.

“Kamenka, Bratrumila and I saw a newsreel of Colonel Raskova down at the theater yesterday. The Germans are calling them Die Nachthexen, The Night Witches!”

“My daughter, the witch.”

“Yes. That is what I was going to tell you just now. That is why I was packing the bag.”

Pizlina goes over to the cupboard, removes the little bag.

“I– I want to go to Moscow, to volunteer. I want to go tonight. I can’t stand this waiting.”

“You leave me, too?”

“I want to go to the front with Brody, Karolek and Jurg, to drop bombs on the Nazis, to help push the invaders out of our country. Why not, I, too, must do something for my country.”

“Nonsense, you are a girl. Who has ever heard of a female soldier? Fiddle-faddle.”

“Look, Mother, the apricots are plucked. The hay is stacked. You can spare me. I have been dreaming of it night and day.”

“No, Pizlina! Having babies. That is our first duty. Anything else is … unnatural.”

At that there comes a knock at the door.

“Who’s that?” her mother asks.

Pizlina, glancing out of the windows, whispers, “It’s Vasya Pupkin.”

The knock is repeated.

“Open, stupid girl! Don’t stand there!”

The door creaks. Pupkin strides in, tall, with curious patchy skin. His voice, like the pink patches on his cheeks, grow husky and he labors for breath in-between each sentence. His lungs were once vast, now ill used. The blue of his eyes gleams with moisture and his lips lighten until they are no more than a thin purple suggestion, cutting his wide, unwashed face into a smile. Accustomed to having women wait upon him, he turns fondly to Pizlina.

“Well, well, well, well! Not one appypolly loggy. You snuck away from me yesterday!”

He is from Moscow and speaks a polyglot of teenage slang and ancient, Tzarist Russian. It sounds ridiculous. Pizlina glances, highly uncomfortable, at her mother, who does not look her in the eye. Finally she nods.

“This is my mother.”

“Dobby day, Mama,” Pupkin nods.

The old woman rises to her feet and attempts to execute a curtsey. There is something forlorn in the gesture.

“Where did you itty?” He demands of Pizlina. “Here she was, as baddiwad as promising that we were to be married today, my Mama.”

“Oh, no!”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes you did. You let me lubbilub you full on the piggy tips, in front of everyone and Bog.”

“No, sir,” Pizlina says again, taken aback. “You simply fell out of the local tavern, I had the misfortune of passing by you in the street.”

“And then,” Pupkin continues, paying no attention to her, “when I itty to the church today, no bride for Vasya Pupkin. I must skazat, they had a bratchny smeck about that, for I had told everyone I had found the prettiest devotchka for me. But tomorrow …”

“I won’t.”

“Oh, yes, you will.” Pupkin cries, roughly taking hold of her, vodka fumes making the girl squint. “I won’t bother you long. I’m off to the front any day now. Come, marry me! What do you skazat, my Baboochka?”

“Aye. I should like to see her wed,” her mother says.

“There! You viddy? It’s offical.”

“But I don’t know you.”

“Smot me yarbles. Don’t you think I am dobby enough for her, Mama? Besides, we can’t stop to think of such veshches now, Pizlina. It is war time. This is an emergency measure. Then again, I’m a krovvy soldier, that ought to count for something, I should skazat, especially if you love the Politburo, you do, don’t you, Pizlina?”

“…”

“Khorosho, then, we can get married, get acquainted afterward the war.”

“I’m going to be a pilot.”

“Chepooka!” Pupkin laughs. “Pretty devotchkas like you should marry. Uncle Josef, even all the generals, they all have commanded it. It’s for the bezoomy Motherland. Shouldn’t she have my baby, eh, Mama?”

The old woman nods, remote, a million miles from home.

“Of course. It is your patriotic duty, Pizlina. You’re a queer one. All the cheekas are tickled at the chance. But you are the one I’ve picked aahhht. I am itty to have you. Now, you sweet devotchka – come with me!”

“And that,” Pizlina Katzev laughs as she walks across the muddy ground of the aerodrome with her comrade, Florentina, by her side, “was the last I ever heard from that bastard. Someone said he choked on his own vomit later that day, wouldn’t be surprised.”

The day before it had rained and the fog kept the 588th Night Bomber Regiment grounded. Today the girls would resume their daily practicing. Even with having to go a whole day without flying, Pizlina remained cheerful by noticing that near the hangar where she normally climbed into the cockpit of her old biplane, there sat eight new airplanes none of the female pilots had seen before — smaller crafts, with peculiarly curved tails; Yakovlev Yak-1s — each with an up-to-date machine gun mounted just along side the top, right where any forward pilot could conveniently squint down the sights.

“Why, it’s a thousand times better than our old ‘Kukuruzniks’,” exclaimed Pizlina on closer examination, using the Russian word for crop-duster, the ancient biplanes the Soviet air force had allotted their female pilots. “It says, huh, let’s see.” She squinted at the call letters. “Ee-dee nah hooy.”

Just then Lily Litvyak and Tatyana Mozarov strolled up, hand in hand. Litvyak had a great green woolen greatcoat on that she had found somewhere. It was ridiculously large on her small frame, as well as a pair of shiny spit-polished kick-boots.

“Going out for a little spin, Piz’da?” laughed Lily, throwing open the hangar door so that the sun fell full and proper upon the single-seat war machines.

“You can do anything with these uncontrollable cunts,” joked Florentina, stubbing out her cigarette on the sole of her boot, “except fly to Venus. Do you think we’ll all going to get one? Those motors will drag you to Hell … or to the Nazi stomping grounds, whichever you choose. As for stunts, heh,” and she spread her arms wide, “diving, dipping, playing dead, you have never seen the miracles of what a girl can preform who can work a joy stick while snot, blood and fire is erupting all around her. I only hope we go up in one soon. I hear there’s a new raid on in the works then it’s back to the old cardboard and twine Po-2s.”

Drifting away from the crowd Lily moved into the shadow of the hanger as her friend ambled away, talking and laughing, oblivious to everything, musing on that day’s hinted raid. Reaching the clubroom door, the gaggle of girls entered. There were a dozen or more of the flygirls inside, blue cigarette smoke tinging the air. Just as Lily hoped, Oksana Rzaev was working on the engine of a shot-up Ilyushin Il-2, her legs sticking out from underneath the small bomber’s underbelly. Lily remember watching the mechanic’s body before as she sweated under the boiling Ukrainian sun. She would put down her wrench, peel off her outer shirt, her breasts hanging loose in the skimpy t-shirt that all gunners, mechanics and armament specialists were required to wear, swish her mouth out with sun-warmed tea, then cock her head back, spit like a fountain into the puddles of grease that dotted the hanger’s floor. Lily would finger herself at that sight, cumming all over inside her flight suit, as well as later, at the site of Oksana bending over an open engine hood, sweat dripping down her breasts, forehead, lips.

To the city girl Oksana was exotic and alien. Her mastery of the Russian language was terrible and, truth be told, she was probably a dozen or so years older than Lily, but that didn’t show on her broad shouldered frame. She was short, like so many other of the Arctic women, had a welder’s body packed into her boilersuit. Rumor had it she had been a professional boxer once, back in Helsinki, though, of course, such things were unheard of in the more lax warmer climes. She was a refugee from the Winter War. Lily loved to watch the muscle-bound Minerva, a modern-day Roman goddess of wisdom and war, hard at work. Every airplane was different to Oksana.

“Each engine say to me, er,” and she broke into her native Finnish-Sami, the language of shamans, “nyt suunsa ja syö minun pillua.” [1]

“Say what?”

“Eh, you know, pillua,” and the older woman put the victory-sign of her index and middle fingers on either side of her lips and stuck her tongue between them. Lily’s eyes bulged then watered as she tried not to snort coffee out her nose from laughing.

“What! You mean, working on an engine is like licking pussy?”

“Juu! Yes, poosy, leek, pillua!”

“I … well, I never really thought about it like that.”

“Metafora. Just like how every pillua wants to be leeked differently,” Oksana confided. “In an areoplane her buzz only happens when you make her happy. Juu? Yes? Like a kiss – always sounds like a kiss.”

There were few mechanics in the training camp that knew engines like Oksana. When she started to work on a small attack plane like a Kochyerigin DI-6 she would radiate delight at all its complexities, laugh at the Curtiss-Wright engineers who had obviously attempted to stump the Ural mechanic with problems of its radial motor. The whole hanger brought something different, there were female mechanics from every corner of the Soviet Union, but even when Oksana was doing something mundane, repairing a fixed landing gear, she was alive in every movement, as if she were leading a jazz combo, or present when Billie Holiday first hummed the tune ‘These Foolish Things’ under her breath.

When it got beastly hot she’d drag the engine into the deep, dark parts of the hanger, where no wayward eyes could see, then strip off the top of her uniform. Her breasts, arms, stomach would all ripple in the heat. When she worked on a classic engine, like the Petlyakov that Lily flew, she would literally cum. Lily once saw Oksana as she adjusted a bolt on a Peshka Pe-2. Her hips swaying, big black boots tapping out a tune that only she and the forces of the universe could hear. Once she even reached down between her legs with the flat side of a wrench and began rubbing her clit.

* * *

On the day that Oksana didn’t hear Lily approach, she lay on her back, trying to wrestle a bolt back into place. When the shadow of the pilot in the immense greatcoat fell over her face, blocking out the sun, she stopped. Lily stood over the mechanic, one leg on either side of Oksana’s roller board, cleared her throat, trying not to giggle, asked, “Synishku, do you want something to drink?” She purposely called Oksana a ‘darling boy’ just to see her reaction.

When the Sami shaman heard the pilot’s voice, she couldn’t help but smile. She had wanted Lily for a long time. She reached out to roll herself out from underneath the plane, found Lily’s legs planted on either side of her shoulders. She used the girl’s boots for leverage to pull herself out and as Oksana emerged into the sunlight she could see straight up the pilot’s greatcoat, showing off her curvaceous, naked body underneath. The body of a killer.

“Synishku, you didn’t think I walked all the way here just to show off the latest Moscow fashions, did you?” Lily squat down, bringing her cunt inches away from Oksana’s up turned face, asked coyly, “my little king, are you more hungry or thirsty?” Oksana reached up, grabbed Litvyak’s scarred thighs with both of her dirty, greasy hands, brought Lily’s clit right down to her face. She was hungry after a day of working with her hands and ready to sate her herculean appetites.

Oksana sucked all of Lily’s cunt into her mouth at one go, like how one strips down the flesh of a kumquat with their teeth; however, she didn’t break the surface, didn’t leave a mark, only took the girl’s clit between her powerful lips, as if to say ‘my, look what I just discovered.’ Soon she was rewarded with the first fingernail shiver running down Lily’s entire frame. Oksana massaged Lily’s ass, spreading her cheeks wide, bringing all of her down to rest upon her face. Those cunning Alices who consort with the taboo always develop feral, emphatic hungers. Lily knew what the older woman wanted, felt those strong, callous hands on her thighs bringing her closer still. The mechanic took her time devouring in, kissing up, licking down every inch. Then her tongue reached her Lily’s asshole and for only the third time in her life Lily’s short life she was startled, but then cooed for it felt so fucking good. No one had never tasted her there before. It sent shivers through Lily’s battle scarred aura. The universe collapsed in on itself momentarily. She could feel her goose bumps spreading out in waves, infusing all the colors around her in orgasmic shivers.

Lily opened her coat wider, exposing her round ass. She wanted to give the mechanic full access. She loved the way Oksana’s greasy hands left imprints on her legs, her feet, everywhere. Oksana went back to feeding, lightly biting Litvyak’s clit, taking it in her mouth again and again — sucking on it, humming – urging the quivers onward, forward, up, everything between heaven and earth that was in her power to drive Lily wild. The girl looked down just as she opened her eyes. Their eyes met. Oksana could see the lust in that down-turned face, Lily could see the radiant energy staring up at her. They exchanged smiles that pulsed like magnetic fields. They were both lost in their distant worlds, oblivious to the fact that the hanger door was still wide open, anyone walking by could see what they were doing.

Lily started grinding — up, down, up, down — as Oksana’s tongue, her nose and chin, probed her deeper, deeper still. Pity the lover with an one inch tongue. The pilot was so wet. Her pussy was practically gushing. Oksana reached up, grabbed her tits in her boxer hands, massaging them, pinching her nipples, evoking out loud moans with each twist.

“Take off your coat,” Oksana ordered hoarsely. Lily momentarily snapped back to reality. She looked out, around, noticed the hanger door with the shadows of people walking to and fro just outside.

“Synishku, the hanger door is open, anyone can see us,” she moaned.

“Obey your mechanic,” was all the other could get out.

There was no arguing. Lily let the coat fall to the floor, swayed momentarily, turned around, came down on her knees facing away from the older woman. She unzipped Oksana’s boilersuit, ran her fingers down, between the valley of her breasts, over the little potbelly Oksana’s first baby had left behind, down into the mighty hedge of pubes, a wall of curls and colors. She could smell her pussy juices, mixed with all the other smells of the hanger — industrial paint, heavy-duty exhaust, diesel gas, twenty year old oil – all the birthing smells of machines of war.

Oksana stopped feasting on Lily’s cunt long enough to slap her hard on the ass. From far away the tell-tale klaxon siren was winding up. Suddenly she hugged the pilot as if passion alone could somehow protect her. Their faces came together, she kissed, almost fearfully, while Lily caressed the mechanic’s strong back, her biceps, the buzz cut of her hair. Then Lily stood, turned, the greatcoat now around her shoulders, buttoned to her chin, and walked out into the sunlight, taking nothing with her save two greasy hand prints on either of her ass cheeks.

* * *

The clubroom door burst open as the siren sounded off on the parade ground near a grove of trees. It was the general summons for squadron practice. From deep inside the cigarette smoke tinged the air the girls filed out, each in their full flying suits. They saw Commander Popova on the field, watching the mechanics roll out the Yakovlev Yak-1s. Each aviatrix at once mounted her own. Lily, as squad leader, had indicated that she wanted to pair off with Pizlina earlier that day. In the east, from over a monotonous expanse of scarred, war-torn country, came the sullen roar of artillery at the front, a stern reminder of what was close approaching.

In a few moments the entire squadron was aloft, in ones or twos, gyrating playfully, always climbing, swooping higher, until to the naked eye they became nothing more than mere dots in the vast sky.

At a signal from the lead plane they began maneuvering — two hostile squadrons about to engage in aerial combat that would have left the spectator amazed at the girls’ battle tactics.

“Budʹte vnimatelʹny!” said the Commander cried out a warning, her fieldglasses screwed to her eyes. “The Lieutenant is going to loop.”

True enough, Lily’s Yak took a nose flip, was soon flying upside down. Then she leveled out again. The rest of her squad followed suit, then followed their leader into a wicked angle, all of them righting up level once again. The first plane in the other squad, flown by Pizlina, began rolling over and over soon as well. The others behind her began much the same tactics while the first line drew away as if preparing for counter moves. Now they were descending in long spirals, each handful of planes by themselves, yet preserving the mathematical distance required from both opposing sides. Finally the two leaders circled slowly as their respective members followed each other to the ground, some coming in recklessly, others drifting down slow, while others slanting lazily in as they passed under their leaders. However, as giddily as it looked, it was all mathematically timed. The planes saluted methodically as they passed the Commander on the ground.

As Lily and Pizlina taxied their aircraft across the gravel in front of the hanger, the other pilots at last arranged themselves at opposite extremes of the landing stage. Soon all the exhausted aviatrixes had left their busy mechanics who were crawling over the Yaks, while they, discussing what just took place, walked away soberly into the shadows.

* * *

“Are you going to take me with you?”

“Say what?”

“On this raid.”

“What raid?”

“Manda!”

“Did you just call me a cunt?” Lily asked, giggling.

The vodka bottle had been getting passed between her and Pizlina for some time now. Rain kept the Polikarpovs grounded, pointless to send bombers out into a fog when the ground was invisible. At the word ‘cunt’ Pizlina thought she would melt. She reached for the bottle, took a long swig. Lily was sitting on her bunk, leaning against the wall, about a foot away from her. Pizlina stared at the empty bottle for a few moments, then announced there was another one in her trunk.

“A copious supply of vodka isn’t the real reason I want you flying with me,” Lily said.

Pizlina blinked.

“The real reason?” she asked.

“Well, if you want to get up, you can always show off your ass to me, I won’t mind. I’ve always liked a girl with a big ass in a tight flightsuit.”

Pizlina turned around to face her, suddenly feeling very self-conscious in the dim light and warmth of the aerodrome dormitory, while at the same time quietly elated.

“Are you drunk?” she asked Lily.

“Most indubitably,” said the girl from Moscow, “now come over here.”

As Pizlina leaned back she repositioned herself so that she was leaning closer to Lily than before. Before she could say anything Lily she took her face in her hands, brought their lips together. She pulled back slightly blurred, only a tad taken back. She looked the other girl in the eyes, she knew then that Lily Litvyak meant everything she was doing. The quiet elation she had felt turned into total, utter delight. She kissed her again. Pizlina’s lips were plump, soft. Opening her mouth slightly, Lily probed forward with her tongue, rewarded with Pizlina’s tongue making its way into her own mouth.

Pizlina couldn’t recall how long that kiss lasted, they were lost in the moment, but after some time she pulled away, began to kiss Lily’s neck. The girl obligingly threw her head back, giving her access to the muscled lines of her windpipe. At the same time she undid the top button of her shirt, then stopped. The barracks were empty, everyone was in the officer’s club. With a smile Lily placed her hands on Pizlina’s hips, started to run them over her stomach under her loose top, her fingertips slowly working their way upwards towards her breasts, felt her own nipples staring to harden in anticipation. She kissed her again, seizing her lips with her own, plunging her tongue into her moist depths, then resumed her work on the buttons on her shirt. Before long it was hanging open. Still kissing her deeply, Pizlina pushed the shirt back over her shoulders, unhooking her bra.

Lily’s newly freed breasts were now before her. So struck by them was she that Pizlina simply gazed for a second or two. Lily smiled as she looked on; delighted by the way she was in awe of her body. Finally Pizlina tilted her head, again caressed the side of Lily’s neck with her lips, but this time she worked her way downward. Lily moaned quietly as she started to play her breasts with her tongue. She could tell from the aroma that Lily was wet, that thought made her own juices start to flow as well. She thought about all those fantasies she’d had in her little life before now, all the times that she so desperately wanted to make love to a girl while growing up in a village of drunken louts, she also thought of all the times in the last few weeks when she’d been fingering herself while sitting in her cockpit. And during all that time, an eternity of waiting, she had wanted to have a girl just like Lily in a situation just like this; now she did.

The door at the other end of the barracks burst open, sucking out all the warmth and light as four girls entered, laughing, oblivious as Lily sighed and began to button up her shirt. Pizlina was about to say something but the other just shook her head, speaking into her ear.

“There will be time enough when we get back, darling. Be patient. There will always be time.”

* * *

It rained all the next day as well, but Florentina’s speculation about a night raid finally came true. From time to time, Lily, who would be in charge, held private discussions with various members of their night bombing squad. During the dark hours assorted scouts penetrated the cloud banks over the enemy lines, their reports returning being favorable for the plan Lily had in mind. A risky plan, yet, as with all good things, promising, if skillfully carried out.

“Well, well, Piz’da! How do you feel about a little search and destroy?”

This from Lily as she jumped down from her bunk earlier that morning just as the dawn was breaking. The time for teasing had just begun.

Pizlina, still drowsing, opened one eye. The next instant, remembering what the day would hold in store for her, she threw off the covers, leaped from her bunk in her bare feet. At the same time she hit the little lieutenant a mock blow to her abdomen where, according to ancient Greek history, Theogenes of Thasos, the greatest female boxer with over 1300 titles wins in the course of her 22 year career, would always drop her opponent. Then she sprang back, feet maneuvering, fists feinting.

“I can take on the whole Nazi Luftwaffe,” she retorted. “Want some more?”

“Manda, you mad vag gunk, manda!” Lily was laughing as she recovered, retreating, grimacing. “I don’t want any more ugly scars at this stage of the game.”

Night came, with it a thin ground fog that rose white, misty, good for the purpose in hand. The clocks were pointing towards midnight, the witching hour, when two dozen women, wearing their regulation flight suits, gathered at the usual open space, while from the doors of several hangars mechanics silently rolled out their machines.

Each aviatrix gave a few modest adjustments to her own biplane, just to reassure herself that things were all right. Then came a brief minute or two of silent waiting. There were no spectators. The rest of the women at the aerodrome had orders not to appear.

Out in front stood Commander Popova, attended by Lily and Pizlina, talking in low, indistinct voices. Finally Popova looked at her watch.

“It is time. Do your best, you two. Comrade Litvyak, you will veer to the right as you approach the enemy trenches. You, Comrade Katzev,” she said to Pizlina, “will draw to the left. Your squads will follow. Should you meet opposition before you reach your goals, don’t recoil, don’t retreat. Don’t signal unless necessary but obey ever signal given. Good hunting, girls!”

Each pilot returned to her machine, heading out in front of a short double line of six idling biplanes. Lily smiled up at Florentina, who would be her navigator for the flight. About this time there came a sudden blue flare, a signal rocket, shooting upward from beyond the grove of trees. At the quiet signal the leaders taxied away, finally rising, spiraling up into the arching darkness. Presently all had vanished, motors making their familiar putt-putt-putt noise, the sewing machines, zigzagging up toward an easterly direction.

Once clear of the Soviet front line, the double platoon of planes spread out on either hand, flying swiftly, keeping near the earth. The night mists, growing more murky, promised favorable cover from any forward observers. Without question the few advance sentries that still remained near the ruins of a train station they had bombed a week before were keeping indoors. The Nazis had hoped to use the station as headquarters, doubtless expecting a swift assault; however, the Soviet bombardment turned any advance futile so the vast bulk of the Hermann Hoth’s troops pulled back to a safer location.

But for the forward observers, the distinctive noise of motors of the Night Witches close above in the clouds confused their computations. Why were Die Nachthexen flying so low? Might they not be up to more devilment? Then the motor roared over, passed, then dwindled, but towards the east. What did that mean? Their sergeant was telephoning hurriedly as to what was happening.

“Achtung! Airplane motors close overhead. No bombs.”

Presently the drum and thrum of approaching biplanes became more audible along the eastern portion of the front.

From her plane Lily made private signal to the others to put on all speed. It was not a minute or so after that that the raiders were upon the front trenches. Each woman sat with the release wire of their bombs within easy reach. The handle of the machine gun handy, its deadly muzzle pointed along the top of the fuselage into the dark future.

At the final signal down through the night air dropped bomb after bomb as the line passed over those open trenches in which German troops were massed. As they fell and exploded their flashes could be seen distinctly. Great tongues of flame leaped high along with dirt and debris skyward as if trying to reach the aircraft that had hurled the destruction down upon the cowering shadows. A dull boom told of an explosion, then another and another. The air rocked with the disturbance.

By this time heavy-caliber machine guns began to splatter shots among the darting planes, while further back anti-aircraft artillery rounds were fired into the night and exploded into clouds of smoke and fragmentation that pockmarked, black upon black, the heavens. On they went. In a minute or so the gas-bags would be in sight, the zeppelins; for these observation balloons were the real object of this nocturnal journey.

Suddenly one of the planes in Pizlina’s close formation began to belch fire all around her left wing where it joined the fuselage. Whoever it was in that plane was gliding without power, it seemed, cutting the engine, slowing up and pulling off to the right in the direction of a moderately empty stretch of countryside, fighting now to save herself and her navigator. She was too low for them to jump, there was not time for the biplane to climb to a sufficient altitude to permit a chute to open. Slowly the little wooden craft lost speed, began to settle into a glide that looked like it might come to a reasonably safe crash-landing. But Pizlina could see that the flames were spreading furiously all over the left side of the ship. Right before it touched down the left wing came off. The Polikarpov cartwheeled, a great shower of flame, smoke and sparks appeared just ahead of the point where the bomber disappeared.

“Onward!” came the signal from Lily’s plane, running a gauntlet of tracers and cannon fire, steering to the left, rising higher from the forty to fifty foot level they had so far kept to. The squadron made for the rear line. Here rose a shadowy line of oval bags, so shaped as to qualify them for the term “zeppelin,” though far less regal or large than their commercial brethren. In daytime their elevation enabled them to see over a great expanse of that level, war-ruined countryside.

There were open gondolas below each, but here, too, the Nazis were at a decided disadvantage. Evidently no raid was anticipated, for there they swung, hardly half-manned except by the few drowsing guards at night watch. In and out among them shot the planes, their machines belching their curtain of steel, with the Nazis apparently too dazed to make much resistance or lower their zeppelins to the ground.

Using explosive bullets that flared at the moment of contact soon the bags of gas ignited, one after another. As a burst of flame enveloped the last zeppelin, Lily was already mounting higher when she saw Pizlina’s plane go corkscrewing earthward with one of her wings shattered.

“What ought we do?” Lily called into her microphone that connected her to her navigator.

“What do you mean?” Florentina asked, peering over the side of the cockpit into the dark.

“We need to put down, we need to go find them.”

“I don’t see – wait, there is something burning down there. Do you think you can put us down in the dark?”

“It’s a still night, foggy, terrible for anything besides not being seen. Of course.”

Taking her bearings as best she could, Lily swung the plane into a wide arc, heading back westward, keeping at an elevation of six or seven thousand feet. The moon came out behind a cloud for the first time, she could see a little road, even partway across the field they were heading for. Briskly yet carefully working her machine, the girl from Moscow descended until she was able to flatted out over the darker background shadows of war-torn earth.

Circling round at an even lower level, the ground came up fast through the mist. Gently, cautiously, she felt her way downward, easing up in speed as best she could. The wheels jolted over rough but level terrain, until the plane came to rest along a dirt road in a small field. Far to the east the sky glowed red. Quickly she adjusted the controls, killed the engine and, revolver in hand, boldly leaped out.

Except for the lurid flashings of the distant artillery it was dark. Leaving Florentina to guard the plane Lily raced across the field toward the burning wreckage. A heavy, yet trembling groan of metal, bending in its own immolation, startled her. It was a noise of nothing more but mechanical pain. It slowed her course. Stumbling forward, she almost tripped over a body laying prone across her path. The dying plane gave another horrid metallic groan.

Dropping to her knee she gently turned the body over. It glimmered in the moonlight — a face at once both familiar and horrible. A face she might have called beloved one day, yet so ghastly now in its disfigurement that Lily shivered, drew back, then bent forward once more, hating herself for such a reaction.

“Pizlina!” she asked. “Is this you?”

The one eye left opened faintly, the gashed lips made a noise that was less than a mutter. Lily shuddered as she saw that the face, indeed the whole head, were so torn by the impact that had thrown her from her plane that it was only a question of minutes, if not seconds, before she would be dead.

As it was, Pizlina’s one eye recognized Lily. She tried to speak, but faintly. Lily reached down and took the girl’s hand. She sat there for a full five minutes holding the dead hand in her own, looking intently into the face. She never uttered a sound all the time, except once and it was only a sniffle.

Finally she put the hand down. She reached over, straightened the points of the pilot’s shirt collar, then she rearranged the tattered edges of the uniform around the gaping wound. Then she got up, walked away down the road in the moonlight, back to Florentina.

There was a little copse of trees at the end of the field, but long ago the ruthless shelling had reduced most of the timber to scraggy, scarred skeletons. Still they were dangerous for planes when trying to land — or to rise again. The fog was rolling in once more. Soon all of this would disappear, as if it belonged to another world. A shaman’s journey into a fever-induced nightmare.

A little while later the war machine was flying through the fog, quicksilver in the night, gradually lowering its altitude, advancing across the lines of the enemy, revealed only to the pilot and navigator by the flashes from the barrage of distant artillery in the rear.

Almost in an instant they were over the front platoons, spectral, flying as close as they dared in order to escape the bombardment that was now passing overhead, falling here and there over the front trench line of the Germans.

Occasional a few shots were fired upward by soldiers who turned far too slowly at the sound of the noise, a phantom in the clouds; however, the ghost machine vanished almost at once, and the quicker of the men, these lumps of clay that sat in the dark, would urge their fellows to holster up their guns, to keep quiet, keep respectful of the night, for all around them, and high overhead, it felt as if the dead were too near. [cont.]

FOOTNOTES

[1] “Nyt suunsa ja syö minun pillua.” I understand using untranslated foreign words in stories is irritating. I spent some time trying to find out how to say “lick my pussy” in Finnish, or Norwegian, or Sami, one of those North-polar languages the shamans used to speak to the spirit-world with. I finally found this phrase, which Google translates into “Now shut up and eat my pussy.” I guess my point was that oral sex, much like mechanical engines, requires a whole different language most people never bother to learn and sounds alien when spoken aloud. Still, there is a reason why everyone loves Oksana’s skilled fingers, regardless of how it sounds when written down on the page.

Other foreign phrases used:
“Budʹte vnimatelʹny” / “Watch out” in Russian.
“Ee-dee nah hooy” / “Fuck you” (spelled phonetically) in Russian.

the night witches [2]

13 Monday Feb 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, story

≈ Comments Off on the night witches [2]

Tags

cunnilingus, Die Nachthexen, historic, lesbians, Marina Raskova, Night Witch, pilots, Soviet air force, Soviet Union, story, war, WWII

Author’s Note:

My spiritual mother, Colonel Marina Raskova, founder of 588th Night Bomber Regiment — what the Germans in WW2 called “Das Nachthexen,” the “Night Witches” — once asked me, “what is the purpose of prose if not poetry?” She delighted in French Avant-garde theater, Dada art, surrealistic poetry, and so do I. If stream of consciousness bores you, dear reader, you might want to read elsewhere. It is true that erotic war literature can be problematic, I understand, especially for people who live comfortably enough where they will never have to face such moral dilemmas. My mother never had that luxury in 1941 as the Nazis were invading the Soviet Union: Operation Barbarossa. This story is dedicated to all of us who learned how to survive.

* * *

“I want you to pose naked for me.”

“What, Sargent Rudenov?”

“Comrade Aleksandra, did you not just knock on my door and enter?”

The younger pilot blinked in the well lit room that served as Sargent Yevgeniya Rudenov’s, flight squadron leader for the 588th Night Bomber Regiment, personal quarters.

“Yes, Sargent Rudenov.”

“Comrade Aleksandra, did you not just ask me if you would be flying in tonight’s sortie?”

“Yes, Sargent Rudenov.”

“And when I said no, did you not say ‘what can I do to fly tonight’?”

“I’m sorry, Sargent Comrade. Did you just say–”

“Yes. That I want you to pose naked for me.”

Aleksandra looked at the decorated Hero of the Soviet Union, Order of the Red Banner and Order of the Red Star sitting before her, trying to make some sense of the offer.

War had stripped Rudenov of her girlish charms, leaving her with a curious, rugged sensuality that everyone – women and men – in the regiment noticed. They say in Russia that there are only two types of females: girls and elderly babushkas. Where does one find the link between caterpillar and butterfly? Who has ever witnessed such a transformation in a world that holds motherhood so cheap? “In what mysterious pupa,” one traveler asked, “do Russian women prepare for the next stage of their lives?” The answer is easy: war. War burns away all the virginal blushing embarrassments, the banal madonna-whore complex, the artificial accouterments of a bourgeois society, leaving behind only queer middle-age women who know how to survive.

“Comrade Aleksandra, you have been in camp over a month. We have lost twenty-four pilots and navigators during that time. Girls just like you who came into this very room saying they would do anything to get the chance to drop bombs on the Germans. And now here you are, their sister, obviously, standing before me saying you’ll do anything to get the chance to fly in a Polikarpov,” Yevgeniya smiled at the obvious confusion and discomfort this was creating in the younger girl. “You tell me that you would do anything?”

“Yes, Sargent Rudenov.”

“Well then, you can convince me about that by posing naked for me, right now, yes? So you choose, the night is young, the plane do not leave for another three hours. Come day break, where would you like to be?”

Yevgeniya stood up from her desk, walked over to a small cabinet and removed a large, chrome camera. Aleksandra looked nervously at the older woman, she reminded her of a nun she once had at school. She could feel her heart beating loudly in her chest. It was a cold night. Somewhere outside a crow, the messenger from the other world, cawed in the dark.

“I’m sorry dear, I hate to rush you. Perhaps you’d like to think about this back in your barracks?” She started to door as if ushering the younger woman out.

“No! Please, Sargent Rudenov.”

Yevgeniya looked at Aleksandra as if surprised she had spoken.

“Are you sure I can’t just–” But here the younger girl was at a loss as to what she could offer. It was either posing for photos or being grounded for who knew how long. “Who would see these photos if I agreed?” The girl stammered, looking at the ground, blushing violently. “I’ve never been naked before … anyone one else.”

Closing the wooden door to her quarters and pulling the latch, Yevgeniya looked the young pilot up and down. She smiled at the girl’s nervous plight. “How did you ever make it through eighteen years of life and never once have the urge to let other people see you for what you are?”

“Sargent Rudenov?” Aleksandra asked, drawing a deep breath.

“My dear girl. I have a dozen other pilots also wanting to fly tonight with far fewer hang-ups than you seem to possess. The pictures will be shown to very few, but please understand I will demand that you are to be naked. You will be posing in extremely … titillating ways for me.”

“But you’re a woman!” Aleksandra blurted, then bit her lip before she said anything else moronic. Yevgeniya’s omnivorous appetites weren’t exactly state secrets.

“Yes, Comrade Aleksandra, I am.”

Yevgeniya smiled as she returned to her desk with her camera. Aleksandra’s head was a whirl of emotions, her legs felt as if the would give way under her. She wanted to cry. She wanted to run back to her barracks and throw herself into the arms of her bunk mate, Alyona, who took such good care of her. It was cold in the small room and the girl rubbed her arms.

“I’m sorry it’s a bit chilly in here, Ukrainian summers are never warm — drink?” she didn’t wait for the girl to answer but poured her a shot of vodka, which she took gratefully. She immediately drained half, then coughed before putting the glass down on the table. Aleksandra watched as Yevgeniya took the camera up and felt sick with nerves at the reality of what she was about to do. She drank down the shot her commanding officer refilled her glass with.

“Nervous?” the older woman smiled at Aleksandra as she nodded. “Well don’t be. You’re a very lucky pilot. One day I’ll tell you what I had to do to win this.” She pointed to her Order of the Red Star. “And you are so very pretty, I love your uniform, it shows off your charms so well. Have you ever been an artist’s model? My mother had a friend in Paris, Rene Vivian, who looked just like you.”

Aleksandra shook her head, looked down at her dress, then heard the camera click as she smoothed it over her hips and blushed again. In reality it was the same standard uniform all the women were issued. But, she had to admit, at least it was a dress. On the first day of training Aleksandra, as well as all the other recruits, had been ushered into a large storeroom, where, piled on the floor in separate heaps, were bundles of enormous boots, rough woolen vests, standard male underwear – nothing to suggest that the 588th Night Bomber Regiment was an all-female unit. In other piles were ugly male tunics, wool trousers, overcoats. Aleksandra walked past the lieutenant who had brought them to the room and picked up two boots at random. They were mammoth. Later that day the sound of hysterical laughter could be heard all over the building as the recruits attempted to fashion themselves uniforms. Woolen vests dangled down below the knee, trousers were hitched up almost to the chin, and greatcoats — the pride of the Soviet armed forces — spilled across the floor behind them like monstrous veils for some unholy wedding ceremony.

It was nearly a month later that a package from Moscow brought the girls their dresses – drab, ugly things, true – but at least they were dresses and they could be made to fit. Aleksandra glanced nervously down at the low neckline that she suddenly felt now showed off far too much of her ample cleavage. Small metal buttons ran down the front to her waist.

Click.

“Yes, I think we can keep the boots on, they’ll show your legs nicely, it’s a shame there isn’t a single stocking left in the entire Union. War makes beggars of us all.”

Yevgeniya seemed to be thinking for a moment. Aleksandra stood waiting, shivering from cold, nerves, wondering what on earth she was supposed to do next.

“No, lets just play with what you’re wearing. You really are so pretty, I love your breasts.”

Aleksandra blushed again despite the chill of the room. Alyona would say the same thing, but that’s what bunk mates were suppose to say, was it not? Late at night, once the candles were doused and the barracks were dark and quiet save for the occasional moan and snore and stifled low-down dirty groan during those long summer night. Her arms came up to cover her chest.

Click.

“What panties are you wearing? Lift your skirt, show me.” The camera came up to Yevgeniya’s eye again. Aleksandra froze.

“Show you my …?”

“Lift your skirt, soldier. I will not send a woman into the air who refuses to follow instructions, she will kill herself and her navigator so do as you’re told – that is a direct order!”

Aleksandra jumped, as if she had been slapped, pulled up her skirt, gathering it quickly around her hips.

“Slowly, Comrade, slowly.”

Click, click, click.

Aleksandra felt foggy, stupefied, feeble-minded. Holding up her skirt while a commanding officer took photos of her pathetic, government-issued panties. She glanced down, looked at her unshaven legs, her feet in their ugly black boots. May that stray Nazi artillery shell everyone jokes about find its way over to this tent right now, she thought.

Click, click.

“Pull you’re panties higher up your hips for me, Comrade –” She lifted her skirt a little more with her free hand, then pulled her white cotton higher up her hips, making a W where the fabric cut across her girl-lips.

“Hmm, much better.”

She had Aleksandra lift her foot onto the wooden table, holding her skirt out to the side, asked her to smile, all the while the girl, still blushing, still embarrassed, did everything she was told to do.

“Turn around, yes – now, bend forward, lift your skirt high, higher, push your ass out, yes, like that.”

Aleksandra sighed, there was still that girlish need to cry inside her. What was it that Lady Macbeth desired to be so that she could commit the acts that made “her kind blush at”? Ah yes, “unsexed.” But if one is not born a woman, one is made a woman, why blush at all? If femininity is indeed an artifice, why not embrace Eros as deeply as we embrace Pathos? She let her skirt fall, reached for her glass. Yevgeniya poured her more vodka. Smiled at the young pilot’s inner-struggle.

“Comrade, listen to me. You’re in a bad situation. You want to fly but your pride stops you doing something so simple that it’s even recorded in the Bible as the first trick Lilith taught Eve before God made Adam and broke the two girls up. Fighting this only making it worse. You could at least try to enjoy it.”

“But–” Aleksandra stammered, drunkenly looking into the shot glass as if it contained secret answers. “What do you mean ‘Lilith and Eve’?”

“Listen, let’s make this easier for you shall we? You are going to pose for some naughty photos for me, if you want to fly there is no way out, you have to learn to take orders. If you don’t want to pack your bag tonight and go back to your Worker in Moscow or whoever it is who pays your bills, parasite. Now, I want you to take off your top before we go any further – now, soldier!”

Aleksandra felt a tear slide down her cheek, fumbled with the tiny metal buttons of her dress shirt, then glanced up at her commanding officer, only to pull the shirt wide, revealing her bra, a luxury for the women. Finally she pulled each cup down to free her breasts. The moment they were exposed, her nipples immediately puckered and hardened in the cold air, making her embarrassment obvious.

“Push your tits out, flygirl, be proud of what you have, Comrade Aleksandra.”

Doing what she was told, Aleksandra flushed, partly from the vodka and partly as she felt her exposed skin studied by lecherous eyes. She then drew in a surprised breath as Yevgeniya reached out, softly stroke each nipple, feeling the weight of each breast before drawing her blunt fingernails over the crimped skin of her aureoles, tugging softly, drawing on each nipple. When Alyona did this, that was fine, she was her bunk mate. But this? Aleksandra fought to stop herself covering her chest.

“My dear, you are beautiful.”

Aleksandra watched as she brought the camera in for a close-up of each.

Click, click, click.

The girl simply stood there in the cold with her arms crossed beneath her breasts, swaying slightly.

“Ooo.”

“Hohhot.”

Yevgeniya bent down towards her left breast and Aleksandra felt the wet warmth of her mouth close around her so terribly erect skin.

She couldn’t help it. Aleksandra glanced down, watched as the older woman did the same to the other nipple, entranced, unable to move as tiny earthquakes traveled through her. She was gasping as Yevgeniya rose in front of her, didn’t resist as she bent forward, kissed the girl softly on the lips.

“Now, you will do as you’re told, won’t you, Comrade dear? Please, turn around, bend over.”

Aleksandra did as she was told. The vodka must have gone to her head. She turned, her breasts, swinging free, felt swollen, the nipples cold, hard, as her squadron leader’s spit dried upon them.

“Bend over more, dear.”

She did, put her hands down on the wooden table to support herself. She felt her skirt being pulled up over her back, didn’t resist as her panties were drawn down around her knees. She felt flushed and drunk as the camera clicked behind her. Yevgeniya took her free hand, brought it Aleksandra’s to her ass.

“I want you to hold the cheeks of your bottom apart, Comrade.”

Aleksandra glanced around at her.

“What? please — don’t make me –”

“Please, what?” Her commanding officer arched an eyebrow, smiled at the younger girl.

“Please, Sargent. Don’t ask me to – ah! piz’da!”

Yevgeniya’s hand had come down sharply on her naked, fleshy ass, sending a jolt stinging through her.

“I’ll spank you again, flygirl, if you keep being naughty.”

Aleksandra made a face and put her hands back on her ass.

“Now be a good girl, pull your cheeks apart.”

Aleksandra rubbed her warm bottom, reluctantly pulling her cheeks apart, instantly feeling how her anus was exposed to the cool air, as well as how wet her pussy was suddenly getting.

“Hmm, I love blonde hair, it’s almost as if you were shaved; so naked, so exposed.”

Aleksandra did feel exposed, as well as the older woman’s hand slide between her legs to touch her pubic hair.

“Ah, Comrade, you naughty girl. Hold your cunt open for me, push out your bum, more, yes, now keep your legs straight.”

Aleksandra did as she was told, heard the camera click, inches away. It would have been more comfortable, some part of her drunken brain thought, if she could let her panties drop to the floor, take off her boots, they made her feel tomboyish, almost as she had been surprised while sitting on the loo. She started as Yevgeniya’s free hand caressed the inside of her thighs, closed her eyes, bit her lip, still holding her ass cheeks apart as the other hand moved closer to her pussy, all the while she pushed her bum out further and further, inviting the camera to record all.

One slim finger gently pushed past the wet resistance of her vagina. She felt it enter her slowly, inch by inch, stifled a small groan of pleasure. “O, Alyona love,” the younger woman barely whispered. If Yevgeniya noticed she said nothing as her finger slipped in further, then finally again several times before it was joined by a second.

“You have a lovely wet cunt, Comrade. Keep your lips spread for me.”

Aleksandra tried to do as she asked, even though her legs were beginning to spasm, but then had to bring her left hand down to the table to support herself. She yipped as she was rewarded with a hard slap to her ass. The fingers returned to fill her, the feeling of being finger fucked hard consumed her. Yevgeniya’s free hand was tickling her exposed anus. She flinched at the first touch then pushed back to welcome the intrusion, but suddenly everything stopped.

“Why is it, Comrade?” Yevgeniya asked, looking up at Aleksandra, the shadow of her labia in the lantern light throwing shapes across her wild upturned face. “That when I ask you to show me your cunt you blush and act like an English Capitalist’s bordering school daughter, but the moment I lay a finger in your ass you are a pup in heat? Is this the secret to unsexing you?”

“No — it’s just–”

“You want me to fuck your ass with my finger don’t you?” It was neither a question nor a command. It was simply a statement of truth. The pressure of Yevgeniya’s finger returned as her other hand continued to play with the young pilot’s hot aching pussy. “Don’t you Comrade darling?” she insisted, a throaty whisper. “‘That I may pour my spirits in your ass; and chastise you with the vulgar valor of my tongue to all that impedes me from this golden hind’ — Would you like to feel my finger in your ass?” She slowly withdrew the fingers from Aleksandra’s pussy, then trailed the girl-juices over to her gaping anus. Aleksandra let out an involuntary moan. Yevgeniya’s hand came around to the others’ face and she forced her pussy-sticky fingers into the open mouth, smiling as Aleksandra greedily sucked on them.

“Comrade Aleksandra, would you like me to fuck your mouth as well? Now tell me why you want me to put my finger into your ass but not to see your delicious curly-q of a cunt.”

The fingers returned to her pussy, Yevgeniya’s thumb began to rub, to tease against her anus while her other fingers rubbed against her clitoris. “Tell me Comrade!” Her other hand came down in a stinging slap on her gaping ass.

Slap!

“Oi vey! Yes, Sargent Rudenov –” Aleksandra yipped. She felt her left breast fondled, then the nipple was pinched, cruelly, followed by several hard slaps

“Please — do what you want with me –” Aleksandra didn’t care anymore. If this was how wars were won, then she had found a role that consumed her. She was grateful she wasn’t going to die ignorant that such pleasures existed. Why do they not teach these things in school?

“Tell me what you want.”

“To fly a Polikarpov –”

“To fly a Polikarpov? What would you do to get a chance like that? Something like this?” At that, while the three fingers from Yevgeniya’s hand continued to slip in and out of her cunt, she felt an extra finger from the older woman’s other hand slide into her anus.

“Yes!” the girl managed to gasp out.

“Then ask me to put it in your ass, flygirl.”

“Please, Sargent Rudenov! Ma’am, put your fingers in my ass!”

“No. Not on your first flight, little nestling, but,” — and here the fingers pushed but did not slip in — “for tonight I’ll put two fingers in for you.”

Aleksandra groaned, almost collapsed but caught herself, straightened her legs, pushing her splayed-open ass out higher. Yevgeniya was a cruel mistress when she wanted, bore down with her weight, smiling as the young pilot finally screamed out, her orgasm ripping like wild-fire through her, phosphorescence in the dark, finally collapsed onto the table. The squadron leader for the 588th Night Bomber Regiment removed her fingers from Aleksandra’s canvities, while the girl gazed foggily around, dimly wondering why the world was still spinning from her tail dive.

“Comrade Aleksandra, na kaleni, shalava.”

Aleksandra felt her hair being pulled, forced to her knees. Yevgeniya dragged her across to her chair, sat down, pulled up her own military issue skirt. Aleksandra watched in a daze as the older woman dragged her forward, forcing her face into her own wet pussy. There was a cruel side to Yevgeniya, as anyone who must send soldiers out to die in the hundreds every month. She grew tired of Aleksandra licking softly at first but then became excited as the girl began lapping at her with enthusiasm.

She turned over, pushing out her chunky, muscular ass. “Lick my cunt, my bum, flygirl, do it properly.”

“Yes, Sargent Rudenov,” Aleksandra mumbled, looking up, wearing a fur mustache.

Sometime later, far later, Aleksandra banked her Polikarpov biplane toward the west, sweeping over the sleeping purple and silver countryside, and put her fingers into her mouth. That was a good taste. A very good taste. But this would be even better. Guided by her navigator, using her stopwatch and map, Aleksandra approached the target at a height of just over three thousand feet, then, on cue, cut her engines, gliding like a witch through the dark. The wind rushed through the struts, she concentrated on her instruments, keeping on the compass mark, her navigator whispering through the com-link instructions. The navigator finally thrust her arm over the edge of the open cockpit, dropped two parachute flares into the slipstream. They they spun away, ignited, suspended from their little parachutes, casting a savage glorious blue light over the alien landscape. They were right over the target.

To be a war pilot, to feel this fantastic sense of achievement, that was worth everything. The girl could clearly see the buildings in the cold dark night. The Germans hadn’t heard the plane coming because of their gliding approach, but now the searchlights came on, the sirens, the black flashes of flak starting to probe the sky for them. Aleksandra didn’t want to spoil her aim so she simply flew straight through the puffing cloud ‘plosion until she was right over the target. The Po-2 bucked in the gusts from some of the artillery shells, but kept on. Then Aleksandra yanked the release wire and dived away from the searchlights, pulling upward as the whole world below her blossomed into bloom.

Das Nachthexen Sonett: 01

07 Tuesday Feb 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, Poetry

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Tags

bisexual, Lily Litvyak, praise song, Sappho, sonnet, Soviet air force, woman warrior, WWII

Lily, unless the gifted Anahit
lies at your side, sleepless you must now be.
To watch a lover burn up, like mincemeat,
over No Man’s Land. How your poor empty
bed must recall the groans then moans? Again
all these odes to war. Nine muses, you say?
Sappho the Bisexual makes it ten.
Poet of Wars and Clits. Old Boss DJ
still spins your tracks. “I am what I say.” Poor
Sappho, you are bones and dust. Lily’s love
lays, burned in a field. Not even the sky
can drink up all her tears. What fool said war
was good sport? Let her grave be of foxglove,
wild plums; even bisexuals must die.

mizukume: the fox-spirit

03 Friday Feb 2012

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, story

≈ Comments Off on mizukume: the fox-spirit

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boat, cunnilingus, fox spirit, ghost, historical, Japan, Kyoto, lesbians, Mizukume, story, war

Author’s Note:

“History,” Napoleon Bonaparte once said, “is an agreed upon set of lies.” I like that quote because it helps me understand some of the prejudices that modern society, in all its wisdom, keeps holding on to, such as the concept that there never were any women warriors, or, at least, if there were then they were isolated instances during extraordinary times. The period of Japanese history this story takes place in is called the “Warring States Period,” a ten year long civil war between two powerful men, Hosokawa Katsumoto and Yamana Sozen, which then escalated into a nationwide war over who would be the next shogun. A lot of samurai movies from the 1960s and 1970s are set in this period; local warlords, daimyos, and their armies, all laying siege to each other’s castles and the like. Akira Kurosawa’s 1985 film “Ran” is set in this period. But that’s not what interests me.

Recently the U.S. War Department has contemplated allowing women serve as front-line soldiers, a level of equality in the armed services we’ve yet to attain. Many conservative groups have tsk-tsked the idea, though most of their objections seem to revolve around being squicked out at the idea of menstrual blood and cooties, in one form or another, and more than one talking-head pundit has made the claim that “the frail sex” simply is not the stuff of warriors. This is, of course, bizarre, since, as long as there have been wars, there have been women who have proved themselves again and again, not just in secondary roles, but as front-line soldiers, as generals and as strategists. In the bloody, feudalistic era of Japan there was a whole upper-class of female warriors called the Onna-bugeisha, trained in bushi (the way of the warrior) and the use of weapons, who fought along side their samurai counterparts. Significant historical figures, such as Empress Jingu and Tomoe Gozen, were, along with other women, all Onna-bugeishas who came to play an important role in Japan’s history. Though the term is only used once as a reference here, the point I wish to make is that Amaya (whose name means “night rain”) has the option of becoming a front-line soldier if she wished, something that today’s female American soldiers don’t have.

* * *

Love fills me completely
But after my first climax
Alas, she is gone.
— Kasannoin (courtesan, written on the eve of the Onin War, 1467–1477)

Snow. There was a moan, running backwards into the falling silence of dark flakes, golden dust motes. All that was simply reflecting upon itself over and over. Dark moments turned into light into dark into — it was afternoon. Warm winter sun slipped through the bamboo curtains. The young woman sat on her sleeping mat, legs akimbo, robes undone, an edge of black hair, a mouth perpendicular, then fell back, stretched out. A nice little warmth in her belly. When she rubbed, first it was nice, then it was good, then she itched in a way that was both curious and weird and — she forced herself to breathe, rubbing deeper, squeezing, warm-wetness between her legs, liquified heat in her belly, rising in pulsating waves. She panted and rubbed and something broke, she thought something broke, a release, an abominable gushing — so much! — gushed out of her, all greenish heat and bluish light and her legs wobbled and she slid, panting, into puddle on the floor.

The bedroom’s sliding door was open. She brought her hand up; peered at it. Something was wet, smeared against her fingers. She could feel her soul pulse, throbbing away out on the tips of her cum-coated fingers.

Yes. The bedroom’s door was open. Curious. There was no light in the room, though swirling snow fell outside. Why was the bedroom door open? From far out in the dark a fox barked. For, there, outlined against the bleak light of the winter dawn, a figure stood at the bedroom door. Silhouetted. The young woman on the floor, flustered, attempted to pull her robes around her naked shoulders. But even as she began to move, suddenly, there were hands reaching down to grab hers, a shock of impossibly white hair like what the dead wear when they visit you in your dreams, and the young woman was on her feet, her kimono billowing while the two of them now ran; away from the bedroom and the dark and the light and now the one in the dark robes, holding her hand, had begun to laugh and suddenly the young woman laughed too and they crossed a field of dust and snow, their bare feet leaving not a single track in the drifts and tumbled against a stone wall with frozen aloe plants all in the nooks and crannies and the stranger kissed the young woman, a brush of sharp lips, whiskers, a quick dip of her tongue against a closed lower lip. Her skin was darker than the young woman’s, her hair larger, her body thicker, her voice richer. She tasted of roses and cinnamon. Tongues explored, coaxed, exhilarated. Fingers laced with the cruelest of claws running between the young woman’s open thighs as she, for the first time, touched the stranger’s kinky hedge of pubic hair, then slipped into wet slick flesh.

There was a pounding in her ears. Blood. A war kettle drum. A fist banging upon a wooden door. The ghost of all this desire pounding against the heart.

The wind, naked and flushed and glowing, found them. Snow curled around them, pressed together, grinding, this new hunger that led from hand to hand to fingers to fingers to lips to lips to …

… Amaya no Sozen sat up in the darkness of her bedroom, roused from her rabid dream by a violent muffled knocking. The house was full of indistinguishable sounds. Her little room was dark, cold. She huddled against the tatami mat again, pulled the coverlet round her shoulders, still listening. She knew that the knocking had been on the outer gate, she could hear horses in the courtyard, the clatter of armed men dismounting.

A quickly-moving glow, a lantern on a pole, flickered across her narrow window. Doors could be heard opening, shutting, footsteps running along the passage.

Unable to endure her curiosity any longer, she sat up again, leaned over her sleeping mat to prod her little brother. They shared the same room, along with their old nurse maid who slept next to her. Chizuru, though, was gone and her brother dreamed on, undisturbed by the sudden clamor which had broken upon her during a long winter night.

“Wake up!” she whispered with impatience. “Wake up! I believe father and elder brother Mori have come home!”

The younger child stirred, sighed.

“Don’t you want to go see?” his sister asked.

“But it is only father!” protested the half-awake boy. “If we get up to go on to the stairs he will probably see us and scold us.”

“How can you sleep, Ki-yo?” Amaya asked, brushing a lock of black hair out of her eyes. “When you know father has just come home?”

“I am not sleeping.” Kiyotaka sat up grumpily, shivered in the February air. “How do you know it is father? It may be Yoshi.”

“Yoshihisa has gone to Nagasaki,” replied the young woman, in wise, eager excitement, “but our father only went to Kyoto. Nagasaki is a much greater distance away.”

Sister and brother listened in dark, fixing their straining eyes on the streaks of light that now showed faintly behind the shoji screens.

“If it is our father, he will want to to see us,” remarked the young woman.

“There is a great deal of noise,” responded Kiyotaka. “They seem to have forgotten all about us. Where is Baa-chan? I want a light, I hate the dark. You get up, Amaya-chan, see what is is all about.”

Eagerly the young woman stood, the sash of her sleeping robes trailing behind her as she fumbled across the cold dark room, then out into the upper gallery, full of flickering lanterns. Flushed with excitement, she stood still and listened. Amaya was just now nineteen, with a small compact face, bright dark hair flowing down below her hips. Seeing no one, not even Chizuru, who usually stood so diligently behind her ward, nor Morioka-sensei, her tutor, who was never generally far away either, she pattered across the dark gallery, looking over the head of the stairs.

She knew what her father wore when he went out: his purple and gold kimono, the emblem of the Shogun, his banner with the design of bamboo leaves and the moon, which, ever since she could remember, had been on the great northern gate of Raikou Castle, where she had been born and lived.

Now there were men in the great hall below, but none of them bore her father’s banner, nor the swallowtail butterfly descending upon a sprig of wild ginger, the coat of arms of the Nakahara clan, their allies. Her younger brother came up behind her, shivering.

“Why have you taken so long? What has happened?” he asked, peevishly.

“I do not know,” whispered Amaya, “there is a crowd of people down there, but they seem to be strangers. I can’t see father, Mori or Yoshi.”

The two of them huddled together, alert, curious, somewhat uneasy.

A few months ago their peaceful life at Raikou Castle had been interrupted by a rebellion. They had been taken, as prisoners, to Yakunan Castle, where they had escaped only by their mother’s vigilance, back to Edo. Then they, along with their little sister, Akki, had been put into the sanctuary of the head monk, Osaka-gûji, at the ancient Maruyama Shrine.

Their father, though, had defeated the rebels, pacified the district, then brought them here to Koga’s estate, the heart of Raikou Castle, on the banks of the river Sumida. The family felt secure once again when their mother had told them that the poor witless Emperor made their father Shogun. But that pleasant security had lasted only a short while before Hosokawa Katsumoto, their uncle, refused to be bound by the divine will of the Emperor. He had raised a new rebellion, shortly before the eve of Shogatsu, the Shinto New Year’s Festival, that the Shogun and his two older sons had gone out beyond the city gates to put down. Amaya had wanted to go, too; but her father had laughed, though his son, Yoshihisa, the Daimyo of Qijue, the one who had gone north to put down a rising of the Omura clans in the province of Nagasaki, had said he would like to take Amaya with him, for she was both serious and well-trained, then to teach her how to be an Onna-bugeisha, a female warrior.

“A Sozen lady riding out to do battle?” her father had joked. “You have been spending far too much time with your romantic poetry and fairy tales, my son.”

Now the entire household appeared to be gathered in the great hall: Jito, the steward of the castle; several high ranking Shinto priests; the captain of the samurai; even the low-ranking servants from the kitchen. As for Amaya and Kiyotaka, their anxious eyes soon discovered their mother and, with her, Ki-yo’s nanny. Both were still in their sleeping gowns, their hair undone. Their mother sat by the great hearth on which a few embers of the day’s logs glowed. The old woman, Chizuru, and Amaya thought this odd, was kneeling beside her lady, holding her hand. Standing before the women was the one man that Amaya knew instantly from all the other warriors present: old Nobuhide Oda. He was bareheaded; his white hair was matted together with blood. There was blood, too, on his hands. Amaya saw this with shock, blood on his hands as he moved them — up, down, up — fleshing out with simple gestures what he was relating as he spoke in a low, exhausted voice. Amaya noticed, as well, that his battle armor was torn and beaten and that the butterfly and the ginger on his banner had been ripped into shreds.

The two siblings crept down the stairs. No one looked up, no one heard their hesitant bare feet on the oak wood. As Amaya drew nearer, she observed her younger sister, Akki, bright-eyed, silent, sat on the other side of their mother, clinging to her neck. Amaya’s heart beat quicker at the strangeness of the scene. She set her earnest face decisively as she went slowly forward. Kiyotaka had not so much self-control, though. He began to half-sob, half-whimper, holding onto his older sister’s hand, staring at the little group standing close to their mother.

At this sound a shudder ran through the lady sitting by the fire. She got to her feet at once.

“They are marching straight to Edo, you say?” she asked, then came to the foot of the stairs. “We will be besieged.”

Amaya wanted to embrace her, but was too shy to do so because of the strangers, neither did she dare ask about her father or her brothers. Her mother’s face was terrible, she could hardly recognize her, yet she spoke as if she had complete command of herself.

“Amaya and Kiyotaka; return, hurry into your clothes. You, Chizuru-chan, go up, assist them. Quick! No talking, not a word! Tell them nothing.”

The nanny had hurried back to the room. She led the little boy by his hand, urged Amaya on and the young woman could judge from Chizuru’s expression that something atrocious had just happened to the House of Sozen. By the flare of a solitary candle the two were dressed in their travel kimonos, gowns and caps. The nanny said nothing to either. When they returned to the great hall, fresh logs had been placed on the fire, the flame were billowing upward, casting weird shadows. A grave Shinto priest was standing by their mother. Akki, still bright-eyed, resolute, was seated in the chimney-corner, warming her bare feet near the fire. Their mother drew her children into the warmth.

“You are going away tonight,” she said. She spoke so calmly that Amaya’s heart leaped with relief. If she could talk like that, nothing so dreadful could have occurred. “I am going to send you abroad with Chizuru-san and Morioka-sensei, your tutor. You must do as they say, so you can come back very soon.”

Amaya blinked.

“What do you mean? Send us abroad? Where?”

“The King of Ryukyu, Sho Shin, has been a friend to your father. You will be safe there.”

Kiyotaka protested.

“I don’t want to go on a boat. I want to stay in Edo.”

“It is not safe in Edo, young lord,” spoke the Shinto priest, kindly. “Not even in this fortified castle.”

“Is Akki-chan coming with us?” asked Amaya.

“It were better if she went,” said the priest, “and you, too, my lady.”

Their mother shook her head.

“I must be here to meet my son,” she answered.

At this Amaya shuddered again, why didn’t her mother mention her father? Why “my son,” and not “my sons”?

The great door was opened, someone said the horses were ready. Morioka was there with his parcels in one hand, while lanterns were being lit in the courtyard, their flames wavering, fluttering in the rising wind.

The Shinto priest blessed the sister and brother, commending them to the care of Buddha and the Seven Lucky Gods. Their mother embraced the boy, but could not bring herself to look at Amaya. Then, quickly, she took a cruel knife from off the wall, put it in the young woman’s hands, telling her to make a good companion of it during the voyage. Then she turned away from all of them, crouched down by the fire, clutching her youngest daughter in her arms.

Old Morioka put heavy cloaks around his wards’ shoulders, hurried them out of the Koga’s estate. Snow was in the courtyard. Two horses stood nearby, as well as samurai guards. Morioka mounted one horse, pulling Kiyotaka up behind him. Chizuru and Amaya were to ride in a lacquered palanquin. The litter carriers set out briskly, through the gate and into the dark. The wind was becoming stronger, blowing up from the river. It felt as if it were filled with tiny splinters of ice.

Time passed silently in the dark. Despite her anxiety, Amaya began to feel sleepy. Lulled by the clop-clop of the wooden sandals, the the winter air on her face, all the disturbing sights of the ride, the dread of what the night must hold, all began to blur together, then blend into a dream. A smell, vulpini-like, musk-like, came to her, the scent of a wild beast in heat, a hand stealing inward, over her rounded hips and tummy, heading relentlessly towards her lush, pouty cunt lips. Down over her bedewed folds, queer fingers dancing. Amaya’s body shivered in response as her pussy trembled under the touch. But she woke with a start and followed the old woman up a gangway and onto a ship with sails set that rose above them all, monstrously huge. Once up top, dazed by the dream and journey, she saw that the deck was piled with bales of merchandise. Sailors from Korea and China were moving about, talking in tongues she did not understand.

She saw her sensei arguing with the captain, Morioka’s thin, slow fingers plucking out of a leather bag, putting it into the sailor’s hand. Kiyotaka was protesting with his nanny, crying out in disgust about the ship, the smells, the looks of the crew, the wind in the rigging, the noise of ropes creaking. Looking across the water, Amaya saw a cluster of dim lights either side of the riverbank — the ancient city of Edo — as they passed by; and then, further down the river, the lights of Yokohama itself. Over everything hung a faint sprinkle of stars, loose dark clouds moving swiftly toward the sea.

When the ship began to move into deeper water Amaya thought of her mother left behind in chaos and of her little sister, Akki. Then she thought about her father and her brothers and all those who would never return. She did not know what terror had overtaken them, but in a fit of hopelessness that shook her, the young woman fell to her knees on the deck, despite all her efforts to remain in control and began to cry.

Chizuru helped her up, the tears streaming down her face as well. She pulled the younger woman into the cabin which the captain had told them they might occupy. It was on the deck, furnished with rough mats for a bed, piled round and round with bales of products: Tokachi rice to make Obihiro wine.

Amaya refused to speak, she would not say what dread she felt. She clutched the knife her mother had given her. When the nanny was not looking, kissed it. Soon, so that the old woman could have a little peace of mind, Amaya pretended to be asleep.

Chizuru finally left her, then, peering over the edge of the nearest bale, she saw, by the light of the great ship’s lantern which penetrated the cabin doorway, that Ki-yo was asleep as well.

Quite still, very much wide awake, Amaya thought over what had happened. Had her father been defeated by the rebels or, perhaps, was he their prisoner? That would mean her brother, Morikuni, would be a prisoner, too. Staring into the gloom she could make out the coast that now lay far off, a few scattered lights showing, like so many low stars, pinpoints fading away, then Nippon was lost in darkness.

The nanny, followed by the tutor, crept to the cabin door, sitting huddled in their robes, sheltered from the wind. They began to talk to each other, consoling themselves and Amaya, whom they supposed asleep, listened.

She heard the nanny whisper, “they cut off their heads, stuck them on the Sanjo Ohashi Bridge at Kyoto.”

“Where was the fighting, do you know?” whispered the tutor. “I heard it was near the grounds of the Sendai Tanabata Festival.”

“I do not know,” answered the nanny. “I heard they fought down by the river. Who can tell the truth?”

“Nobuhide-dono,” said the tutor, “thought it was a hunting party. A counselor of the second rank said that our Lord came out from Sendai Castle to help them, but I could hear little of it for the confusion.”

“What does it matter,” moaned the nanny, “since they are all dead with their heads decorating the Sanjo Ohashi Bridge!”

“Nobuhide-dono said he saw our Lord’s son overtaken a little before the grove, beyond the bridge, on Jozenji Street, the one leading up to the market-place. He was killed within half an hour of leaving the castle!”

“Yes, it is young Morikuni who is our worst loss,” sobbed the nanny. “He was not even twenty and would have ruled for years and years. It seems but yesterday that I had him at my knee!”

“Where would the rebels be now? Their headquarters are in Kyoto, I’ve heard.”

“They are marching on Edo right now.”

The tutor and the nanny spoke disjointedly, expressing, little by little, their thoughts, their grief, in short sentences which fell with dreadful clearness on the ears of the young woman laying in the dark of the cabin.

“And there was no news of Yoshi? No news of Lord Yoshihisa?”

“No. He will still be at Nagasaki, facing the Omura clan. He might not even know what happened.”

“Nobuhide-dono said the slaughter was hideous, blood everywhere, two thousand slain, the prisoners killed. There are heads nailed to every bridge in Kyoto. Seiji Nakimura is slain, as well as the Lord of Funai. Did you hear what that poor priest reported he saw? Fifteen miles on either side of the road the country has been ransacked. That devilish usurper’s troops are even setting the shrines ablaze.”

Amaya lay rigid, tearing at the coverlet with her strong teeth, as a horrid malady seemed to overtake her will; sapping her of strength, courage, a will to go on.

The night slipped by. The ship, at length, gained the open sea and began to sway. The lanterns swung back and forth, casting rhythmic patterns of light across the floor of the cabin, shadows reflecting upon themselves, over and over. Dark turning into light into dark into — the young woman began to shake feverishly.

Whose heads were they talking about? the ones on the bridges at Kyoto? Who had been killed?

The two whispering, hunched shapes in the doorway mentioned her father, Yoshimi no Sozen, as well as her brother Morikuni, then about Seiji Nakimura, her dear good friend. Then about Funai, her uncle. Had all these people been killed? Was it their heads on the bridges?

The young woman turned on her knees in the dark, began to pray, clutching the cruel knife her mother had given her to her naked skin. The metal chilled her, but she pressed it closer, until the edges left marks, curious designs, in-between her breasts.

The ship was now lurching from side to side, the wind growing much stronger, there was a whining, a whistling from up in the rigging and the waves rose higher.

How could Kiyotaka sleep?

Amaya, lonely, frightened, crept across to her brother, touched his warm forehead.

Kiyotaka was beginning to groan in his sleep. She curled up on the floor next to him, hoping that she could warm him. But in his delirium he rolled this way and that, so that soon, feeling feverish herself, Amaya crept away. The tutor entered the cabin, holding a small lamp in his unsteady hand, then peered about from the boy to the young woman, sighing deeply, thinking of their sudden fall from grace and the dark future that lay before them. For, faithful as he was to the House of Sozen, he did not doubt that that the family was destroyed and scattered to the wind. Few that had been exiled to the Okinawa kingdom of Ryukyu ever came back.

Who was left of the clan now but a handful of women, these two and young Yoshihisa, who, for all Morioka knew, had been killed by the victorious followers of the House of Omura?

As he stood there — a weary, sick, spiritless old man — he observed Amaya’s bright eyes gleaming from the floor.

The young woman sat up, shaking.

“Morioka-sensei, where is my father? Where are my brothers?”

“Dead,” whispered her tutor. “May Lord Buddha have mercy on their souls. May Buddha look after you, too, my Lady Ama-kyou.”

“So it is their heads–” Amaya began, then could get no further. “–that are on the Sanjo Ohashi Bridge?”

“How much have you heard?” asked the old man. “Why were you not asleep just now?”

“Where is my uncle Funai?” demanded Amaya, ignoring his question. “And Lord Nakimura?”

Her cheeks were shining, her lips parted.

Morioka sat down by Amaya. He took the stricken young woman in his arms to comfort her, but although Amaya was usually affectionate, now refused all comfort, pulling away, shaking, feverishness, asking in a high, strained, excited voice for her father, demanding to know whose heads they were on the bridges at Kyoto?

The winter wind blew the ship, plunging, dipping across the dark waves of the Eastern Sea, the lanterns sent rummy shadows streaming across the deck and the voice of the wind, talking in its deep, throaty alien language, silenced the regular cries of the waves. Kiyotaka moaned in his sleep. Amaya was awake, hot, delirious.

She thought that the swinging lanterns were like dead heads, severed at the neck, lit from within, then the sound of the waves was changed into the clangor of battle in which all her friends and family fell, hacked down and cut in one crimson howling rainfall.

The tutor, sick, dismayed as much as the young woman herself was, tried to fight such phantasies with words of hope, but, instead, he found himself overwhelmed by Amaya’s nightmares.

Amaya struggled, finally slipped into restless sleep. Morioka covered up his charge, laid himself down, groaning softly, on the tatami mat between the two, so that the fugitives passed into the endless night, but their dreams would not let them forget.

As the merchant ship plunged through the billowing waves that broke both equally upon their bow and the far away islands of Okinawa, Amaya woke suddenly. Though it was winter, sick-sweat ran down her back. She glanced about her in terror. She recalled the events of the night which brought them out into the middle of a storm on the high seas. Looking about she saw that her three companions were still asleep. The cabin’s sliding door was open. She brought her hand up; peered at it. Something was wet, smeared against her fingers. She could feel her soul pulse, throbbing away on the tips of her blood-coated fingers.

Blood? She brought her fingers to her lips.

Yes, that coppery-metallic taste. What was more, the cabin’s door was open. Curious. There was no light in the room, though heavy rain fell outside. Why was the cabin’s door open? From far out on the sea thunder boomed, a bark of some fox god. For, there, outlined against the bleak light of the winter dawn, a figure stood at the cabin door. Silhouetted, a shock of impossibly white hair. She wore a dark kimono, smiled at the ill young woman jubilantly. Her face was narrow with close-set eyes, thin eyebrows, high cheekbones.

Amaya searched for the knife her mother had given her. As her sticky fingers closed round the leather-bound grip she felt a thrill of courage, then mustered the boldness to whisper into the dark, “Who are you?”

She wanted to say more, but at that moment a coughing fit caught her and bent her double in pain.

The woman replied in the dark, “I am your humble servant, m’lady, Mizukume.”

Coughing deliriously, Amaya couldn’t even get a single word out. Suddenly the stranger was on top of her, a blur of silk and fur, holding her down, peering into her eyes, smiling. Amaya’s coughing slowly died, to be replaced by Mizukume kissing her. The pressure of her vulpini lips on Amaya’s shocked, then thrilled, her. When the woman finally released Amaya, pulling open her kimono, pinching her naked breasts as she sat back and gazed at the mortal who, finding her strength returned, pulled the stranger down upon her. The cabin disappeared into shadow. The ship stopped. The waves, the storm, the breathing of her companions, all faded away. Amaya buried her face in fox-spirit’s neck and let a tear escape. It fell on Mizukume’s out stretched tongue and Amaya quickly sucked her tongue into her mouth in order to taste what Mizukume was experiencing. Amaya’s right hand traveled up the other’s robe to explore her ample breasts. She pressed one erect brown nipple between her thumb and forefinger and was thrilled when Mizukume let out a soft moan, a low dog-like yip. Amaya pulled her robes open letting the heavy breasts hang inches away from the young woman’s open mouth.

Amaya took one of her rigid nipples into her mouth and Mizukume gasped. The young woman pulled her face in-between Mizukume’s breasts and breathed in her musk. Rolling her over, Amaya’s lips left a trail of wetness from between her breasts down to the top of her pubes. Mizukume was sopping in anticipation.

Her pubic hairs were drenched, her vulva completely engorged. Amaya could see her large clit peeking out of it’s hood. Everything was soft and brown. She ran her index finger from the bottom of Mizukume’s cunt up to the top of her clit, then back again. Mizukume shuddered with the sensation. Amaya sucked her finger into her mouth provocatively, to get her first taste of a spirit’s cum. She had never tasted anything sweeter.

Amaya tongued her clit and put one finger inside Mizukume, pressed upward. Mizukume’s soft canine whimpers turned into full fledged cries and the young woman had to cover her lover’s mouth with her own because she didn’t want to wake the whole ship.

By now Amaya’s other hand was busy on her own clit and she brought herself to orgasm with her head still buried in Mizukume’s crotch, setting off little sea-quakes, her thighs quivering and the young woman was suddenly engulfed in a stream of her girl-juice. Ghost cum. Amaya lapped up as much as she could and felt the fox-girl’s quivering legs wrap around her head.

There was a noise in her head, a pounding in her ears. Blood. A war kettle drum. A fist banging upon a wooden door, the waves breaking over the bow and Amaya’s head fell back upon the tatami mat. The shadows came crashing back down on her and when she opened her blood-shot eyes she saw Mizukume’s naked form slipping away across the ship’s deck, waving her wild tail, gleaming with spray.

Half-naked, Amaya crawled her way up from the floor, reaching for the nearest sleeper, finding her tutor, shook him.

“Who was that?” she asked. “Who is Mizukume? Why is she with us?”

Morioka blinked himself back into wakefulness.

“Mizukume?” he murmured, vaguely. “I do not know. I’ve never heard the name. Did you just say ‘why is she with us’?”

“I thought she had a tail,” sobbed Amaya, “I thought she was going to stay with me,” the delirious young woman mumbled, and then, at the end of her strength, she fell backwards and kept falling, for miles it felt like, until darkness swallowed her.

The buffeted ship labored down the Amami island chain, dropped anchor off Yogochi harbor. The captain had serious matters for the ears of the King of Ryukyu’s servant who had come aboard to collect some of his master’s letters and goods.

“There is trouble again in Kyoto, as I hear. The Shogun, along with his eldest son, were slain on the outskirts of the city. Now his brother is marching on Edo. There are two of his children among my passengers. I was asked to take them on board, this by favor of the late Yoshimi no Sozen, to whom I am in debt. The boy seems lively enough, but the older girl is likely not to make it through another night.”

“Ask them to come forward, I should be interested to hear what they have to say,” said the King’s man, curiously surveying the sick and bedraggled forms huddled forlornly in the cabin.

Blue-lipped, shuddering, with the unconscious Amaya draped over his shoulder, the tutor came forward to tell their story, which amounted to nothing more than a desperate appeal from the widowed wife of the Shogun to Lord Sho Shin, King of Ryukyu, for asylum, protection for her two children.

“A lost cause,” mused the King’s servant, stroking his chin. He knew the temper of Hosokawa Katsumoto, of his fierce followers. Lord Sho Shin of Ryukyu was kind, but politic. He would, his man knew, be anxious not to embroil himself with the triumphant factions in Kyoto but old Morioka, the tutor, patiently, humbly, reminded him that the young Daimyo of Qijue, Yoshihisa, he was sure, still survived. He was even now, perhaps, pressing on Nagasaki with a large army. He might then, possibly, defeat not only the Omura clan but the Fujiwarans as well, their allies.

“His Highness is at Shuri Castle,” said the Ryukyuan, still doubtful, but not unsympathetic, “I can take you there. I will find a wagon for the young lady, she seems stricken low,” he added, with a glance at the deathly figure, lying limply in the tutor’s arms.

They landed. The mountainous island seemed one with the low gray clouds, a few orange tiled houses glistened with the wet. The scanty fishing fleet had come in from out of the storm, rocked at anchor with furled sails. The King’s man found them a wagon, into which they were glad to creep, then gave them bread, meat, a bottle of sake. They all ate, except Amaya, who was still half-delirious. The wagon took them through mist, along a road that hugged the coast. On the nearest peak there stood an immense tower.

“Shuri Castle,” said their guide, nodding, pointing.

Houses began to close in on either side of the road as the tower grew nearer. Finally they stopped at a gatehouse at the base of the castle. The King’s man hurried off to talk to the sentry, as the four fugitives sat shivering in the cold morning light, while the soldiers who rode along with them stared at them curiously.

boquete

02 Saturday Jul 2011

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Feminism, Poetry, Translation

≈ Comments Off on boquete

Tags

blow job, deep throat, fellatio, Lilith's gift to Adam, Portuguese, translation

Se queres sentir a felicidade

de minha boca, você deve ignorar

o teu orgulho. Teu orgulho

é que estraga o boquete.

O boquete são incomunicáveis.

Presente de deus. Presente de Lilith

para Adão. Teu corpo entende

a minha boca. Eu deep throat tu.

Porque o corpo entenda boquetes,

mas não tua estúpido orgulho.

In English:

If you want to feel the happiness of my mouth you should ignore your pride. Your pride is spoiling this blowjob. Blowjobs are incommunicado. A gift from god. Lilith’s gift to Adam. Your body understands my mouth. I deep throat you. Because the body understands blowjobs, but not your foolish pride.

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

Category Archives: Feminism

once upon the grave of a sinful nun

the woman warrior and the fey boy’s blues

xenomorph, darling

lilith’s flamenco nuevo

nune: the sky maiden

the night witches [3]

the night witches [2]

Das Nachthexen Sonett: 01

mizukume: the fox-spirit

boquete