Elements of Sadomasochism in the Fiction and Poetry of Robert E. Howard

[The following was originally published in The Dark Man: The Journal of Robert E. Howard Studies, Volume 4, No. 2 (June 2009), The Department of English, University of La Verne.]

From time to time, mention is made of a “homoerotic” aspect to Robert E. Howard’s work. A critic may cite the many descriptions of powerful, muscular warriors and boxers that abound in Howard’s writings. Of course, it would hardly have been plausible for Howard to describe weak, puny warriors and boxers. To my mind, Howard was not intending to describe what he desired, but rather what he and most of his male readers desired to be. I have no wish to censure the critiquing of Howard’s work from a homoerotic perspective, and feel that such criticism does have its place in Howard studies. Still, it seems to me that this homoerotic perspective lies mainly in the eye of the beholder. The same cannot be said, however, of sadomasochism in Howard’s work. The purpose of this essay is to cite explicit instances of sadomasochism to be found throughout the Howard canon, and then review the evidence that this did indeed represent a personal interest of REH.

Sadomasochism, of course, is an erotic passion that involves the melding of pleasure and pain in order to achieve a heightening of sensation. It finds expression both in actual practice and in art. Real life practitioners indulge in bondage, flagellation, and similar activities as an erotic pastime, utilizing costumes and other theatrical trappings to enhance drama. Sadomasochism is commonly abbreviated as “S&M,” but actual practitioners prefer “S/m.” Most lifestyle sadomasochists adhere to the “safe, sane, and consensual” rule.

In art, however, we find a different story. Since the reader of a literary work is engaging vicariously in a wholly imaginary experience, the fictional adventure is apt to be more extreme than anything the reader is likely to encounter in the course of everyday living, so as to make a more memorable impression. Thus sadomasochistic episodes in fiction tend not to be consensual, so that the erotic aspect is mingled with other extreme sensations such as fear and suspense. Moreover, since sadomasochism has long been disdained as deviant behavior, these episodes are likely to be conservatively cloaked in standard villain / victim scenarios.

Robert E. Howard was a visionary artist who endeavored to transcend his drab, small town life by creating larger-than-life spectacles in his fiction. His work is characterized by violent action, bizarre situations, brooding menace, and unrelenting emotional intensity. The erotic aspects of his work also tend towards the extreme or edgy. Elements of sadomasochism, or dominance and submission, are noticeable in Howard’s fiction from the very dawn of his career. They are particularly prominent in one of his earliest stories, “The Hyena.”

“The Hyena” was written in 1924 when Howard was just eighteen, and was the second story he sold to Weird Tales. However, editor Farnsworth Wright held onto the story for four years before publishing it. It did not appear until the March 1928 issue. Given the number of notable tales Howard would compose over the next dozen years, it is no surprise that “The Hyena” is regarded as a minor, fledgling effort. It has been underappreciated because Howard had yet to fully develop his distinctive artistic voice, but more so because of its deceptively simple plot. Set on a ranch on the East Coast of Africa, the story concerns a native witch doctor who can assume the form of a hyena. The witch doctor attempts to incite a native uprising and wipe out the local whites. This plot element, plus the story’s undercurrent of racial and sexual tension, would be utilized more memorably in a classic tale from much later in Howard’s career, the controversial “Black Canaan.”

“The Hyena” is narrated by a young man from the American South named Steve. Many “Steves” appear in Howard’s writings, among them his fictional alter ego in the semi-autobiographical Post Oaks and Sand Roughs. The narrator of “The Hyena” describes himself as “a stocky youth of medium height” (“The Hyena” 70) much like REH himself.

Steve’s nemesis is “Senecoza, the fetish-man.” (67) Howard uses the term “fetish-man” to describe Senecoza throughout the story, rather than referring to him as a witch doctor or, more typically for Howard, “conjure-man.” Used in a different context, of course, the term “fetish” refers to an erotic fixation, a subtle irony given the story’s subtext.

As a narrator, Steve displays remarkable candor. He is quick to admit his inherited racist bias: “Because I came from Virginia, race instinct and prejudice was strong in me.” (67) But even more remarkable is his unabashed disclosure of personality traits that S/m practitioners would recognize as characteristic of a male submissive, making Steve an unlikely protagonist from the future creator of Conan.

Steve frankly confesses that “doubtless the feeling of inferiority which Senecoza constantly inspired in me had a great deal to do with my antipathy for him.” (67) At “Six inches above six feet,” Senecoza towers over Steve, who wistfully notes, “he was all muscle — a lean, black giant.” (67) Similarly, Steve describes how, on a visit to the ranch, Senecoza “would stand before us, a naked bronze giant” whom he felt was “mocking us.” (67) Of course, the supposed virility of the black man has long been a source of anxiety for insecure white males.

Even as he extols the attributes of Senecoza, Steve berates himself throughout the story. On safari, he admits that “I was an execrable marksman; I could hardly hit an elephant at close range.” (68) Moreover, he expresses a reluctance to kill animals for sport. In this respect Steve resembles Howard himself, who could abruptly launch into searing misanthropic diatribes but remained more kindly disposed towards the animal kingdom. Steve tells how the “native boy who served as my gun-bearer began to suspect that I was deliberately refraining from shooting, and he began in a covert way to throw sneering hints about my womanishness.” (68) Steve beats up the bearer to reestablish dominance, but immediately after admits that “still I felt inferior when in the presence of the fetish-man.” (68)

Steve has several encounters with a strange hyena lurking about the area that reminds him of Senecoza. However, the story really gets interesting with the arrival of Ellen Farel, a New York socialite who vacations at the ranch for some undisclosed reason. Steve describes her in glowing terms while dismissing himself as “an ordinary, unhandsome youth.” (70) In the course of their conversations, Ellen laughs at Steve and mocks him with quips like, “`I guess you’re my boss, mister man?’” (72) Steve is moved to confess, “I was her slave from the first. Somehow the idea of becoming a lover never entered my mind…Simply, I worshipped her; her presence intoxicated me, and I could think of no more enjoyable existence than serving her as a devoted slave.” (71)

Ellen, on the other hand, is less interested in Steve than in Senecoza, whom she prattles about as “`the most romantic looking savage’” (71) and “`a fine specimen of a savage.’” (72) When Ellen places a friendly arm around Steve, he describes how he was “maddened by the touch of her soft body –such mad devotion as a slave feels. I wanted to grovel in the dust at her feet and kiss her dainty shoes.” (72) To show his devotion, Steve timidly kisses her hand (rather than her feet), but within minutes Ellen is asking him to “`Tell me more about this Senecoza.’” (73)

Steve finds himself in a submissive position not only to Ellen, but to Senecoza as well. Making eye contact with the fetish-man, Steve steps back involuntarily. Later, Steve is outraged to find Senecoza scrutinizing Ellen with a lustful gaze. He draws his gun to shoot Senecoza into a “shredded heap.” (71) (Unfortunately, many white Southerners in 1924 would not have considered this an overreaction.) However, Steve finds himself paralyzed by Senecoza’s penetrating stare. It is hinted that this is due to some hypnotic power, rather than simply personal charisma. Still, Steve seems humiliated by his admission that Senecoza then “turned and strode away, a magnificent figure, while I glared after him and snarled in helpless fury.” (72)

Events reach their climax when Steve and Ellen are out riding—“she challenged me to a race. Her horse easily distanced mine, and she stopped and waited, laughing.” (73) Suddenly, Senecoza and twenty native warriors attack and begin their uprising. Senecoza captures Ellen, ripping her clothes into strips and using them to tie her up. Steve battles Senecoza in both human and hyena form. A good marksman when it counts, Steve sends a bullet through the hyena. Ellen is rescued and the uprising is put down. Steve and the other whites track the hyena to Senecoza’s hut where they learn the secret Howard telegraphed to the reader pages earlier—that the black man Steve found so threatening was a beast in a literal as well as a figurative sense.

On the surface, “The Hyena” is an unremarkable supernatural vignette, just another story in the March 1928 Weird Tales. Yet to a reader even a little knowledgeable about such things, the sadomasochistic subtext is very obvious. Steve’s referring to himself as Ellen’s “slave” three times is a dead giveaway, and his brief but feverish fantasizing about himself in that role leaves no doubt. This undercurrent of sexual yearning and anxiety makes “The Hyena” worth a second look.


The period between 1924, which saw Howard’s first professional fiction sales, and 1929, when his career kicked into high gear, was his most prolific era as a poet. Naturally enough for a youthful poet, some of Howard’s verse contained erotic themes. A portion his erotic poetry dealt with so-called deviant sexuality, or to use a less judgmental term, kinky sex. Howard’s treatment of such topics ranged from light and playful to dark and passionate.

The spanking of adult women seems to have been of special interest to him. He wrote several naughty limericks collected under the heading “Limericks to Spank By.” Longer poems such as “Good Mistress Brown” and “The Harlot” also describe corporal punishment applied to women by both men and other women. The spankings are administered as a comeuppance to some uppity wife or rebellious young “flapper.”

In tone, the spanking verses are lightweight and amusing. The spanking of a headstrong woman often figures in “taming of the shrew” scenarios found in various works of fiction. In the movie “McLintock!” John Wayne spanks Maureen O’Hara, who is clad in soaking wet undergarments, in front of the entire town, and the film is regarded as wholesome family entertainment. I also seem to recall an episode of “I Love Lucy” in which Desi spanks Lucy. So these spanking verses of Howard’s would seem to be fairly innocuous; pretty tame stuff.

However, they are just part of a larger picture. Other poems by Howard that make use of related themes are darker and more compelling. “Lesbia” is a lengthy poem of fourteen stanzas in which a hot-blooded woman narrates her sexual yearnings for other women. The encounters she describes are both consensual and forced. In “Altars and Jesters,” alternately titled “An Opium Dream,” we find an instance of mild female domination.

A dark girl came from the mists and silence,
Her eyes were oceans, dusky and slow,
And her hands were ice as with still cold violence
She stripped me naked and let me go. (“Altars and Jesters” 28)

Elsewhere, Howard is more explicit. The revealingly titled “Strange Passion” recounts episodes of sadomasochism, bisexuality, and exhibitionism. These encounters take place among the “black queens” of darkest Africa. Howard’s erotic attraction to black women has generally been acknowledged, and in his day distant places like the Congo were all the more remote and mysterious. The narrator of “Strange Passion” describes himself spanking women, and also being spanked by them:


I lay across her slim, brown knees,
My firm young buttocks bare upturned.

Each time she shook in passion’s hap
With greater strength she gripped and held,
Stretched me stark naked o’er her lap
And beat me till I fairly yelled. (“Strange Passion” 20)


In addition to working in the more traditional poetic formats, Howard also dabbled in a more obscure form, the prose poem. Prose poetry, as the term suggests, fuses elements of prose, such as narrative structure and discourse, with elements of poetry, such as metaphorical and florid language. It was originated in 19th Century France by poets such as Baudelaire and Rimbaud, and adopted by British Decadents such as Oscar Wilde. In America, prose poetry was composed by George Sterling and his protégé, Clark Ashton Smith. Smith, of course, is better remembered today as a colleague of Howard who contributed many fantasy stories to Weird Tales.

Howard composed a cycle of five prose poems, plus a preamble, that he grouped under the heading, Etchings in Ivory. One of the poems, “Skulls and Orchids,” deals directly with male homosexuality. Howard is able to broach the subject tactfully by setting his vignette in ancient Greece. “Skulls and Orchids” is narrated by a young Athenian woman whose Spartan lover has jilted her in favor of a comely boy. Trouble ensues.

Another “etching” is titled “Flaming Marble” and depicts a sadomasochistic encounter. The opening informs us that, “This is a dream that comes to me often. Not in the lazy, illusive haze of day-dreaming, but clear and vivid to my sleeping soul.” (“Flaming Marble” 5) If we take Howard’s words at face value, he is describing an actual recurring sex dream. Another possibility is that he is revealing a sexual fantasy he has indulged in at more than once and is embellishing here.

The dream takes place in some ancient metropolis that the dreamer’s waking self is unable to specifically identify. The dreamer’s ancient alter ego is, not surprisingly for REH, a powerfully muscled barbarian. The scene unfolds:

…Save for the sandals on my feet and a loincloth of silk, I was naked.


A woman reclined on a luxurious couch before me…lounging like a slim and supple leopardess on the furs and silks…


And in my waking hours I wonder –in what lost empire, in what ancient city was that room in which I stood? Who was I? And who was this woman? Was it Athens or Rome? Was it Aspasia, Thais, Messalina or Lais who lay before me? (5)


The dreamer describes how the woman “lashed me with words like silver daggers” (5) and that she looked “like a goddess in her wrath.” (6) He then reveals that “I was her slave…” (6) When he displays a defiant attitude, things take an interesting turn:
The cold eyes flashed with a fiercer light, and suddenly, with the lithe volcanic suddenness of a leaping tigress, my mistress was on her feet and her round white arm swept on high a slender whip with a jade hilt. But before its stinging lash ever touched my great shoulders, I tore it from her hand with a laugh that roared like the singing salt sea, and crushed her to my breast.

She fought like a wild woman as I swept her off the floor and held her, cursing and helpless…A moment she fought against her fate, and then the marble limbs caught fire from my passion, and the round arms went around my massive neck…(6)


There are a number of highly charged elements at play here. A man is being subjected to verbal abuse by a beautiful woman. Verbal humiliation of this sort is frequently a component of sadomasochistic activities. The mistress wields a whip to administer a flogging to the slave (even though the flogging is prevented). The rape of an aristocratic woman is attempted by a man of a much lower caste. The aristocratic woman yields herself sexually to a social inferior. The dreamer several times refers to his past self as “slave” and the woman as “mistress.” The most striking aspect of “Flaming Marble” is that it portrays one of Howard’s brawny barbarians and one of his sultry sex goddesses in a mistress/slave relationship.


Howard’s poetry and prose poetry were written primarily for private self-expression; a mere fraction of it saw publication during his lifetime. However, Howard also incorporated sadomasochistic motifs into his commercial fiction throughout his professional career.

Such motifs are evident in the longest of his Solomon Kane stories, “The Moon of Skulls.” In this adventure, the Puritan swordsman journeys to the heart of 16th Century Africa in search of a kidnapped English girl named Marylin. His quest leads him to the lost city of Negari. The city is ruled by its resident femme fatale, Nakari, who could be one of the “black queens” alluded to in “Strange Passion.”

From a hidden vantage point, Kane first glimpses the queen in her throne room:

…There, dwarfed by the ponderous splendor about her, a woman reclined. A black woman she was, young and of a tigerish comeliness. She was naked except for a beplumed helmet, armbands, anklets and a girdle of ostrich feathers and she sprawled upon the silken cushions with her limbs thrown about in voluptuous abandon.

Even at that distance, Kane could make out that her features were regal yet barbaric, haughty and imperious, yet sensual, and with a touch of ruthless cruelty about the curl of her full red lips. Kane felt his pulse quicken…(“The Moon of Skulls” 114-115)


Kane soon gets a closer look while spying on Nakari as she visits her white slave, Marylin:

…The black woman was clad as she had been when he had seen her on the throne, and the colored armlets and anklets clanked as she closed the door… She moved with the easy sinuousness of a she-leopard and in spite of himself the watcher was struck with admiration for her lithe beauty. Yet at the same time a shudder of revulsion shook him, for her eyes gleamed with vibrant and magnetic evil, older than the world…

…Nakari halted by the couch, stood looking down upon her captive for a moment, then with an enigmatic smile, bent and shook her. Marylin opened her eyes, sat up, then slipped from her couch and knelt before her black mistress—an act which caused Kane to curse beneath his breath. The queen laughed and seating herself upon the couch, motioned the girl to rise, and then put an arm about her waist and drew her upon her lap. Kane watched, puzzled, while Nakari caressed the white girl in a lazy, amused manner. This might be affection, but to Kane it seemed more like a sated leopard teasing its victim…(128-129)


Kane is repelled by Nakari, but also aroused by her. In addition to this hint of interracial lust, an element of female homoeroticism is introduced as Nakari toys with Marylin. This was all very provocative for a story published in 1930. In fact, “The Moon of Skulls” was bowdlerized when first reprinted for book publication in the racially conscious 1960s.

The story’s undercurrent of sadomasochism reaches its peak when Kane himself becomes the queen’s prisoner. Captured, Kane is chained hand-and-foot in Nakari’s dungeon. Kane is kept in helpless bondage as he is interrogated by the queen. Nakari attempts to entice Kane into joining her by offering him her kingdom and her own voluptuous body.

In this scene, Howard treats his reader to a most lurid tableau. Solomon Kane is a religious fanatic whose life is dedicated to stamping out evil. He is not merely a puritan in some figurative sense; he is an actual 16th Century English Puritan. In his world, women are customarily clothed from neck to foot. Totally committed to working God’s will, Kane is presumably celibate. Now he is bound in a dungeon while a luscious, semi-nude black vixen attempts to ensnare and seduce him. It is hard to imagine a situation more fraught with sexual tension. And when the iron-willed Kane rebukes her, Nakari tells him that Marylin “shall be punished as I have punished her before – hung up by her wrists, naked, and whipped until she swoons!” (137)

Such a scene of girl-on-girl whipping is not actually depicted in “The Moon of Skulls.” Howard corrected this oversight a few years later when writing the adventures of his most famous character, Conan. Women are flogged by other women in two of the Conan stories. Interestingly, both of these stories are, like “The Moon of Skulls,” set in lost cities. Howard believed that civilizations carry the seeds of their own destructions, and was moved to portray decaying societies in his fiction. The occurrence of lurid sadomasochistic episodes in such stories serves to heighten an atmosphere of sinful decadence. Metaphorically, the lost cities are shadow realms removed from the everyday experience of the protagonist, and twice removed from that of the reader. The reader follows the hero into a dream world where anything can happen.

In “Xuthal of the Dusk” (originally published in Weird Tales as “The Slithering Shadow”), Conan and his female companion Natala discover a lost city where they meet another beautiful but deadly woman, Thalis. One of the most striking aspects of the story is the contrast between the two women. Natala is a slave girl who has been liberated by Conan, while Thalis is the most powerful woman in the city of Xuthal. The blonde Natala is meek and demure, but good-hearted. The black-haired Thalis is bold, haughty and sensuous, a she-cat who has been steeped in vice. Reminiscent of De Sade’s virtuous Justine and her depraved sister Juliette, they represent two sides of the same coin; top and bottom, dominant and submissive. In due course, they are joined in a highly charged sadomasochistic encounter:

…As in a nightmare Natala felt her tunic being stripped from her, and the next instant Thalis had jerked up her wrists and bound them to the ring, where she hung, naked as the day she was born, her feet barely touching the floor. Twisting her head, Natala saw Thalis unhook a jewel-handled whip from where it hung on the wall, near the ring. The lashes consisted of seven round silk cords, harder yet more pliant than leather thongs.

With a hiss of vindictive gratification, Thalis drew back her arm, and Natala shrieked as the cords curled across her loins. The tortured girl writhed, twisted and tore agonizedly at the thongs which imprisoned her wrists…Every stroke evoked screams of anguish. The whippings Natala had received in the Shemite slave-markets paled to insignificance before this. (“Xuthal of the Dusk” 237)


Howard later reworked elements of “Xuthal of the Dusk” to create his masterpiece, “Red Nails.’ In contrast to the demure Natala of “Xuthal,” the heroine of “Red Nails” is the dynamic Valeria of the Red Brotherhood. Natala and Valeria are both fair-skinned blondes, but there the comparison ends. The pirate Valeria is a formidable and renowned warrior. And in the whipping scene in “Red Nails,” Valeria is the dominant female who administers the flogging. When a serving woman of the lost city of Xuchotl attempts to drug her, Valeria demands to know whom the woman is working for:

Yasala made no reply. She crouched, watching her captor with eyes baleful as those of a basilisk. Stubborn silence always fans anger. Valeria turned and tore a handful of cords from a nearby hanging.

“You sulky slut!” she said between her teeth. “I’m going to strip you stark naked and tie you across that couch and whip you until you tell me what you were doing here, and who sent you!”

Yasala made no verbal protest, nor did she offer any resistance, as Valeria carried out the first part of her threat with a fury that her captive’s obstinacy only sharpened. Then for a space there was no sound in the chamber except the whistle and crackle of hard-woven silken cords on naked flesh. Yasala could not move her fast-bound hands or feet. Her body writhed and quivered under the chastisement, her head swayed from side to side in rhythm with the blows. Her teeth were sunk into her lower lip and a trickle of blood began as the punishment continued. But she did not cry out.

The pliant cords made no great sound as they encountered the quivering body of the captive; only a sharp crackling snap, but each cord left a red streak across Yasala’s dark flesh. Valeria inflicted the punishment with all the strength of her war-hardened arm, with all the mercilessness acquired during a life where pain and torment were daily happenings, and with all the cynical ingenuity which only a woman displays toward a woman. Yasala suffered more, physically and mentally, than she would have suffered under a lash wielded by a man, however strong. (“Red Nails” 254)


In addition to the flagellation and bondage, this scene contains a hint of the humiliation that is also frequently a component of sadomasochistic erotica and activities. The element of humiliation becomes more pronounced when the proud Valeria herself is dominated by both a man and a woman. Valeria, accustomed to holding her own in a world of men, is physically overpowered by the abnormal strength of one of the city’s rulers, the bull-like Olmec. However, she is quickly appropriated by Tascela, a black-haired sorceress possessed of preternatural strength and hypnotic powers:

[Valeria] turned and sprang toward the door, but with a movement that would have shamed a leaping panther, Tascela was before her. Valeria struck at her with her clenched fist, and all the power of her supple body behind the blow. It would have stretched a man senseless on the floor. But with a lithe twist of her torso, Tascela avoided the blow and caught the pirate’s wrist. The next instant Valeria’s left hand was imprisoned, and holding her wrists together with one hand, Tascela calmly bound them with a cord she drew from her girdle. Valeria thought she had tasted the ultimate in humiliation already that night, but her shame at being manhandled by Olmec was nothing to the sensations that now shook her supple frame. Valeria had always been inclined to despise the other members of her sex; and it was overwhelming to encounter another woman who could handle her like a child. She scarcely resisted at all when Tascela forced her into a chair and drawing her bound wrists down between her knees, fastened them to the chair. (270-271)


Valeria is subsequently stripped naked and pinned to a sacrificial alter. In “Red Nails,” Howard treats his reader to the spectacle of a dominant woman being dominated herself.

A briefer passage hinting at sadistic sexual abuse occurs during this exchange between Olivia and Shah Amurath in “Iron Shadows in the Moon:”

“Let me go!” begged the girl, tears of despair staining her face. “Have I not suffered enough? Is there any humiliation, pain or degradation you have not heaped on me? How long must my torment last?”

“As long as I find pleasure in your whimperings, your pleas, tears and writhings,” he answered with a smile that would have seemed gentle to a stranger. “You are strangely virile, Olivia. I wonder if I shall ever weary of you, as I have always wearied of women before. You are ever fresh and unsullied, in spite of me…” (“Iron Shadows in the Moon” 187-178)


Olivia is a slave girl strong enough to take what her master dishes out, but gleans no pleasure from it. She is tough enough to survive where Natala, in “Xuthal of the Dusk,” would have perished, but does not allow herself to become jaded like Thalis.

It is also in the Conan series that we find a depiction of sheer sadism so extreme that were it to be adapted faithfully to film, the filmmakers might well find themselves facing jail time. This scene occurs in the brooding Gothic tale, “The Black Stranger.” In the story, the fear-haunted Count Valenso has retreated with retainers and entourage to an isolated fortress on a desolate coastline. The Count lives in mortal terror of a mysterious demonic black man who pursues him, and has fled to the most remote area he could reach. Among Count Valenso’s entourage is a girl child named Tina, first seen running naked along a beach. When Tina mentions having seen the black stranger, Valenso erupts in an insane fury of enraged horror:
Valenso reeled as if he had received a mortal blow. He clutched at his throat, snapping the gold chain in his violence. With the face of a madman he lurched about the table and tore the child screaming from Belesa’s arms.


“You little slut!” he panted. “You lie! You have heard me mumbling in my sleep and told this lie to torment me! Say that you lie before I tear the skin from your back!”

“Uncle!” cried Belesa, in outraged bewilderment, trying to free Tina from his grasp. “Are you mad? What are you about?”

With a snarl he tore her hand from his arm and spun her staggering into the arms of Galbro who received her with a leer he made little effort to disguise.

“Mercy, my lord!” sobbed Tina. “I did not lie!”

“I said you lied!” roared Valenso. “Gebbrelo!”

The stolid serving man seized the trembling youngster and stripped her with one brutal wrench that tore her scanty garments from her body. Wheeling, he drew her slender arms over his shoulders, lifting her writhing feet clear of the floor.

“Uncle!” shrieked Belesa, writhing vainly in Galbro’s lustful grasp. “You are mad! You can not –oh, you can not--!” The voice choked in her throat as Valenso caught up a jewel-hilted riding whip and brought it down across the child’s frail body with a savage force that left a red weal across her naked shoulders.

Belesa moaned, sick with the anguish of Tina’s shriek. The world had suddenly gone mad. As in a nightmare she saw the stolid faces of the soldiers and servants, beast-faces, the faces of oxen, reflecting neither pity nor sympathy. Zarono’s faintly sneering face was part of the nightmare. Nothing in that crimson haze was real except Tina’s naked white body, criss-crossed with red welts from shoulders to knees; no sound real except the child’s sharp cries of agony, and the panting gasps of Valenso as he lashed away with the staring eyes of a madman, shrieking, “You lie! You lie! Curse you, you lie! Admit your guilt, or I will flay your stubborn body! He could not have followed me here—”

“Oh, have mercy, my lord!” screamed the child, writhing vainly on the brawny servant’s back, too frantic with fear and pain to have the wit to save herself by a lie. Blood trickled in crimson beads down her quivering thighs…(“The Black Stranger” 127-128)

“The Black Stranger” was the only Conan story to be rejected by Weird Tales after the series had become popular with the readers. However, this was most likely due to the fact that Conan himself is offstage for much of the lengthy tale. The story was not published in its original form until 1987. Interestingly enough, even in the version of the story heavily edited by L. Sprague de Camp (“The Treasure of Tranicos”), the whipping of Tina by Count Valenso is presented as Howard wrote it, except for name changes for some of the characters. The sequence is horrific in the extreme, rather than evocative of erotic sadomasochism. I do not believe that Howard intended it to be in any way titillating or expected his readers to view it as such. Its placement in the story was more likely meant to emphasize the depravity of his unsavory characters. Even so, it must be admitted that a passage in which a crazed aristocrat whips a naked prepubescent girl with a riding crop hard enough to draw blood, in front of other leering men, is an episode that would be right at home in the works of the Marquis de Sade himself. While I would not care to meet the sort of person who would be aroused by Tina’s whipping, such people do exist.


Between the Solomon Kane and the Conan stories, Howard tried his hand at writing Lovecraftian horror. “The Black Stone” has long been considered his best story in this vein. The narrator of “The Black Stone” travels to a remote area of Eastern Europe to examine a mysterious monolith of unknown ancient origin. There he has a vision of the dark rites that had been performed at the site centuries earlier by the strange people who once inhabited the region:

The rhythm of the swaying bodies grew faster and into the space between the people and the monolith sprang a naked young woman, her eyes blazing, her long black hair flying loose. Spinning dizzily on her toes, she whirled across the open space and fell prostrate before the Stone, where she lay motionless. The next instant a fantastic figure followed her –a man from whose waist hung a goatskin, and whose features were entirely hidden by a sort of mask made from a huge wolf’s head…In his hand he held a bunch of long fir switches bound together at the larger ends…

…Coming to the woman who lay before the monolith, he began to lash her with the switches he bore, and she leaped up and spun into the wild mazes of the most incredible dance I have ever seen. And her tormentor danced with her…while incessantly raining cruel blows on her naked body…

Blood trickled down the dancer’s limbs but she seemed not to feel the lashing save as a stimulus for further enormities of outrageous motion…she dropped suddenly to the sward, quivering and panting as if completely overcome by her frenzied exertions. The lashing continued with unabated violence and intensity and she began to wriggle toward the monolith on her belly. The priest –or such I will call him—followed, lashing her unprotected body with all the power of his arm as she writhed along, leaving a heavy track of blood on the trampled earth. She reached the monolith, and gasping and panting, flung both arms about it and covered the cold stone with fierce hot kisses, as in frenzied and unholy adoration. (“The Black Stone” 130-131)

The purpose of the ritual is to summon a monster the people worship. The monster is possessed of evil intelligence, and is presented with “a young girl, stark naked and bound hand and foot” (130) to ravish. This “unhallowed ritual of cruelty and sadism” (132), with its frenzied flagellation, causes the naked dancer to collapse in orgasmic ecstasy and then embrace and kiss a phallic monolith jutting from the earth. In “The Black Stone,” Howard takes Lovecraftian horror to a realm where H. P. Lovecraft himself never tread.

Another notable instance of sadomasochism can be found in one of Howard’s regional “piney woods” horror stories, “Pigeons from Hell.” Set at an old abandoned Southern plantation, the story tells of the curse that destroyed the once-illustrious Blassenville family. At the root of the curse was the cruelty displayed be Miss Celia Blassenville toward her mulatto maid, Joan. (“Joan,” like “Steve,” was a name Howard employed with some frequency. Joan is the name of several of his beguiling heroines, and also occurs in his erotic poetry.) Decades later, a character recalls how Miss Celia “used to whip her mulatto maid just like she was a slave” and would “tie this girl up to a tree, stark naked, and whip her with a horsewhip.” (“Pigeons from Hell” 278) Though it is somewhat muted by being a secondhand account, this is yet another episode of woman-on-woman flagellation such as we found in “Red Nails” and “Xuthal of the Dusk.” This account of a haughty Southern belle whipping her servant also brings to mind the numerous scenarios involving aristocratic women and their maids that abound in S/m erotica.

Both the supernatural and sadomasochistic elements in “Pigeons from Hell” can be traced back to a childhood acquaintance of Howard. As a boy living in the “piney woods” area of East Texas, Howard heard many African-American ghost stories from an elderly former slave named Aunt Mary Bohannon. Nor were those the only tales she told. Howard informed H. P. Lovecraft that, “old Aunt Mary had had the misfortune, in her youth, to belong to a man whose wife was a fiend from Hell. The young slave women were fine young animals and barbarically handsome; her mistress was frenziedly jealous. You understand. Aunt Mary told tales of torture and unmistakable sadism that sicken me to this day when I think of them.” (Howard to H. P. Lovecraft, 9/30, 58)


In the final phase of his career, Howard entered the lucrative “spicy stories” market. Magazines like Spicy-Adventure Stories and Spicy Detective Stories published fairly standard genre fiction with an added erotic element that was considered quite racy for the time. In a letter to Novalyne Price, Howard explained some of the editorial requirements:

…A nice balance must be maintained—the stuff must be hot enough to make the readers bat their eyes, but not too hot to get the censors on them. They have some definite taboos. No degeneracy, for instance. No sadism or masochism…(Ellis, One Who Walked Alone 262)

Nevertheless, Howard did occasionally succumb to the temptation to include sadomasochistic elements in stories written for the spicy pulps.

“Ship in Mutiny” is one of a series of tales about the roguish adventurer, Wild Bill Clanton. In it, the villain describes his plans for Clanton and the story’s heroine: “We’ll find the girl and make her watch while I skin him alive! I’ll make a garment of his hide and force her to wear it always about her loins to remind her how her lover died!” (“Ship in Mutiny” 34) This brief passage is the extent of the sadomasochism in the story, but once again it embodies a sadistic fantasy worthy of the Marquis de Sade.

Howard indulges in lurid S/m fantasy at greater length in another spicy story, “Daughters of Feud.” As the title indicates, the story concerns feuding hillbilly families. The hero is Braxton Brent, the new schoolteacher. Brunette bad girl Ann and blonde good girl Joan engage in a catfight in the middle of class. To maintain discipline, Brent must administer corporal punishment to his nubile nineteen-year-old students. Howard returns to a familiar theme of his erotic poetry, spanking, in a scene too good not to quote in full:

…She was strong and supple as only a mountain girl can be, and she fought like a wildcat, but Brent was an athletic young man, and he was mad clear through. There was a brief whirl of struggle, and then his superior strength made itself evident. Crushing her resistance, he sat down on the bench and imprisoned her, cursing and kicking, across his knee, and pulled up her skirt. He had already learned that the girls of Whiskey Run wore no underwear. Ann was no exception.


“Now, you little devil,” he swore grimly, “I’m going to show you who’s the boss here!”


And firmly grasping his raging captive, he employed the strap on her bare, squirming, upturned hips with a vigor inspired by his determination to assert his authority once and for all. He didn’t want to have to repeat this scene. At each resounding smack, a broad crimson weal appeared on her olive-tinted hips, and before he had completed his discipline, the entire surface was reddened, and Ann’s curses and threats had changed to shrieks of pain and frantic pleas for mercy. When he released her, she slipped to the floor and groveled at his feet, weeping stormily and contorting her supple body ludicrously with the smarting of her crimson hips. (“Daughters of Feud” 151-152)


Things get complicated when Brent suddenly falls for Joan. (The name of the hero’s love interest is another indication that “Joan” was a feminine name REH was especially fond of.) Joan is spared a spanking when she and Brent make love instead. Later, to protect Brent from charges of favoritism, she displays self-inflicted whip marks on her bared buttocks. The story ends on a cheery note of love and romance. Brent spanks Ann only reluctantly; he is no more a dominant “top” than Solomon Kane, languishing in Nakari’s dungeon, was a submissive. The sadomasochism in this story, as in the others, is an undercurrent flowing beneath the surface.

Another interesting motif is the recurrence of a blonde heroine and a brunette bad girl in “Daughters of Feud,” as in “Xuthal of the Dusk” and “Red Nails.” It serves as a clear simple physical representation of the light and the dark, and is by no means limited to Howard. In Chapter 7 of Love and Death in the American Novel, Leslie A. Fiedler explores the symbolism of the light and dark sisters, Alice and Cora Munro, in James Fenimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans.

Neither “Ship in Mutiny” nor “Daughters of Feud” were published in Howard’s lifetime. “Ship in Mutiny” was the only story in the Wild Bill Clanton series to be rejected by Spicy-Adventure. This probably owed little to the story’s sole sadistic passage, but rather to editorial preference for stories with an upbeat tone as opposed to the somewhat grim atmosphere that prevails in “Ship in Mutiny.” In “Daughters of Feud,” however, the kinky aspect is very pronounced and went well beyond what the editors would have found acceptable.


So what, then, are we to make of all this? Howard’s use of sadomasochistic elements ranges from mildly titillating spanking limericks to instances of horrific cruelty. A mad count whipping a naked, crying ten year old girl, or a villain planning to make a woman wear Wild Bill Clanton’s skin, exceed the limits of erotic S/m and take us into a realm of sheer nightmare and madness. I personally do not believe that Howard viewed the whipping of Tina as arousing. The imagination is unruly, however, and sometimes takes us to darker places than we meant to go. Therefore, in pondering to what extent Howard’s use of sadomasochism is indicative of creative self-expression, or contrived, or representative of his sexual interests, we have to accept a certain amount of ambiguity.

In the past, commentators have dismissed instances of flagellation and bondage in the Conan stories as a purely commercial contrivance, examples of Howard “pandering” to his readers. Possibly, some commentators arrived at this conclusion because of the many lurid depictions of torture to be found in the “weird menace” magazines, or “shudder pulps,” that became popular late in Howard’s career. Publications like Terror Tales and Horror Stories offered “chamber of horrors” torture scenarios inspired by the Grand Guignol Theatre of Paris. In 1935, Weird Tales inaugurated the “Doctor Satan” series in a bid to remain competitive.

Howard did indeed dabble in the weird menace genre, contributing “Graveyard Rats” and “Black Wind Blowing” to Thrilling Mystery. Additionally, the horror stories “Black Hound of Death” and “Moon of Zambebwei,” published in Weird Tales, were originally intended for the shudder pulps. “Black Wind Blowing,” “Black Hound of Death,” and the posthumously published “The Devils of Dark Lake” all feature scenes depicting nude women in bondage, two of whom are named Joan.

However, “Xuthal of the Dusk,” with its girl-on-girl sadomasochism, was published (as “The Slithering Shadow”) in the September 1933 issue of Weird Tales –one month before the first shudder pulp, Dime Mystery Magazine, adopted the weird menace format with its October 1933 issue. In weird menace stories, villains typically indulge in outré forms of murder such as covering women in gold to create incredibly lifelike statues or freezing them into “corpse-sicles.” This is a far cry from an erotic S/m fantasy such as the dominatrix-like Thalis whipping the naked, writhing Natala in “Xuthal.” Moreover, to the best of my knowledge none of the star contributors to the shudder pulps like Hugh B. Cave or Wyatt Blassingame ever wrote any poetry concerning sadistic practices. Howard’s S/m themed poetry, as well as “The Moon of Skulls” and the horror stories “The Hyena” and “The Black Stone,” predate the weird menace pulps by several years.

A stronger case can be made that Howard was following the lead of Seabury Quinn, a fan favorite of Weird Tales readers since the mid-1920s. Howard complained bitterly to Lovecraft, “I don’t know how much slaughter and butchery the readers will endure. Their capacity for grisly details seems unlimited, when the cruelty is the torturing of some naked girl, such as Seabury Quinn’s stories abound in --no reflection on Quinn; he knows what they want and gives it to them” (Howard to H. P. Lovecraft, 8/9/32, 52).

At the time of Howard’s remarks, Quinn had been chronicling the adventures of the occult investigator Jules de Grandin for seven years, to the exclusion of other work. I have recently read all of the De Grandin stories available to me that Howard would have also read, over thirty tales, and have found them to be, for the most part, not nearly as lurid as Howard’s comments would lead one to believe. No naked girls are tortured onstage, much less in “grisly detail.”

The roughest of the De Grandin stories I read was “The House of Horror” (Weird Tales, July 1926), which concerns a mad doctor’s hideous experiments on kidnapped women. The experiments are done offstage, but the results are depicted. In “The House of Golden Masks” (June 1929), girls are forced into white slavery, adorned with golden masks attached to their faces by piercings, and compelled to participate in degrading performances for the benefit of wealthy degenerates. The other stories with prurient elements are: “Children of Ubasti” (12/29) -- ghouls kidnap girls and eat their flesh, and feed them human flesh; “The Dust of Egypt” (4/30) -- threat of flagellation; “The Brain Thief” (5/30) -- forced nudity; “Bride of Dewer” (7/30) -- attempted rape by demon; “Daughter of the Moonlight” (8/30) -- man’s face mutilated by witch. That’s seven stories out of thirty-two. The sadistic elements, which far from “abound,” are more than balanced by the cheerfulness and good deeds of the kindly Dr. De Grandin. Both De Grandin and his sidekick Dr. Trowbridge are middle-aged bachelors with lost loves in their pasts; their adventures frequently center on their efforts to aid a young couple. This lends the stories a sort of bittersweet quality.

On the other hand, Seabury Quinn’s only novel-length tale of Jules de Grandin, The Devil’s Bride, is much stronger than the typical De Grandin short story. In it, infants are sacrificed by Satanists, a nude woman is found crucified, and an innocent girl is blinded and mortally wounded. Again, most of the atrocities occur offstage. The Devil’s Bride was serialized in six issues of Weird Tales, concluding in the July 1932 issue. Therefore it would have been fresh in Howard’s mind when he made his remarks to Lovecraft in early August. Even so, I think, in bashing Quinn, Howard protests too much.


Howard made passing mention of sadism and masochism in other correspondence, to Novalyne Price as well as to Lovecraft. The former was a proper young woman of the era and the latter was virtually asexual, but both were important figures in Howard’s life. Concerning sadism, he told Lovecraft, “I’ve read what Havelock Ellis and other leading psychologists have had to say about it, and have in my possession a very good work on sadism and masochism by a noted German scholar” (Howard to H. P. Lovecraft, 5/12/35, 68). This appears to be in reference to Algolagnia: The Psychology, Neurology and Physiology of Sadistic Love and Masochism by Albert Eulenburg.

Howard also owned several books of flagellation erotica, specifically A History of the Rod, Curiosa of Flagellants and History of Flagellation, and Experiences of Flagellation (Eng, Robert E. Howard’s Library 189, 198). Glenn Lord expressed the notion that the presence of these books in Howard’s library may reflect his interest in writing for the weird menace magazines. The amount of research essential for writing for the shudder pulps notwithstanding, the sort of Grand Guignol torture depicted in magazines like Terror Tales bears little resemblance to actual S/m erotica. I suspect that Glenn Lord may have wished to avoid confronting the possibility that REH harbored any “pervert” tendencies. However, Howard’s possession of such books does suggest that he knew what he was doing when he included the whipping scene in “Xuthal of the Dusk,” for example.

A list of erotic titles available for purchase was found among Howard’s papers. The titles listed were: A History of the Rod, The Merry Order of St. Bridget, Curiosa of Flagellants & History of Flagellation, Painful Pleasures, Nell in Bridewell, The Misfortunes of Colette, The Strap Returns, Tracts of Flagellation, The Rodiad, Tender Bottoms, Sadism and Masochism (Eulenburg), Presented in Leather, and Girdles of Chastity. The prices of the titles are included, and notes indicate that most were illustrated and privately printed for subscribers.

Need I add that it was extremely rare for someone to simply stumble upon material of this type back in the 1930s? It may have been more widely available during the Roaring Twenties, but one would have still needed to go out of one‘s way to obtain it. The extent to which Howard pursued this interest way back then –long before John Norman, before Penthouse Forum, before Eric Stanton, before John Willie’s Bizarre, before Irving Klaw, before Bettie Page—is revealing. Most people in Howard’s day were only dimly aware of erotic sadomasochism. Prior to the composition of “Red Nails,” Howard remarked to Novalyne Price that he planned to make it one of his “sexiest, goriest” tales. In reaction to this, Novalyne noted in her diary, “…I couldn’t see that the Conan yarns Bob had brought me to read had any sex in them. Gore, yes. Sex, no.” (Ellis, 201) Frankly, this statement had me puzzled. Then it dawned on me that, in 1935, Novalyne would probably have not even recognized the flagellation, bondage, and assorted sadomasochistic trappings in stories like “Xuthal of the Dusk” and “Red Nails” as “sex.”

The presence of sadomasochistic elements in Howard’s poetry and fiction, viewed in light of the S/m erotica in his collection, does seem to indicate that Howard’s sexual interests extended beyond a simple taste for vanilla. REH was a physically vigorous young male with no regular sexual outlet, and possessed of one of the most vivid imaginations on the planet. It would actually be surprising if he had no kinks whatsoever.

A common thread running through all of Robert E. Howard’s work is a craving for more intense experience than there is to be found in ordinary, everyday life. The sadomasochistic elements in Howard’s writings are a reflection of this, as far as his libido is concerned. Hearts and flowers and Cupid and the moon in June weren’t enough for him. Or as Howard himself put it:

“Mine are the lusts of hoofs and horns,
“Of the he-goat and the loon
“And the naked witches that demons deflower
“On the dark side of the moon.

“No common sin may fire my eyes,
“Glutted with excesses fell—
“My lust is stained with the dung that stirs
“On the stinking streets of Hell. (Howard to Tevis Clyde Smith 61-62)




References:

Robert E. Howard works cited:

“Altars and Jesters,” in Night Images (The Morning Star Press, 1976), pp. 28-31.

“The Black Stone,” in The Best of Robert E Howard Volume I: Crimson Shadows (Del Rey Books, 2007), pp. 121-136.

“The Black Stranger,” in The Conquering Sword of Conan (Del Rey Books, 2005), pp. 103-173.

“Daughters of Feud,” in The She Devil (Ace Fantasy Books, 1983), pp. 147-167.

“Flaming Marble,” in Etchings in Ivory (Hall Publications, 1975), pp. 5-6.

“The Hyena,” in Shadow Kingdoms: The Weird Works of Robert E. Howard, Volume 1 (Wildside Press, 2004), pp. 67-78.

Howard to H. P. Lovecraft, ca. September 1930, in Selected Letters 1923-1930 (Necronomicon Press, 1989), p. 58.

Howard to H. P. Lovecraft, 9 August 1932, in The Last Celt (ed. Glenn Lord, Donald M. Grant, 1976), p. 51.

Howard to H. P. Lovecraft, 5 December 1935, in Selected Letters 1931-1936 (Necronomicon Press, 1991), pp. 65-73.

Howard to Tevis Clyde Smith, ca. September 1930, in Selected Letters 1923-1930 (Necronomicon Press, 1989), pp. 60-62.

“Iron Shadows in the Moon,” in The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian (Del Rey Books, 2003), pp. 187-216.

“The Moon of Skulls,” in The Savage Tales of Solomon Kane (Del Rey Books, 2004), pp. 99-170.

“Pigeons from Hell,” in The Black Stranger and Other American Tales (University of Nebraska Press, 2005), pp. 264-292.

“Red Nails,” in The Conquering Sword of Conan (Del Rey Books, 2005), pp. 211-281.

“Strange Passion,” in Risqué Stories 1, March 1984, p. 20.

“Ship in Mutiny,” in The She Devil (Ace Fantasy Books, 1983), pp. 22-42.

“Xuthal of the Dusk,” in The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian (Del Rey Books, 2003), pp. 219-247.

Other works cited:

Novalyne Price Ellis, One Who Walked Alone: Robert E. Howard, The Final Years (Donald M. Grant, 1986).

Leslie A. Fieldler, Love and Death in the American Novel (Scarborough Books, 1982).

Steve Eng, Robert E. Howard’s Library in Don Herron, ed., The Dark Barbarian: The Writings of Robert E. Howard, A Critical Anthology (Greenwood Press, 1984), pp. 183-200.

Guns of the Border Region - Chapter Six

[It's been awhile since I posted last. Here's the latest installment of GOTBR. There's heaps of hard sex and violence here, so I felt moved to try to give it all a sweet center. Copyright 2009 by Charles Hoffman.]


CHAPTER SIX -- SHADOW’S REVENGE

Having gotten the drop on Sailor Clanton, Shadow quickly disarmed him and tossed his gun into a corner. Then she ordered him to strip. She turned the oil lamp back up while Clanton removed his clothes. When he was naked she noticed that his privates had shriveled to a small knot of goose-pimpled flesh. A loaded gun held inches from a man’s head will have that effect.

Shadow couldn’t resist some sort of cutting remark, “Not such a big man now, are we?”

“Screw you, bitch,” muttered Clanton. There was fear in his voice, tinged by helpless rage. Clanton enjoyed dishing out humiliation a lot more than he did taking it. He didn’t much like what happened next, either.

Shadow smashed him across the face with the barrel of the Glock, then struck him across the other cheek with the backstroke. It was payback for the pistol-whipping he had given her earlier. Clanton was rocked but managed to stay on his feet. He winced at the pain.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Shadow asked. Then, to Clanton’s utter astonishment, she put her gun aside. “Clanton, I’m going to give you more of a chance than you gave me,” she told him, “Let’s see if you can take me when I’m not tied up, without your gun and your boyfriends.”

It took a few seconds for it to dawn on Clanton that he had been granted a reprieve from a situation that had promised certain death. But once the realization took hold, he wasted no time to comment or mentally thank fate. Instead, he bored right in, lunging at Shadow and hoping to wrestle her to the floor.

Shadow had been expecting some such move and side-stepped it easily. She booted Clanton in the ass as he went stumbling by. Clanton went sprawling face-first onto the cabin’s dirt floor.

At this point it would have been easy for Shadow to pile on top of him and grind his face into the dirt. She was sorely tempted to force him face-down into the dirt until he asphyxiated. It was her plan not just to beat him up, but bust him up. She fully intended to leave him dead or permanently disabled. But she didn’t want to end it too quickly.

“Get up!” she snarled.

There were many who would have considered Shadow’s giving Sailor Clanton a second crack at her to be a reckless, foolhardy move. Clanton was bigger than she was, and stronger. Yet Shadow had put aside her anger long enough to weigh her course of action before committing to it. Clanton was no pushover in a fight, but he wasn’t as good as he thought he was. His penchant for taking on lesser opponents had given him an inflated reputation, in his own mind as well as others’. In terms of overall skill, he was Shadow’s inferior. Moreover, his physique, though impressive, was mainly for show. He looked pumped-up, even a little muscle-bound. He lacked the trim lines of a true fighter. And he would not be fighting in top form. He had been forced to strip naked at gunpoint, which rendered him more vulnerable in addition to being psychologically debilitating. Ending up face-down on the floor mere seconds into a fight also tended to undermine one’s confidence. Two cracks on the head from a gun barrel weren’t likely to help Clanton’s form either.

Clanton rose unsteadily and turned to face his former prisoner. Shadow shifted into her fighting stance. Clanton came at her, enraged, still seeking to overpower her by sheer force. He cocked back a clenched fist as he closed distance. Then he hooked his heavily-muscled arm at her as though determined to tear her head from her shoulders with a single blow.

Clanton’s hook to the head was poorly timed and executed, however. Shadow ducked under it with a supple weave of her body. She sprang up inside his guard, stung his face with a couple of quick jabs, then danced back out of range.

Clanton realized that he had a real fight on his hands and he wasn’t going to end this with one punch. He got down to serious business, assuming a boxing stance opposite his opponent.

Shadow was instantly aware that Clanton had sobered up and was now fighting with a clear head. She wasn’t about to let him get up to speed. Clanton moved in, flicking his jab. Shadow shifted to karate mode and deflected the blows with swats of her open hands. When her foe was close enough, she brought her booted heel down hard on his naked instep. She felt some of the bones crack as she counterpunched, then moved back out of range. Clanton wobbled unsteadily on his broken foot. Lame, he was a sitting duck.

Even so, Shadow remained wary about moving in on him. Unable to maneuver, his best bet would be to try to grapple. The smart move would be to soak up a few more of her licks in exchange for an opportunity to place her in some sort of hold or, failing that, simply seize her and hurl her to the ground --anything that enabled him to bring his greater strength to bear.

Given these considerations, Shadow refrained from rushing in. Instead she took this opportunity to taunt Clanton in the hopes of rattling him. She assumed a haughty demeanor, flaunting her naked breasts. “This is twice tonight you’ve come up short,” she said coldly, “Karla gave me a better fight.”

“You lousy bitch,” he grated, “Just let me get my hands on you.” His open hands trembled, betraying his urge to grab.

Stupid of him to telegraph that he’s going for the grapple, Shadow thought, What if I hadn’t figured it out already?

Stung to fury, Clanton hobbled forward despite the pain of his injured foot. Shadow let out a loud “Ki-yi!” and raised her hands to deliver karate strikes. Clanton raised his own guard in response. However, Shadow’s move was merely a feint. When Sailor Clanton was in range she kicked him in the balls.

Clanton folded instantly, crashing to his knees. Shadow’s kick had been dead on. Since he was nude, Clanton’s testes were totally exposed. His injured foot made his stance awkward, leaving him wide open for a ball-shot. Shadow saw the opening and took the shot. “Accept what is offered,” Pops had told her long ago during training.

Shadow laughed at the sight of Clanton on his knees, clutching his groin and clenching his teeth against the urge to retch. Clanton flopped onto his side and curled into a fetal position.

After a few moments passed and he made no effort to rise, Shadow ordered him to get up. She suspected he was “taking the count,” faking the extent of his incapacity and stalling for time. In this way he could recover more fully while planning his next move. Shadow wasn’t having any of that shit. “Get up,” she repeated harshly, “Get up or I will kick and stomp you to death where you lay!”

After waiting as long as he dared, Clanton began to stir. He rose slowly and unsteadily. Before he was fully erect, Shadow knocked him back down with a side thrust kick. This almost proved to be her undoing. Instead of dropping, Clanton rolled with the kick and allowed it to propel him backwards --right into the corner where Shadow had tossed his gun. He managed to land face-down on top of it.

Within the space of a heartbeat Clanton was rolling onto his back, aiming the weapon. But Shadow had caught the move. With a speed borne of desperate urgency, she reached her own weapon, snatched it up, swung it towards Clanton, fired.

Both guns roared in the same instant. Clanton was still rolling his body as he fired. His shot went wild. Shadow’s struck Clanton squarely. She continued to squeeze the trigger. Three more of the heavy .40 slugs slammed into Clanton. His body jerked spasmodically, the automatic dropping from his twitching fingers. When Shadow stopped firing he slumped back and sprawled lifeless before her.

She pumped three more bullets into him for good measure. For several minutes she glared down at the bullet-riddled corpse. He bare breasts rose and fell as her breath hissed through her nostrils and clenched teeth. Her anger remained unabated. It was as though Clanton had escaped her in some way. She kicked the corpse savagely, again and again. She stomped down hard on it until she felt ribs crack. Then she unsheathed her knife…

#

The moon was setting by the time Mike and Lyle made it back to the cabin. Both were so drunk they could barely remain in their saddles. Lyle’s foot got caught in the stirrup as he attempted to dismount, and Mike had to free him. Eventually they managed to get the horses tied up. They headed around to front of the cabin.

Even through their booze haze, both instantly sensed that something was amiss. The door to the cabin was ajar. The wan yellowish lantern light spilled out through the opening. No sound could be heard from within save for a faint rustling and squeaking.

Mike and Lyle were gripped by a sense of foreboding as they approached the threshold. Lyle touched the door with a trembling hand. He pulled it slowly open on creaking hinges. Abruptly two large grey rats shot from within the doorway and vanished into the night.

Lyle flung the door open all the way. He and Mike stepped warily into the cabin. They stood aghast at what they saw within. The woman was gone, but they took scant notice of this. Before them in front of the fireplace a man’s nude body lay sprawled in a pool of blood. It had been mutilated and decapitated. Several more of the big grey rats feasted on the cooling flesh. On the mantel above them rested a human head -- the head of Sailor Clanton.

Mike screamed some incoherent blasphemy. Lyle pissed himself. They beheld a scene of nightmare and madness. It would have been horrific enough had they been stone cold sober. Seen through the distorted lens of their drunkenness, the gruesome tableau took on a genuinely hellish aspect.

Lyle felt his knees buckling. Then the floor came rushing up at him. He crashed to earth inches from the headless cadaver. The rats gnawing at the corpse hissed and backed up but did not scurry away. For a terror-filled moment Lyle was assailed by the sick certainty that he was about to pass out, knowing that the beasts would then be upon him.

To Lyle’s relief, Mike grabbed a poker and swung at the rats. He managed to drive them away and chase them out the door. He returned and helped Lyle to his feet.

“Oh dear God,” Lyle rasped, “Could she have done this? Bitch. Goddamn she-devil…”

Lyle rambled on but Mike wasn’t listening. He was gazing in horror at Sailor Clanton’s severed head with its oddly distorted face. It was then that he noticed something on the mantelpiece near the head. It was a folded piece of paper that looked to be a note of some sort. Mike picked it up and read the following:

DEAR ASSHOLES,

IF THE LATE SAILOR CLANTON LOOKS LIKE A CHIPMUNK, IT’S BECAUSE HE’S GOT HIS NUTS STUFFED IN HIS CHEEKS. YOU’LL BE JOINING HIM IN HELL VERY SOON. YOU SHOULD BE FEELING WARMER ALREADY.

LOVE, TAMAR

“What’s it say?” Lyle demanded.

Mike read it aloud, crumpled it, and cast it away. He was puzzling over what that last part meant when he smelled the smoke. Turning, he noticed a flickering hellish red glare outside the cabin’s sole window.

“Shit!” he cried, “She’s set the fuckin’ cabin on fire. Let’s get out of here.”

Mike made straight for the door, Lyle a step behind him. As he opened the door to step out, he was deafened by loud rifle fire. He was struck in the face by splinters and chunks of wood torn from the doorframe as bullets slammed into it.

Mike took a quick step back, colliding with Lyle and sending them both sprawling to the floor. They quickly shuffled over to the protection provided by the thick walls on either side of the doorway.

By now flames had sprung up around other parts of the cabin. The interior was starting to fill with smoke.

“We can’t stay in here,” Lyle said, his voice edged with panic, “And if we go out she’ll shoot us. Can you see anything out the window?”

“I can’t see nuthin’, but I think I heard the horses run off.”

The flames were growing higher by the minute and starting to eat through the walls. The heat was becoming unbearable. Both men realized the peril of their situation. The front door was the only exit. Attempting to escape through it they would be silhouetted against the light within. Even if they doused the lantern they would still be visible against the flames --sitting ducks for the shooter. But the alternative was being roasted alive.

Once again they tried the door. Once again they were driven back by a hail of lead that zinged inches past their heads.

“That was close,” muttered Mike, “Close enough to hit us if she wanted to. She wants us to burn in here.”

Mike doused the lantern, leaving only the unsteady flickering glare of the flames. “Stay low,” he told Lyle as they made another dash for the door. He hoped that the smoke now pouring from the cabin would furnish concealment.

Mike rushed to the door in a crouch, then pitched backwards as hot lead tore through his chest. Another crack of the rifle and Lyle fell as though struck by a thunderbolt.

#

Shadow arose from her chosen position on the fringe of the woods. From there she had gunned down her prey. The cabin was now fully engulfed in flame. She looked upon the inferno in grim satisfaction. Setting the fire had been easy. Heaps of rags and kindling soaked in kerosene had been set in strategic locations. Twists of paper served as simple fuses to be lit when the time came --once her marks were in place.

After Lyle and Mike entered the cabin, she had appropriated the rifles and Clanton’s horse, and set the other horses loose. Then she lit the fuses and waited for the fun to begin. Those in the cabin had no chance. Clanton’s rifle was designed for hunting, but its scope was state-of-the-art military issue. She had no problem placing each round exactly where she wished. Lyle had gone down with a bullet in the heart. The round she sent through Mike’s chest tore through both his lungs. He would probably drown in his own blood before he burned to death.

Shadow had no compunctions about her actions. Clanton and his crew were a nasty bunch. By reputation and by Clanton’s own boasts, they were known to have wronged many a man and woman. Such persons had now been avenged. But more importantly, Clanton and crew had fucked with her royally. There was no way she could let that shit slide.

Christian stood nearby, holding the horses. He passed no judgment on Shadow’s vengeance. He had followed Shadow into her world of his own free will, and was obliged to accept that world’s grim unwritten laws. Here, it seemed, people settled their own problems. Any qualms he might have felt had been eased by the sight of the black bruise the barrel of Clanton’s automatic had left on Shadow’s face.

Together they watched the cabin burn. Christian said, “I hope the fire doesn’t set these whole woods ablaze.”

“I don’t care if it does!” Shadow spat bitterly. Then the last of her anger abated like a storm blowing itself out. The cabin collapsed upon itself, sending up a huge cloud of sparks and embers. But the clearing was fairly large and the fire did not spread.

The fire had burned down by daybreak. A thick column of black smoke drifted skyward from the blackened smoldering ruins. Fog had come in with the dawn. The clearing looked like some misty realm of the dead. Shadow turned away from the smoking heap of cinders that formed a cairn over the remains of her enemies. “Let’s go,” she said.

They saddled up. Christian placed a rifle in the long saddle holster and slung another over his shoulder. Shadow likewise slung the rifle she had used over her shoulder. She also had Clanton’s automatic. It was chambered for .45 ammo. She briefly considered re-arming Christian with it; he was big enough to handle the more powerful round. But she quickly thought better of it. Automatics had slides and safeties to work. These could prove difficult for a novice shooter, especially under stress. Better he stick with his revolver.

#

They headed south along a narrow trail, avoiding the more traveled roads. The pair rode in silence for awhile. Christian finally spoke up.

“Uh, listen, I’m sorry about last night. I mean, I didn’t mean to stare at you like that when I came in and found you. It’s just that…” he paused before taking the plunge, “…well, I’ve never actually seen a totally naked lady before.”

Shadow was stunned by the revelation. She almost laughed but managed to stifle it so as not to embarrass him. Then she thought of something.

“What are you talking about? You saw me at the Go-Go Lounge back in Wheeling.”

“I averted my eyes, actually.”

This time she did laugh. “You are something else, Churchy.”

Christian made no reply. He didn’t want her to know the whole truth. He had been sorely tempted to gaze upon her nakedness. However, due to his repressive Victorian upbringing, he was very easily aroused. If he had actually watched the strippers, he ran the risk of becoming tumescent. He would have been mortified had any of the rough Border Region crowd call attention to a visible erection in his pants.

Shadow wondered if she had hurt Christian’s feelings by laughing at him, even good-naturedly. She said, “And besides, you did just fine. You saved me from that Chester guy. If not for you, I’d still be tied up in Sailor Clanton’s unburnt cabin.” And, she thought to herself, You are going to be seeing a whole lot more of me real soon, you lucky bastard.

#

Further down the road, Shadow informed Christian, “I’m looking for a place to hole up. I’ve had a rough night. I need some place to fall back, rest up and lick my wounds. And I could really use a bath.”

Shadow knew where to find what she needed. They left the road they were traveling and headed west along one of the east-west routes that led to and from the New Settlements. It was almost noon when they arrived at a rustic inn located along the trail. The inn consisted of several primitive log structures in keeping with the frontier environs. A large main building housed a bar and grill. Surrounding it were some small cabins.

The travelers tied up their horses in the rear of the main building. They entered the tavern and ordered lunch. The meal was simple fare: chicken-flavored foodpaste fried in a skillet and served with some garden greens.

Shadow paid for the meal and a cabin for the night. She requested one with a tub as well as a bed. The innkeeper gave her the key. She and Christian went over to stow their gear.

The cabin was small and dark, but the bed was big. It was common for travelers to share a bed in those parts, as in former times. Shadow removed her duster and hung it up. She now wore Sailor Clanton’s red mesh tank top in place of the one that had gotten torn off in the fight with Karla. Her nipples were plainly visible through the nylon garment, which did more to emphasize than conceal the ivory globes of her breasts. It was a sight that caused Christian to catch his breath. Shadow noticed and thought, Just wait, boy. You ain’t seen nuthin’ yet.

In the meantime they had their work cut out for them. The tub was just a simple metal affair that had been placed in the middle of the floor. They had to get a fire going in the fireplace, draw water from a pump outside, bring it in and boil it in a cauldron over the fire.

When the tub was full of hot steaming water, Shadow told Christian, “I’ll go first. After last night I need a bath more than you. Don’t worry; the water will still be plenty hot when you get back.”

She gave Christian the key. He went out to feed and water the horses. When he was gone, Shadow undressed. She did not bolt the door from the inside, but kept her Glock close at hand.

When she was naked, she slowly lowered herself into the bath. The water was piping hot. She had to lower herself into it gradually, letting it creep up over her body inch by inch.

When she was fully immersed, Shadow relaxed and allowed the heat to ease away the aches and hurts of the past two nights. She luxuriated in the warm water smiling contentedly, in no hurry to leave the tub. At length there was a knock at the door and Christian’s voice from without; “Are you decent?”

With a wicked little grin, Shadow said, “Yeah, sure. Come on in.”

Christian entered the cabin and stopped short when he saw that Shadow was still lolling naked in the tub.

“Close the damn door!” she said sharply, “You’re letting cold air in.”

Christian, by now accustomed to instantly obeying her commands, shut the door behind her without further thought. The flames from the fire in the hearth lit the room redly. Shadow rose from the tub, wisps of steam curling about her. She stood before him, her lovely nude body dripping wet. “Besides,” she said coyly, “Do I look indecent to you?”

Christian did not answer. His mouth had gone dry and his tongue seemed to have swollen. He stood rooted to the spot, transfixed by the incredible sight of her.

As on the previous evening, Shadow had to snap him out of it. “Well, make yourself useful,” she commanded, “Fetch that towel on the bed. Get over here. Dry me. Chop chop, Churchy!”

He came to her as though drawn by the pull of gravity. Unfolding the large bath towel, he stepped behind her and draped it about her shoulders. Then Christian got to work. He started by patting dry her shoulders, then her upper arms. Lifting her damp hair, he dried the back of her neck. After drying her upper and lower back, he stopped.

“Lower,” Shadow instructed in a husky voice.

Christian patted dry her backside, thrilling to the touch of her firm rounded buttocks through the towel. He bent to work on her thighs and upper calves. Straightening up, he reached around her to towel off the front of her body. He avoided touching her breasts until she took hold of his hands and pressed them there.

“That’s good,” she whispered as she stepped out of the tub. She wrapped the towel about her, tucking in a corner of the damp cloth to hold it in place. Seating herself on the bed, she reached for a smaller towel to dry her calves and feet.

“Permit me,” Christian said somewhat meekly as he picked up the towel. Without being told, he kneeled before her and dried off her feet.

When he finished, she bid him to rise and led him over to the fireplace. The flames and the steam from tub and cauldron had made the small cabin interior quite warm.

“Time for you to get a bath,” she informed him. So saying she removed his vest.

Christian objected feebly; “Aren’t you…”

“Hush,” she whispered as she began to unbutton his shirt. Her fingertips lightly caressed the bare skin underneath, sending thrills along his nerves. She peeled off his shirt and cast it aside with his vest. He remained passive as she unbuckled his belt. She unzipped his pants and let them drop to the floor.

“Tidy whities,” she muttered disapprovingly, more to herself than to him, “Have to get you sexier underwear, Church-boy.”

As in a dream, Christian felt himself being swept along as she helped him step out of his pants and shoes. Finally Shadow yanked down his underpants to reveal the erection the bulge in his shorts had so blatantly indicated.

“My, you are a big boy,” she cooed teasingly as his stiffened member sprang free.

Christian was breathing heavily. His erection was red and throbbing. It seemed like he was ready to explode. That would never do. Once things started rolling, she didn’t want him to come too quickly.

Shadow reached down and took hold of his penis. Christian started to squirm.

“Now just relax,” she said soothingly, entrancingly, “Just trust me. Believe me, I know what I’m doing. Nothing is your fault. It’s that bad girl Shadow…”

After quieting him down, she began to gently masturbate him. It didn’t take long to bring him off. He groaned loudly as though in actual pain as he ejaculated into the fire.

Christian staggered, weak in the knees. Shadow placed his arm around her shoulders to support him as he leaned against her.

“That one was medicinal,” she informed him, “The next one will be more fun, and you’ll last longer.”

She guided him to the tub and helped him as he got in. The water was still nice and warm. Shadow picked up a washcloth and began to bathe Christian.

When he was all clean, she helped him out of the tub. She removed the towel she had been wearing like a sarong, and used it to dry him off. Now they were both naked. When he was dry, she took him by the hand and led him to the bed.

Christian allowed himself to be led. He was still a bit wobbly as he walked. He seemed dazed, almost like he was on drugs. Shadow knew that she was rocking his world. She was very understanding and patient with him.

When they reached the bed, she pressed lightly on his shoulders with her fingertips to ease him into a sitting position. “Just relax, Christian sweetie,” she said soothingly, “Just trust me, okay?”

She lifted his legs onto the bed. Another light touch of her fingers got him to recline. When he was resting against the pillows, Shadow climbed into bed alongside him. She smiled warmly at him.

Shadow leaned in to kiss Christian. He responded clumsily. “Don’t pucker your lips,” she told him, “I’m not your mother.” Or that little tight-ass you dragged me around looking for.

Shadow now proceeded to teach Christian how to kiss. He was a fast learner and quickly got the hang of it. When she sensed he was ready, she threw in a little playful tongue action. Before long they were locked in a passionate embrace..

Shadow felt well pleased with herself. Church-boy was coming to life. She had broken the shackles of his “moral” inhibitions and gotten his young red blood boiling. Now he rained hot kisses on her lips, face and neck. His hands roamed freely over her. He cupped her breasts, marveling at their warmth, their smooth roundness.

She was groping him as well. Her fingers lightly caressed his ball sac and felt it grow tight. Moving on, she was delighted to discover that his member was as rigid as an iron spike.

He was ready. She was ready. It was time. She rolled him gently onto his back once more. “Just relax,” she whispered, “And let me do all the work.”

She mounted him then. Straddling his body, she lowered herself onto him and guided him in. She began to ride him, slowly at first, gradually building to a more vigorous tempo.

Christian surrendered to her and let the experience wash over him. He felt himself responding, thrusting upwards to meet her downward plunges. He looked up in awe at her superb young body as she rode atop him. It was like a thousand forbidden fantasies come to life. His blood roared madly in his ears as he gave in completely and reveled in the sheer physical delight. Was he not a man, after all? And here was a woman who could tempt a saint.

Shadow could sense his climax nearing and timed her moves to his. That way she would be able to get off just as he did. She felt his body beneath her begin to shudder and convulse.

“Jesus Chri--” Christian blurted, biting his lower lip to keep from taking the Lord’s name in vain.

Shadow came then as well. Her body tensed as her orgasm rocked her. Then she collapsed on top of Christian. They lay together gulping air for a few moments. When their breathing returned to normal, she kissed him softly. Christian had bitten into his lip hard enough to draw blood. He now saw that blood smeared across Shadow’s lips like lipstick.

They disengaged and lay curled in each other’s arms for a long time. Later, Shadow left his side momentarily to add wood to the fire. Watching Shadow’s nude form cross the cabin, Christian felt a warm glow of manly pride. To think that he had possessed such a woman!

After awhile they coupled again, feverishly. Finally spent, Shadow smiled contentedly. She snuggled against Christian. The door was locked and bolted. The crackling logs in the fireplace shed a cheery warmth. Shadow drifted into a blissful slumber.

#

It was well past daybreak when Shadow awoke. There were only ashes in the fireplace now. Daylight filtered through the one small window, filling the cabin with a sickly grey half-light.

Shadow was startled to discover that Christian was already up. He had gotten dressed and was now seated in the room’s sole rickety chair. And he was crying. He wasn’t racked by anguished sobs or anything. He just sniffled and wiped away tears as though remorseful about something.

“What’s with the waterworks?” Shadow demanded, perplexed, “It wasn’t that bad, was it?” Like he would know.

“No, no, of course not,” Christian answered wistfully, “It’s not that. It’s just that my first time was supposed to be on my wedding night.”

Shadow was utterly bewildered and not a little angry. She had really thought she had made a man out of him. But now it looked as though the grey shades of his stultifying upbringing had reclaimed him.

“What is your friggin’ problem?” she said scornfully, “I can’t believe after a night with me you would still be mooning over some little candy-ass.”

“Oh, you don’t understand,” he replied in a hurt voice, “I was saving myself for marriage. When I was in school I took a purity pledge. No sex before marriage. I gave my word before God. I swore in Jesus’ name.”

Shadow glowered at him as she began to hurriedly dress. “And here I thought you were a man,” she said bitterly, hoping to hurt him, “And you go and start with this sissy shit. You are a real piece of work, Church-boy.”

When she finished dressing she pulled on her duster. She went out, slamming the door behind her.

#

Outside, Shadow mounted Incitatus. She rode off, galloping into the hills. She pressed the horse hard and did not stop until she reached the crest of a high summit. From this vantage point she could see mountains, hills and valleys spreading out below and rolling off into the distance. There was a large outcropping of flat rock. The day was clear for once. The sun was well up and warmed the rock with its rays. The outcropping furnished an excellent seat for taking in the view.

Shadow tied the pinto to a tree branch at the fringe of the woods. She began to rummage through one of the saddle bags. Presently she drew forth a small bag of marijuana and some rolling papers. Shadow was not an habitual pot smoker, even though she grew and sold the stuff. But from time to time she would use it if she wanted to relax and think something through.

After taking a seat on the outcropping, Shadow rolled herself a joint. She lit it and inhaled deeply. After a few hits on the joint her tension had mostly vanished. A few more and she was feeling really mellow. The sun shining on her and the sun-washed rock beneath her felt warm and pleasant. She relaxed and let her mind drift. Before long she was thinking of her last lover.

#

It was almost a year ago now, during the last deer season. By tradition, Westsylvanians observed the hunting seasons of the old Commonwealth so as not to deplete the wild game. That season she had been staying by herself in a tiny cabin near Tionesta. On the fateful day she had been hunting alone in the forest. There was about two inches of new snow on the ground. It was bitter cold, and she had seen little game afoot. Presumably most of the deer were bedded down. Finally, she discovered some fresh tracks. She trailed the deer for miles. At last she found it standing in a clearing. She had a nice clean shot at it.

She raised her rifle, took careful aim and squeezed the trigger. The shot crashed loudly and the deer dropped to the snow. Right away, Shadow sensed something amiss. The gunshot had reverberated too loudly to be an echo. The deer had jerked as though struck twice before falling.

Shadow stepped cautiously into the clearing. She was not surprised to see another hunter emerge from the woods. She raised a hand in greeting. The two approached each other and met over the fallen deer.

“I think I hit it first,” Shadow said, “But we--”

“You’re a woman!” the other exclaimed, almost incredulous.

Shadow’s heavy winter garb had concealed her gender until she and the man were very close. “Thanks for noticing,” she said, “Is there a problem with that?”

“I never thought to see a woman carrying a gun for deer. You must be Westsylvanian.”

“Naturally enough, since we’re in Westsylvania.”

“I think not,” he said as he consulted an electronic device strapped to his wrist, “This is Pennsylvania. You crossed the border awhile back.”

Show-off, Shadow thought, You and your fancy satellite tracking. All the satellites of the Old Union had been blown out of the sky during the opening days of the War. To this day none had been replaced.

“I am afraid you have entered the Islamic States illegally,” the man said bluntly.

Screw you, pal. “Well, I hope you’re not going to be a dick about it. Look, I’ll just head back.”

Abruptly the man’s tone changed and became more friendly. “Please forgive my appalling lack of manners. It is easy to lose one’s way in this wilderness. And the afternoon grows late. Were you to start back now, you may well find yourself still some distance from shelter when night falls. Allow me to offer you the hospitality of my hunting lodge. It is not far from here. And we can share the deer.”

“Fair enough. Let’s lighten our load a bit.”

Shadow unsheathed her bowie knife and impressed her fellow hunter with her skill in field-dressing a deer. Together they placed the gutted carcass on a sling the man provided.

Between the two of them, dragging the deer through the snow proved easy work. Along the way they introduced themselves. “You are very handy with a gun and a knife,” said the man, “Muslim women do not possess such skills. Of course, I should have expected different from a woman of the Border Region. I’ve visited Tionesta and some of the other border communities. My name is Yusef Davis.”

“Tamar Lane.”

“I’m so very charmed to make your acquaintance, Miss Tamar Lane.”

Pretty smooth, Yusef, Shadow thought, “Likewise.”

They did not have far to travel. Less than thirty minutes of hiking brought them to Yusef’s hunting lodge. It was located along a winding dirt road, and similar structures belonging to others could be glimpsed further up the road. Yusef’s cabin was fairly large, with several outbuildings adjacent. Before entering his cabin, Yusef knelt in the snow for his evening prayers. Shadow thought he looked very serene.

After he arose, they hung the deer in a shed. This task completed, Yusef escorted Shadow into the lodge. The interior was spacious with ample room for four beds and other comfortable furnishings. “Sometimes companions join me,” Yusef explained, “But this year I was hunting alone. Or so I thought.”

Inside the warm cabin, the pair removed their heavy outerwear. Beneath his cold weather garb, Yusef was dressed simply in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. Shadow was pleased to note that he was trimly built and ruggedly handsome. He sported a thick head of tousled brown hair and a short beard that masked a strong chin. He looked more Nordic than Middle-Eastern.

Shadow pulled off her headgear and shook loose her hair. She removed her orange hunting coat, brown outer pants, heavy boots and thick woolen socks. Her remaining garments were her customary black. She wore very tight pants and a turtleneck sweater. Barefoot and clad thus, she resembled nothing so much as a mid-20th Century beatnik.

The cabin was furnished with electricity from a wind and solar powered generator. There was ample power for lighting and small appliances. After getting a blaze going in the fireplace, Yusef prepared coffee. He and Shadow relaxed in comfortable chairs.

“You brew an excellent cup of coffee,” Shadow told her host, “That’s high praise from me.”

“And you are most enchanting,” Yusef replied graciously, “And Tamar Lane is a lovely name, very poetic. It brings to mind Tamerlane, the great Muslim conqueror of Asia.”

“That’s what my dad thought. What about you? You don’t look Mid-Eastern. I mean, I know you have to be Muslim to be a citizen of the ISA, but how far back do you go?”

“My maternal grandfather was Syrian,” Yusef said with a smile, “But the rest of my forebears have lived in central Pennsylvania since before the Flood, or so it would seem. I’m a mix of German, Scots-Irish, English, supposedly some Delaware Indian if you go back far enough.”

“Our family backgrounds are sort of similar,” Shadow replied, “Except for the Syrian, of course. I’m descended from the original settlers of Westsylvania. But tell me more about you. Do you have a wife? Girlfriend?”

“No and no. My mother would like me to settle down, but I’m not really much of a ladies’ man.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

As they spoke, Shadow noticed his eyes straying to the soft mounds of her breasts, so inviting beneath the sweater. She got up to pour more coffee. Her ass was admirably displayed by her tight black pants as she walked. She could feel Yusef’s burning gaze.

“How about a refill?” she asked as she poured herself a fresh cup.

“None for me, thanks. It’ll keep me up, and I like to turn in early.” As though that were a cue, Yusef rose from his chair. He busied himself stringing a rope across the cabin like a clothesline and hung blankets over it to create a screen.

“That should afford us both some privacy,” he told Shadow, “Take one of the beds over there. Just turn the light off when you’re ready.”

“Oh, you’re no fun,” Shadow chided, “Is there anywhere a girl can freshen up?”

“Why, yes, as a matter of fact. The small building next to the shed where we hung the deer is a sauna. I built it myself and am rather proud of it. It’s just the thing to relax you and ease away tension. I usually unwind there before retiring. By all means feel free to make use of it.”

“You first,” Shadow said, “You’re the one who wanted to turn in early. I’ll just sit and enjoy some more of the coffee until you’re finished.”

“Very well.”

Yusef disappeared behind the makeshift screen and undressed. He emerged wearing a heavy robe and slippers, carrying some towels. He exited the cabin quietly.

Shadow sat alone for awhile and sipped her coffee. She smiled. She had taken quite a liking to the handsome stranger. He seemed very manly, yet gentle and good-natured. He was certainly worth getting to know better, especially now. The cold winter months had come. The days grew short. It was going to be a long cold night. And she had been too long without a man.

Shadow was not normally quite so impetuous, but this time it seemed right. With a sudden firm sense of resolve, she rose from her chair. She undressed and wrapped a large towel about her. Then she slipped out the cabin door.

Outside, night had fallen. Shadow stepped out into the frosty air. She was traveling no great distance, and so ignored the bitter cold and the snow beneath her bare feet. She approached the nearby outbuilding that housed the sauna.

Shadow entered the sauna and shut the door behind her, cutting off an icy blast of wind that tried to follow her in. She took a seat on a bench opposite a startled Yusef. “Thought you could use some company,” she said.

Yusef was taken aback. He was nude, with only a small towel draped over his loins. He glanced about to see where he had dropped his robe. It was out of reach. To retrieve it he would have to rise and in doing so expose himself. He could only fidget nervously.

“Why don’t you just relax?” Shadow asked, her voice soothing. “It’s so nice in here.” She spoke the simple truth. Outside was a chill winter night. Within the sauna it was as warm and moist as a tropical rain forest.

“Miss Lane, this is most inappropriate,” Yusef objected, “You should leave. Have you no modesty?”

In answer, Shadow stood up and let her towel drop. “Apparently not,” she said. Her nipples were still erect from her walk in the cold air. Her supple nude body was as white as the snows and rapidly becoming slick with dew droplets of sweat. “Still think I should leave?”

She saw the passion flame in Yusef’s eyes and had her answer. The next thing she knew she was in his arms. They locked together in passionate embrace. They kissed, his lips crushing hers, breaking off only long enough to gasp for breath. She could feel him grow hard against her. He became erect almost instantly, even though the steam-bath’s air was muggy enough to make a man drowsy.

She yielded as he pinned her against the wall with his body and, standing upright, entered her and began thrusting. Her long legs locked about his waist and drew him in deeper. Her arms snaked through his as her hands clutched his broad shoulders for support. Her nails raked his back. She climaxed with a wildcat screech. He gave a few more vigorous thrusts before exploding inside her.

The lovers sank to the floor where they lay spent, drenched in perspiration. Their strength returned gradually. They rose unsteadily and toweled each other off. Shadow remained weak as a kitten. Yusef wrapped her in a fresh towel, donned his robe, and carried her back to the cabin.

That night they slept soundly and serenely in each other’s arms, snug beneath warm blankets while the cold wind howled outside. They awoke before dawn and renewed their passion, then drifted back to sleep. They remained in bed throughout the long grey morning, leaving it only long enough to consume a simple breakfast.

Later in the day they butchered the deer. They enjoyed a hearty venison supper. Shadow stayed another night in the cabin. She and Yusef parted the following morning. She returned to her camp with her share of the venison.

#

Looking back on it now, Shadow felt a warm glow. The time she had with Yusef had been good. But they both knew that they could have no future together. Could she have a future with anyone? That question bothered her.

Shadow finished smoking the joint and resisted the temptation to roll another. Pot-smoking made her more introspective than was her wont. She didn’t usually sit around brooding, but right now she felt moved to examine herself and her motives, particularly in regard to the men in her life.

Christian and Yusef. Church-boy and Mosque-boy. What was it about them that had drawn her to them? They had both just been trying to clean up --in a bath and a sauna-- and she had to make them both get down and dirty. What was up with that? Did she take some secret delight in knocking these religious types off their high horses?

With Christian there was something more. She recalled the moment he had shown her the picture of his runaway fiancée. Shadow had loathed her on sight, she now realized, and had belittled her time and again; tight-ass, saccharine little candy-ass and so on. Had she been insanely jealous of a picture? Had the whole thing really been about stealing Christian’s cherry from Angel, his betrothed? And if so, why not? Some buck had undoubtedly stolen her cherry from him. When he finally realized that, he would thank her. It was for his own good.
Or was it? Maybe she was just a bad person. Like that time…don’t go there, don’t go there…like that time when she had actually toyed with the idea of “consoling” Pops after Steffy died. And what had that been all about?

No wonder she didn’t enjoy getting high so much anymore. Still, she realized the importance of dragging subconscious shit to the surface. Ignore it and let it fester, and it could trip you up later.

Having confronted her issues, Shadow felt mentally more relaxed. The sun was nearing its zenith now. The day was very warm. The rock outcropping on which she sat was big enough to stretch out on. She removed her duster and spread it beneath her. She lay back for awhile, just basking in the sun’s rays like a lizard. She was almost straight again when some clouds started to roll in. It never stayed sunny in these parts for very long. Time to leave this place.

Shadow rode back to the inn. A sheepish-looking Christian awaited her there.

“Thanks for coming back,” he said.

“Why wouldn’t I come back? I just needed a little time to myself.”

“Well, I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. I behaved like an ass.”

She waited for him to elaborate.

“I didn’t mean to carry on so about my chastity vow,” he said, “The truth is that if I had really wanted to stop what happened between us, I would have. But I didn’t want it to stop. I wanted it to happen. I wanted it more than I’d ever wanted anything. And now I’m glad we made love.”

“Oh Romeo, Romeo, wilt thou can the ‘make love’ bullshit? We fucked, okay?”

This was like a dash of cold water in Christian’s face. “Well, it was more than that to me. And you’re not fooling me by acting hard. I think you’re a good girl, Tammy.”

Now it was Shadow’s turn to be taken aback. “Look Church-boy, you can call me Tamar or you can call me Shadow, but if you ever call me Tammy again I will knock your teeth out.”

“Well, in that case I won’t,” Christian replied coldly.

“Aw, forget it,” Shadow said, her voice softening, “Sorry to be such a bitch. It’s just been a hell of a few days. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

#

Shades of evening were gathering when they rode into view of Pops’ cabin. It had only been a few days, but to Shadow it seemed like years since she had last laid eyes on it. Now she was greatly cheered to see Pain come bounding into the yard. A few moments later, Pops emerged from the cabin.

Shadow swung down from Incitatus and ran to him. She threw herself against the older man, her arms encircling his waist, hugging him fiercely. Pops returned her embrace. He stroked her hair and kissed her forehead gently. Shadow was certain of more trouble ahead. For the moment, however, she felt safe in Pops’ massive arms.

Next: Thunder of the Feud