by Ryder Stacy
They half ran through the leafy jungle for what seemed like hours until they at last came to a clearing, the camp of the Kreega. A space a good three hundred feet wide had been cleared of trees though those at the circumference of the space overhung it with their long leafy branches, protecting it from much of the snow and rain. Only a few flakes managed to squeeze through the outstretched branches and these were quickly evaporated by the heat of the surrounding jungle. But what instantly caught Rockson’s eye were the structures that the Kreega lived in—teepees. They stood fifty feet apart, nearly a dozen of them, each about twenty feet tall, with animal hides wrapped tightly around their conical bodies. Thin streams of smoke rose from the opening at the top of each one.
Reina tugged tightly at Rock’s bonds pulling him close in behind her as they walked into the center of the Amazon village. More of the white-skinned, black-haired women emerged from their teepees as a large muscular woman with gourd-sized breasts blew on a hollowed-out stag horn from her guard post at the edge of the encampment. The deep raspy note shivered through the air, sending a chill down Rockson’s back. The women gathered around the returning hunters, reaching out to touch their male prisoners. Soft but strong hands grabbed at the two men as they walked through the gauntlet of female flesh.
Reina led them to the largest of the teepees, a good fifteen feet higher than the others. It sat in the center of the camp, emblazoned with bizarre geometric patterns. She opened the hide flap at the bottom of the teepee and pushed Rockson roughly inside. He flew forward, landing on a bed of black grizzly furs. Archer followed closely behind, kicked from the rear by two sets of female feet. He flew inside, landing on top of Rockson. The two men sat up as Reina walked in and stood looking down on them. Four of the women warriors stood just inside the flap, their hands resting on jewel-encrusted daggers at their waists.
Rockson tried working at the knotted leather binding clamping his hands behind his back. But the knots were tight as steel locks. Reina sat on a second fur bed several feet away from the two freefighters and began a discourse that Rock could barely understand. She spoke in a sort of pidgin French mixed with American slang and a smattering of local Indian dialect.
“Desirez-vous prenez un bath?” she asked first Rockson and then Archer who stared at one another in noncomprehension. Rock knew the language was primarily French. He had gone over basic language tapes back at Century City. But beyond his basic ability at faking Russian, useful to infiltrate Red posts, he was virtually in the dark about other dialects.
“Un bath, un bath,” Reina said, irritated, raising her arms and making a washing motion, so that her large breasts swung from side to side like lush ripe fruits, waiting to be plucked.
“Oh—un bath,” Rock said, getting the meaning of the charade. “Yes, uh, oui,” he answered, remembering his one word of French. Reina snapped her fingers and two of the Kreega guards ran out. But the teepee flap had barely closed when the albino warrior walked in.
“Ishtar,” Reina spat out as the albino’s eyes met hers. There was obviously no love lost between the two. The albino must have made a quick change for she was now decked out in elaborate ceremonial costume, complete with warpaint on her face and a panther head, eerily lifelike with opened jaws and glowing eyes, atop her skull.
“L’homme est moi,” she snarled, her fist wrapped around her dagger.
“Quelle homme?” Reina asked, her own hand drifting down to her razor-sharp blade.
“Le plus belle monsieur avec le streak blanc dans les cheveux.”
“Non, Ishtar,” Reina said, rising and walking several steps until she stood face to face with the albino. Ishtar reached for her blade but Reina froze her with a withering look that even Rock could see said: Are you ready to die. They were obviously continuing their argument about just who would get the right to kill—or maybe eat them. Rock suddenly realized how the black slaves of old must have felt—as their fates were decided by alien masters.
Ishtar’s hand hovered at the knife handle for long seconds, but apparently not ready to take up the challenge she abruptly turned on her heels and headed through the flap. At the last second she turned and said with an ominous tone, “Vous etes morte, Reina. Je suis destroyez-vous.” Then she was gone. Reina let her own hand drop from the knife and then smiled at Rockson as if to show she wasn’t afraid.
“Ishtar est dangereuse. Guardez.” Rock got the message. The flap suddenly opened again and a whole troupe of the women warriors came in pushing two immense wooden barrels filled with steaming hot water. “Votre bath,” Reina said with a sly look. The women pushed the hot tubs into the center of the teepee as Reina motioned for the two freefighters to rise. She cut their ankle binds with a single quick slice, but left their hands tied. The Kreega women rushed over to their two prisoners and began stripping off their clothes. Within seconds both Rock and Archer were standing stark naked surrounded by nearly a dozen of the Kreega who ran their eyes up and down the men’s bodies as if taking in the eighth wonder of the world. Their desire was undisguised as their mouths opened slowly. Several of them rubbed their breasts, squeezing them tight between white hands. Rock and Archer gulped under the feminine scrutiny. Several of the women pointed at the lower portions of the men’s bodies and made obscene remarks to one another punctuated by coarse laughter.
The freefighters were led over to the wooden tubs and helped inside. Rock hoped they weren’t cooking pots. But the second he touched the hot, soothing water he knew that at least for the moment they weren’t about to be made into soup. The two men sank deep into the four-foot-high barrels, scrunching their legs up so they could fit. The women surrounded them and, hefting big bars of animal fat soap in their hands, began scrubbing and massaging the male bodies. Reina stood beside Rock’s tub, not touching Rockson’s muscled flesh but watching, her eyes riveted to him like a precious stone. The women washed the two freefighters until all the dirt and grime had been cleaned from their bodies. They stepped out from the tubs and several of the Kreega wrapped them in thick homespun towels.
“Un moment,” Reina said, suddenly stepping forward. She looked down at Rockson’s back, noticing the inflamed red wound he had recieved from a Red bullet while stealing the MIG from the Moscow airport. “Vous avez le wound,” she said, stepping behind him and touching the raw entry hole.
“Oui,” Rock answered wincing. “And Archer also.” He pointed over to the grizzly-sized freefighter who seemed to be enjoying the female attention immensely. On Archer’s thigh as well was an infected wound, almost purple and filled with pus.
“Le couchez, le couche,” Reina barked out, pointing to the two bearskin beds at the far side of the teepee. They were led by their still-bound wrists and deposited naked on the beds. Reina pulled a small deerskin pouch from the belt of her loincloth and opened it, taking out a handful of dried green powder. She wetted the powder down with some spit and slapped it over Rock’s wound. Another Kreega did the same to Archer. When the wounds were completely covered with the green paste, they were wrapped with a crude white fabric. Rock was somewhat skeptical about the method of treatment, but powerless to do more than just turn his head and watch the proceedings.
When the wounds were covered, the two freefighters were once again turned over. Four of the Kreega women jumped onto Rock’s bearhide mattress, edging toward him, their hands reaching for his flesh.
“Non, non,” Reina yelled, pulling the women off and heaving them halfway across the teepee floor. “Le belle home est moi.” The women snarled at their queen but none dared to challenge her. In a tribe of perhaps the toughest women who had ever lived on the face of the earth, Reina was the toughest.
Across the dirt floor Archer was covered by seven women, giggling and laughing as they squeezed out at the giant’s flesh.
“Je vous desire,” they whispered out to him, like a chorus of crooning sirens. Archer grabbed the closest one and hoisted her atop him as the others watched, their eyes wide with excitement.
Re
ina stood above Rockson, smiling down at him. She gazed upon him for several seconds and then slowly undid her fur loincloth. Naked, she lowered herself on top of him. Her smell, her warmth, her soft firm body was overwhelming to his senses. For a moment he saw the image of Kim’s face in his mind. But then it disappeared. A man must do what a man must do. Besides he was a prisoner.
She leaned forward and kissed his lips, softly at first then with a desperate hunger. She rubbed her body on his with increasing vigor, her soft breasts pressing against his chest with a trembling urgency. He could feel her growing wet, her legs spreading apart, the scent of her moist sex hitting his nostrils like a powerful aphrodisiac.
“Maintenant pour le sexe,” she said with a sly grin and began working her way down his body, kissing every square inch of his masculine firmness. She slid down until she reached his manhood, now stiff and engorged from the stimulation of the beautiful woman warrior and put her mouth over the spearlike shaft. She moved up and down it with her lips wide apart, moaning with her eyes tightly shut. When she had brought the rod to its full length she sat up on the Doomsday Warrior and, opening the lips of her now well-lubricated sex, placed the tip against her thick black triangle.
Reina groaned loudly as the steel-hard organ slid deep inside her, sinking down on it until she was penetrated to her core. She began moving up and down on the male shaft, all the while screaming aloud in French. Rock, his hands still bound, could only lie back and enjoy it. Within minutes she began building up to a frantic pumping motion, moving up and down on him like a jackhammer. At last she opened her soft mouth wide and let out a piercing scream. Her body jerked and shuddered wildly for almost a minute, making Rock join in the love-making culmination. When they had both relaxed she lay atop him again, stroking his arms and chest, and making little cooing noises. If this was what it was going to be like to be a prisoner of the Kreega, Rockson thought to himself, maybe he’d sign up for the long haul.
Across the teepee, Archer was virtually covered with female flesh. Four young and beautiful Kreega women lay draped over his immense physique. Rock could hear the thrashings and gigglings and Archer’s occasional “Gooooooddddd,” as he was taken on a love trip the likes of which he had never experienced in his life. As soon as one was done, riding atop the giant’s immense organ, the next would take her place. They were working him like a stud horse, and he seemed equal to the task.
Reina became aroused again within minutes and she once again mounted Rock. When she had finished coming for a second time she at last got off of him and rose, putting her loincloth back on again. She leaned over and kissed him softly on the lips and then pulled a flask containing a dark blue liquid from a small gourd on the floor.
“Bouvez, bouvez,” she said insistently, handing him the liquid. They obviously weren’t about to poison him and Archer, not if their lovemaking services were going to be needed, so Rockson opened his lips and she poured in a few slugs. The liquid burned like liquor but went down OK. Reina stood back, looking at him with a wistful expression and then snapped her fingers as she walked away. A bevy of ten women who had been standing near the teepee flap rushed over to the prone freefighter, scrambling quickly to be the first on line. A young, pear-breasted woman got astride him and took her fill. Then another and another . . .
Rock awoke early in the morning just as the sun was coming up. Outside the teepee he could hear the panthers growling at the dawn as if it were some prey they were about to attack. He could barely move; his body felt absolutely drained of every bit of energy. He couldn’t even remember how many women he had had during the night—ten, twelve, fifteen. At a certain point he had lost count as breasts and thighs and moaning mouths grew into a blur of mad sexuality. It was obvious that the blue liquid they had given him and Archer to drink had highly potent ability to keep a man sexually excited—and the wherewithal to keep the action going. Rock wondered if he and Archer were scheduled to have sex with every damned woman in the tribe—just how many were there?
After about an hour of lying in the fur bed wondering if they were ever going to get any food, Reina came in with four Kreega guards and they led the Doomsday Warrior and Archer outside, after helping them on with their clothes. Rock wondered if they might try a break as the rest of the village was still asleep. But with four panthers following closely behind, their orange eyes fixated on the two freefighters, he decided to wait for a better opportunity. They were fed a gruellike porridge and pieces of sweet juice-filled fruit. Reina seemed in a good mood and kept looking over at Rock as they all sat around on logs arranged in a circle around a glowing fire that was constantly tended.
She began talking to him, a strange mixture of French and the few English words she had learned from captured trappers, and gradually Rock was able to learn the history of the tribe. They were the descendants of French Canadians. When the great “boom-boom” as Reina put it, came, their ancestors went as far into the primeval forest as possible—where the trees didn’t wither like they had in all other places. There they had lived for the past century, fishing and hunting. Many babies died, but those that survived were taller and more agile than the ones before. But as time went on there were more and more female children than male—until eventually there were no males at all. The Kreega, after sixty years all women, began raiding the land to the south picking up stray males—scrawny pathetic survivors and traders—and took them prisoner to fertilize the eager and lonely women of the tribe. It was in one of these forays nearly twenty years earlier that they had discovered the remarkably fierce and intelligent cats and found that the virgins of their tribe had the ability to control them. As long as one of the younger virgin women of the Kreega was present the panthers would obey commands of any of the women. But without one around they reverted almost instantly to their savage state.
With the cats at their command, the tribe flourished, but to this day only female children were born to the women. Accepting and integrating this reality into their lives as some sort of divine will, they kept the men they seized only so long as their blue fluid of power permitted the men to fertilize as many Kreega as possible. Most men completely failed in their tasks, going limp after only days of super-studdom. But never, Reina told him in pidgin English, have we had men that lasted so long in just the first night.
“I’m proud to be an American,” Rock said, grinning. He asked her just what happened to the men when they could no longer “function.” Reina explained that they were fed to “Ogre”, the Mother-Goddess who lived in the lake near where they had been captured. The Mother-Goddess who was the source of all good and strength, who lives in the deep blue wetness. Rock made a mental note to tell Archer not to mention the fact that they had done in the Kreega goddess. Somehow he didn’t thing they’d appreciate the deed.
Four
Premier Vassily, ruler of all the world, was wheeled out onto the infrared heated balcony of the Hitler Pantheon in Berlingrad, the heart of New Germany. He stood on the tiled outcropping near the top of the immense marble-and-stone building, surrounded on all sides by the stern stone statues of the great Russian and German leaders of the past: Lenin, Stalin, Drubkin, Hitler and Goering. He addressed the multitudes below—over a quarter million olive-green uniformed soldiers in stiff straight lines reaching back as far as the eye could see. His frail voice boomed and echoed with authority, amplified and enhanced by the super-sensitive microphone on his throat. He sounded like Thor himself to the crowds, his voice rising over the strains of “The Ride of the Valkyries.”
“Fellow socialists of the National Socialist Party, known here in the New Germany as the Nazi Party: I come in friendship and fellowship to celebrate the 160th anniversary of the pact between the beloved socialist leaders, Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin in 1943. Together they made war against the anti-socialist state of Poland. Today, I call again on that eternal bond between our two peoples to unite to defeat another anti-socialist enemy—the American rebels. The same Americans who brought about World War III
, the same Americans who persecuted and forced into suicide your beloved Führer, Adolf Hitler, so many years ago. They must be crushed by our combined might.”
The premier paused for a moment as the music rose to a crescendo, signaling the crowd to salute.
“Sieg Heil! Seig Heil!” they shouted by the hundreds of thousands, in waves that shook the ground. A thousand brown-shirted Nazi youth banged on huge typanies and crashed yard-wide cymbals together, creating a storm of noise and power worthy of Thor and Odin, the fierce gods of the Germanic people.
Vassily continued with his distorted history and his appeal to the masses of uniformed soldiers below him. “The spirit of our beloved Führer is here! I speak with his voice, his authority, with his love and racial purity.” The voices screamed back a quarter-million seig heils with raised stiff arms. The premier surveyed the ranks and the vast Pantheon. On either side of the three hundred-yard-wide, half-mile-deep rows of assembled uniformed troops with their horseshoe-crab-style helmets stood immense Doric pillars. Atop each ten-foot-wide, two-hundred-foot-high pillar, a gas-fed fire roared and leaped into the air timed to the utterance of the premier to accentuate his immortal words. The orange flames glimmered in five hundred thousand blue eyes, reflecting their inner fire and mesmerized attention as the soldiers stood with their long bayonetted Goering rifles gripped tightly in their arms like long lost lovers.
Vassily knew he had them. He hadn’t felt this way before a crowd since his inauguration as permanent premier of the Soviet empire some twenty years before. He felt younger, invigorated by the response of the fanatical crowd. Even he believed the power of his voice and its righteous tremulous words. Even he was swayed by the flaming pillars that cast flickering red shadows across the army of loyal troops before him.