Barbarene

Prologue

Horst Wessel considered himself a brave man. He seldom experienced fear, having become adept at avoiding situations likely to put him to the test. Instead, he sought those which guaranteed him power, and exploited them to the utmost.

Tonight though, things had not begun well. Not well at all.

As he left the tenement in which he lived, there had been a black van parked a few doors down. He heard the motor start as he crossed the street. It followed at a discreet distance. All senses alerted, he entered the maze of alleys which led down to the docks, and came out onto the harbourside.

Nothing untoward. A few kids swapping cigarettes in the trash repository which served as a playground. A couple of female motorcyclists standing by their machines beneath a streetlight, chatting and smoking. He took a second look, had always been turned on by the black leather they wore. They ignored him, seemed deep in conversation. Bloody dykes!

He walked through the park and along a laneway at it's rear, emerging eventually onto the main road close to the pub which was his second home and place of business. It was crowded as usual with the scum of the docks. He bought a beer and spent the next hour trading in crack, and in the local security information which was his main livelihood – few of the dockland businesses realized the burglaries which constantly plagued them were the result of his acute observation, for Horst was an expert in his field.

The two woman motorcyclists entered the far end of the bar and stayed for a time, drinking, but he failed to notice them. They cast him a casual glance and left after finishing their drinks.

At closing time he left, and retraced his steps along the road. Something made him look back, and his heart lurched as he saw the black van parked opposite the pub – dark tinted windows menacing in the street light. He cut rapidly off to the laneway, and along it to the park, where he stopped and listened. No motors. He slipped into the park and was almost halfway through it when a black figure rose to his right. He yelped in panic and began to run, stumbling through the garbage. A second figure rose on his left and a sibilant whistling broke the stillness. His legs were clamped in a vyce and he fell heavily.

The two figures leapt on him and quickly overcame his struggles, twisting his arms to the rear and applying handcuffs. His belated cry for help was cut short by a leather gag. The figures hauled him upright and propelled him to the street and the waiting van, whose door was open. Hands reached out to haul him in.

'Christ!' a female voice muttered, 'I'll need an antiseptic bath after this!'

Chapter One

The chain rattled with shocking clarity!

Slowly her arms rose in supplication to it's demand and it drew her upward onto the balls of the feet before it stopped.

The single harsh light from above limned her taut body, throwing every detail of it's fine musculature into strong relief against the blackness beyond. Her head was free to move back and forth within the soft custody of her arms and she looked down at the proud jut of breasts with their engorged nipples... and further, to the feet barely in contact with the round stone dais set in the floor.

Her ankles were drawn apart almost a metre, tethered by chain to the outer rings set in the dais.

She took deep, slow breaths against the rising panic.

The whip came!

Flickered with black savagery in the halogen glare, her body arching to the white heat of it's embrace, in a tragic parody of orgasm.

Seconds passed. The vista below had altered. A cord of blue-black now curved over the breasts, growing in relief as she gazed, horrified. She had willed herself to look down, as if the sight of her feet, the stone dais, would help her remain centred in reality. It did so, but she knew the whipfire would triumph and inexorably draw back her head until eyes insane with agony locked on the bar-tight chain climbing above her into the void.

Someone from another cell had been assigned the flogging, it was always done that way. Someone who did not know you. Nothing to soften the experience – nothing.

The dais had dropped.

Just a fraction... but now the toes strained to support her weight. Each movement of her body tripped the mechanism that lowered the stone ring – another flagia refinement.

The muscles and sinews of her arms and torso, seasoned by constant exercise, would hold her – but at a cost. As the flesh tautened, the whipstrokes across it would reveal whole new worlds of pain.

The next stroke came, and the next, tearing coarse moans from deep inside her. They were round body strokes and the fire drove deeply, probing further until no part of her felt inviolate.

She could no longer look down now, as the rhythm imposed by the whip became her new reality. Somewhere she could hear the clicking heels of the flagia who paced about her in the darkness, barely out of the glare of the rooflight as she cut with casual savagery into the body of her prey.

Such were the flagia – relaxed, lethal, supremely competent. Cruelty elevated to a realm of incomparable sophistication, and practiced with mind-shattering sensuality.

The next stroke was horrific! She flung vainly in the harsh light, and the first scream was torn from her. Not shrill, but the deep full-throated primal scream of animal pain and terror. A terminal scream that speaks of the certainty of death – for lash of the bullwhip penetrates far below the flesh and into the very soul.

The hot trickle of urine down her legs.

The dais had left her hanging and soon the motion of the ankle chains would bring it's weight to bear. The Flagia rack!

...momentary gleam of polished leather from the blackness...lash whisper...

It was the last thing she saw before the chain...OH LILITH! OH KALI! OH WHITE MOTHER!

Now the pitiless monster grasping her ankles drew down and down. Now the ropes of incandescent fire that had been muscle and sinew held discourse with the circling whitefire. Now the both fused in a savage inferno where sanity died and screaming drove up into the void and out into the very stone of the chamber.

And later, too much later...the chain shimmered into red blackness and silence came.

Chapter Two

We see him

Good, keep visual contact – if he tries to leave, you know what to do

OK

David saw the headlights as they swung in from the main road, watched them flicker through the screen of trees that bordered the park. Large car, black.

Despite the warmth of the night, he shivered.

The rendezvous site Laura had sent him by text was well chosen. Here in the long straight before the avenue sloped down to the river, there were few lights – perfect for an assignation. He shivered again, half in anticipation, half in fear. The warning bell that had saved him in Kosovo was clanging full blast, but the answering voice seated comfortably in his genitals shouted 'chance it.'

How many correspondents had felt the same alarms before calmly walking to disaster – dick suicide, they called it. The countryside alive with menace and yet a pretty face, sultry voice, backward glance - could wipe away years of training in a second.

And a life.

He had been flippant when he spoke with Laura, but her reaction had been like an icy douche. No humour there, but fear that tweaked his journalist buttons. There was a story here! They are no joke, she whispered hoarsely, and was gone.

The car was close. A limousine, tinted windows. Wealth. Anonymity.

He took a deep breath as it sighed to a halt before him.

The rear door swung open and he stooped to enter.

She sat, or rather reclined, in the far corner of the lounge and he could not restrain a sharp intake of breath. Eyes of vivid blue appraised him, exquisite bone structure – Michelle Pfeiffer lines, he thought – fine, with perfect lips that quirked upward at the corners and were sharply defined, graphite glossed.

She indicated the seat by her with a friendly wave of the hand, 'Make yourself comfortable David, I hope I've passed inspection.' The voice well modulated, musical, a trace of accent. Finnish? She wore three quarter length fur and her legs were clad in boots of black leather – more startling when reprised in the helmet covering the upper half of her head.

He sat, confused. The vehicle began to move. He tried to look out, found the windows louvred, impenetrable.

'Not quite what I expected, and...' he stammered.

She laughed and nestled back into the fur, comfortable with the effect she had created.

'And what is the "and"?'

'Disturbing.' He said after a moment's hesitation.

The graphite lips curved in a smile, eyes twinkling mischievously from the gothic hood.

'Thanks, though there are some who would accuse you of understatement,' she extended her hand, 'I'm Ilse.' He leaned forward and took it. Long, cool fingers, unexpected strength. Perfume restrained, but with an unusual depth...he felt a lancing shaft of fear, released her hand and drew back, a prickle of perspiration at his temples.

'You're very persistent, David. I really felt we had to meet.'

She withdrew a gold case from her coat, 'You'll find a lighter in the drawer beside you,' she said, extracting a cigarette. He fumbled awkwardly for what seemed an age, located it and leaned toward her. She did not lean forward to the flame, but remained as she was, forcing him to lean far over the booted legs and furred body. The cold shaft of fear took him again, as smoke flowed between parted lips. He retreated with some relief and replaced the lighter in the drawer.

'Thanks,' she smiled, 'perhaps a little faster next time.' An amused observation? A hint of menace? She certainly had an aura about her that generated fear. A most dangerous woman.

He cleared his throat, 'Laura said you'd be prepared to speak with me.' More a query than a statement.

'Yes, where would you like to begin?'

'Numbers?'

'Sorry, that's classified.'

'Oh,' he laughed, 'well...distribution?'

'Most of the western world.'

'What?'

She exhaled a broad plume of smoke toward the ceiling, lips quirked in a smile, 'You heard me.'

'Growth?' he asked, dumbfounded.

'Rapid. We have cells in every major city, and each member is charged with recruiting two initiates a month, as a matter of policy.'

'That's incredible, how do you do it?'

'Oh, usually through self improvement courses - assertiveness training, aerobics. The most promising women are vetted and screened ...it's done very quietly. We've a corps devoted solely to recruiting the right women ... these have formed the executive base. All in total secrecy.'

'I know,' he laughed, 'all I ever heard was an urban myth about a secret women's organization, a sort of feminine Masonic Lodge - and I'm in the nosy news business.'

'Exactly.'

'What are your aims, then?'

'Oh, probably something like world domination, ' she laughed.

'Sure. But seriously, how does body like this function?'

'That's the catch David, you'll have to join us to learn.'

'What, as an honorary member?' he grinned widely.

'Something like that.'

'When?'

She crushed the cigarette in the ashtray at her elbow, then, smiling: 'Why not now?'

'God, you're full of surprises!'

'That's a yes then?'

'Alright.'

She nodded. Just then the vehicle slowed and turned, dipped down into what he assumed was an underground carpark.

'You were pretty sure of me,' he laughed.

'Oh yes, we've been watching you for some time.'

She led the way from the car and through a small doorway. He heard the motor purr off into a subterranean berth as he followed her into a maze of passages, then another door through which she led the way...into a tastefully furnished apartment.

'This is my home,' she gestured, 'Take a seat, I'll have some champagne brought in.'

She pressed a panel in the wall, and motioned him to a deep leather lounge chair – one of several that were grouped about a low table. She did not remove her fur, and looked like some strange fetishistic cat.

'Now,' she settled into a chair opposite him, 'I can tell you more. We are much, much bigger than you think. Every major city in the country has a cell – and every country in the civilized world is similarly endowed.' She stroked the leather idly with a graphite-tipped finger. 'It had to happen, David.' Her eyes found his earnestly, held them from the depths of the helmet.

'How do you mean Ilse?' he had not used her name before this, and it came out like a verbal caress. Her eyes narrowed in pleasure – despite the lethal manner, he found her attractive...and responsive!

'Women must take over...simple as that.'

He could not hold back a laugh. 'Now you're having me on.'

Her fingers flexed a little and the graphite tips scored the leather softly.

'Not at all,' she smiled, 'The agency for which you freelance now has a woman as CEO, right?'

He stared at her – 'That's right, but...nobody knows...the appointment's still an in house secret!'

'It's managing director has a wife. Trudy.'

He stared, uncomprehending.

'That's the way it's done – by direct or surrogate control.'

The door opened and a woman entered, bearing a tray on which rested an ice bucket and glasses. His casual sideways glance stopped in it's tracks. Movements lithe and assured, she wore only a white silk shift and her every motion stroked it into erotic life. She came to him, and as she leaned down to place the tray on the table, he caught her delicate perfume - and what could only be described as an aura of ineffable wonder enveloped him.

Enfolded and caressed him, with a tenderness beyond all experience.

Only the young or easily impressionable are obsessed with physical beauty. The observing mind soon picks it's way through the maze of human personality, sifting and evaluating as it goes, and finding the truth below all things physical. He knew without a shadow of doubt that he could spend the rest of his life plumbing the depths of this woman, and each step would bring a new wonder.

Ilse's voice startled him, 'This is Nadia, David.'

She regarded him with quizzical amusement, fingertips resting on the leather of her hood

...and he blushed, deeply and uncontrollably, a pubescent schoolboy again.

And was proud to let Nadia see it! Staring fully into soft eyes that almost moved him to tears.

She did not share Ilse's amusement, but regarded him solemnly with parted lips as he rose and did the single most important thing in his life – took her fingers in his, raised them to his lips – and gently kissed them.

A simple gesture of homage to a beautiful woman.

She slowly released her fingers, poured champagne into a glass and handed it to him with a soft smile, then poured for Ilse, and with a lingering backward glance, left the room.

'She impresses you, David?' Ilse's voice was little more than a purr.

What is it – he wondered – that gives an aura of menace to one woman, and a feeling of sensual peace to another?

'She's more than impressive, who is she?'

'Oh, just one of those who serve us.' Ilse sipped at the wine, 'You'll see more of her. Now...' her voice lost it's lightness and became businesslike, 'let's enjoy the wine, and then I have a little show for you. Meanwhile, some more information: we're organized in exactly the same way as any other community, with the exception that women control all – men serve in a minor, but essential capacity. We have full administrative arms, a legal and judicial body, accounting, marketing...all directed to the growth of our aims.'

'And what are they?' he asked, leaning forward in his chair.

'Why David! World domination of course.'

He began to laugh, but saw that her expression was devoid of humour.

'That's crazy.'

She shook her head solemnly, 'Not at all. We have women in key positions in every so-called First World country. Those positions we don't hold are occupied by men under our control. They're the – second class – members of the largest secret organization in history. The Barbarene.'

She smiled widely at his expression of total astonishment.

'Surely you know women are natural keepers of secrets, David. When men have secrets, they're just a little white lie to keep the woman happy. When women have secrets, they're sly, deceitful. They've broken the male-imposed directive.' She drained her glass and placed it on the low table, looked across at him with a quizzical smile: 'You know I'm right. It's the old double standard.'

'Come. I'll show you more.'

She rose and crossed the room to a large door, opened and extended her arm to him. They linked arms and he found himself walking down a long, shallow staircase in a tunnel lighted by recessed wall lamps.

He peered about him, 'What is this place, Ilse?'

She drew him closer and he felt the warmth of her body through the fur.

'The old wine cellars. They hauled the barrels up here; there were rails but we removed them and put in steps. My apartment is part of what was the surface store.'

They went further down toward a yellow glow that was visible, then she stopped abruptly and turned to him.

'Do you find me attractive, David?' Her lips gleamed in the soft light.

He stared at her. She seemed to tremble with some inner urgency.

'Of course I do.'

Softly she laid an arm about his neck and drew him to her. The graphite lips opened in a full, deep kiss as she drove her body into his. She shuddered with sudden violence and moaned softly, then drew back. The eyes were wide and diamantine in the black leather of the hood.

'I think the same of you – remember that.' She turned and stepped down toward the glow in an abstracted motion, 'There are things that must be done.'

She did not speak again, and moments later they stepped through the open doorway into a surreal cavern.

He gazed about him at a large circular chamber, it's walls of rough hewn stone. The ceiling was a dome, dimly visible above him. A circle of flaring torches provided the only light. It flashed and played back from the black leather of four seated figures. Like the torches, they were arranged in a wide circle, between the torches and the walls of the chamber.

David halted in astonishment, but the insistent pressure of Ilse's arm drew him forward, toward the faces which were turned toward them. Four pairs of eyes regarded him with equanimity - from black leather hoods identical to that worn by Ilse. The flaring light from the torches leant a demonic cast to them as Ilse's voice broke the silence.

'Let me introduce to you David,' she told them, then turning to him she smiled, 'These ladies are part of a new term which you learn now – they are Flagia.'

She led him to the centre, so that he now looked out at the four figures beyond the torches. They sat immobile in their chairs – which more resembled thrones – and gazed back at him without expression.

Ilse faced him, smiling, 'The Flagia are the discipline corps of the Barbarene. This is one of their chambers – torture chambers, David – they are spaced around the basement of this quite considerable building.' She turned slowly in the flaring light and indicated the space about her. He became aware of what he had not seen before: chains hung from the darkness above him, and the walls carried an array of instruments – whips, shackles and other unidentifiable horrors that chilled him to the core.

Two women materialized beside him. He had not heard them enter. They could only be described as amazons, and the strappings of leather which covered their bodies in a gleaming latticework accentuated their muscularity. Heavy multi-thonged whips swung from their belted waists.

Ilse extended her hand silently and one of the women loosed her whip and handed it to her. The thing was a horror of gnarled and twisted black leather.