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The Cimmerian And Two She-Devils
🕑 Added 2021-03-10 02:02:20 +0000 UTCIn Argos’s capital, Messantia—in the Temple of a Thousand Gods—on the Night of the Baying Hound—the inevitable had happened. Conan and the fetching Red Sonja had crossed paths again. But this time, Conan was not the lonely wanderer he usually was. He brought with him Belit, Shemish Queen of the Black Coast, who had made Conan her lover in fact as well as proclamation. And now, circumstance had brought man and woman to the same setting as his old rival and companion, Sonja, both of them questing for the same treasure.
To Conan’s mind, the details of the treasure, the patrons who sought it, even the threat it represented—these were scribblings on palimpsest, things that might be rewritten a half-dozen times as the tale was told and retold.
What mattered was the passions behind the words: the wounded pride and impassioned enmity, the jealousy and desire, that shone through their actions as the light shone through a scroll when it was held up to a flame. Seen in this barbaric sparseness, it was no wonder that the three adventurers could not come to some friendly arrangement with which to dispose of their winnings—promised loot that would satisfy the craven appetites of a score more men. No, there could be no accord between the two women, because it was obvious to all involved that what they truly strove for was Conan!
Nor could the Cimmerian settle that matter for them, for no red-blooded male could possibly choose between the two beauties. True, Belit had an edge—her long love affair with Conan was still in its prime. It had been consummated, and the consummation had brought Conan great pleasure… whetting his boundless appetite for more and more of the black corsairs’ captain. A lotus smoker’s desire would be sated before Conan had had his fill of Belit.
Whereas Sonja’s appeal remained a temptation, an unanswered question, a challenge to the barbarian’s curiosity. He had not bedded her, and would not until he had met her strange demand—for him to beat her in fair combat, a surprising hardship, considering the gorgeous body displayed almost in its entirety. Like any warrior, Sonja favored chainmail, but only enough links to cover her bounteous breasts and then form a loincloth at her waist, its length traipsing down to conceal in idle modesty her rump and womanhood. And yet, that body—tanned from the sun, toned from exertion, yet barely scratched from combat—had provided itself a match for all of Conan’s muscular bulk… at least, thus far.
Belit, though, was the equal of Sonja’s beauty. She lacked somewhat the robustness of Sonja’s athletic physique—the voluptuous breasts that almost marked Sonja as more wanton than warrior, except they came between the chiseled definition of her stomach and the broadness of her shoulders. Sonja’s arms were thick and her thighs bulged with potent muscle, though this did not diminish her femininity so much as provide an ample canvas for it. Her creamy skin and flashing red hair made it impossible to forget she was woman, even in the heat of battle, when she became the she-devil that had earned Sonja her crimson sobriquet. For not after her blood-red hair was Sonja named, but after the blood that coated her half-naked body when any dared challenge her.
Belit did not have that curvaceous excess, though her bosom left nothing to be desired—full, proud breasts almost defying the slenderness of her physique. Her limbs were long and lissome, though they stirred with well-developed muscle. So too was her torso toned and lean, in fitting counterpoint to the rest of her lithe body, while her skin was rich and white as fresh milk, barely honeyed with the browning tan that kept her from being an albino. She still glowed with pallor, all the better to contrast with the long locks of ebony hair that provided almost as much coverage as her clothing: only a girdle wrapped around her sylphlike hips, silk flowing down her legs from it, its purple a shade apart yet befitting her night-black hair. All the rest of her was ivory, save perhaps the red of her nipples and that of her lips. On her narrow face, they were pleasingly plump, making her countenance like the rest of her: a tempting meeting of delicate slenderness and rich curvaceousness.
It was small wonder that with them so equally matched in beauty, the tawny woman and the pale resorted to barbed words to gain the upper hand. Tempers flared. Their seething hostility exploded into a bonfire. And sure enough, swords were drawn.
Conan rested a hand on the pommel of his own blade, but did not pull it. Though he felt compelled to intervene on behalf of Belit’s life—and aye, that of Sonja, for it would not do for such a warrior to fall in so petty a battle—he knew that Belit would not appreciate his help, nor would Sonja wish to be spared this bout, even if the other woman proved the victor. Besides, the Cimmerian loved a good fight, and Belit proved an even better bedmate when her blood was up, as it surely was now.
Although, Conan told himself, conceding that two were too good and too furious for any match, no matter how even, to be harmless… he wouldn’t let things progress to the point of marring the beauty of either woman. There was too little of it in the world, and it was rare indeed in the quantities both maidens possessed.
At first, Sonja proved the better swordswoman, her muscle more than a match for that of Belit in a head-on fight. But with her prowess came pride, which Belit successfully played on. She soon tossed aside her sword and resorted to the dagger, daring Sonja to prove her equal in that arena, where the she-pirate claimed mastery. Sonja could not resist the challenge, though some chroniclers might claim otherwise—write censoriously that Sonja had ended the combat by her wits, plunging the room into darkness with an attack on a nearby torch, then fleeing with her prize in hand, claiming that she valued acquiring it over proving Belit’s better, and so their history would not impugn Sonja’s list of victories.
In reality the fight went on, with Sonja discarding her own sword and taking up knife instead. Here, Sonja and Belit were more evenly matched—the knife’s shorter reach and lighter heft favoring agility and cunning over raw strength, no matter how skilled. The fight went on for what seemed like hours, Conan watching with a keen appreciation for both the sweating beauty of the straining combatants and their talent with blades.
It seemed to his not untrained eye that Belit was proving the better, scoring many stabs and slashes at Sonja, though near all landed on her armored brassiere and loincloth. It was a mystery to Conan whether Belit was holding back—unlikely—taunting Sonja with these harmless attacks—more likely—or whether Sonja’s skill was such that she was able to force and divert Belit’s blows ever to what little protection her supple body possessed.
“Crom,” Conan muttered under his breath in soft reverence. What a fight! And his manhood throbbed, given he had the rare opportunity to ogle both women unchallenged. Were he born with the blood of a merchant or trainer, he might’ve conceived of doing brisk business in showcasing combat between such gladiatrixes, but of course, women of their beauty were virtually unheard of, let alone their ability. No, this rare treat—or rather, feast—was given to him alone.
Suddenly, Belit cut at the leather strap that held together the chainmail of Sonja’s top. With her supreme skill, the cord was neatly cut, without even a welt on the skin beneath. Sonja’s top flew open under the pressure of her abundant chest, Conan’s eyes widening at the boon they received. Sonja’s breasts were every bit as gorgeous as her skimpy attire so suggestively hinted at. And having them abruptly displayed enraged even as earthy a girl as the redheaded she-wolf.
“Slut!” she yelled, charging Belit with the subtlety of the knife-fight lost to her—and paying the price for it.
Despite Belit’s lissome appearance, her slender body was amply corded with muscle; all of which she put into the blow that met Sonja full-on, checking her motion instantaneously and rocking her back on her heels. Sonja was stunned, though only for a brief moment. But in that instant, Belit slipped behind her and pressed her dagger to Sonja’s throat.
A glimmer of blood on the Hyrkanian’s lip lasted as memento of her folly, beading up as the moment hung suspended between its brethren.
Conan steeled his thews to charge, though he did not yet move. The world seemed poised on the brink of a precipice while Belit played her blade along the pulse of Sonja’s throat. Even Sonja had to allow that she’d been bested—her warrior pride did not go so far as to deny reality.
“Vanity, vanity, vanity,” Belit chided. “Thought you were a warrior, but you are woman after all.”
“And you?” Sonja retorted: mere awareness of her jeopardy could do nothing to still her roguish tongue.
“A goddess, of course,” Belit answered. “Come, Conan. Gaze upon her maiden qualities.”
“Sonja, yield,” Conan said in a steely voice, convinced—hoping—that Belit would show mercy now that the matter was settled. But he feared Belit would be as unforgiving as Sonja would be in her place.
“Why go to the grave in submission?” Sonja asked. “Why not let Death find me still in the throes of battle? Do it, ‘goddess’. Cut my throat. However swift my blood leaves my body, the undertaker shall not find me without my hands dug into your neck!”
Belit giggled and laid her blade flat on one of Sonja’s abundant breasts. “You’d quicker die than sacrifice your spirit, I’ll give you that, my Hyrkanian friend. But a quick death is the least of what I can visit on you.” Her free hand pulled at one of Sonja’s nipples, Sonja gasping as the illicit sensation broke upon her tensed body. Belit held the point of her knife to the tautly stretched skin. Sonja dared not move. “I hear you are virgin. That this luscious flesh has never known the touch of a man. Shall I make the first kiss it feels be the touch of my blade?”
She let go of Sonja’s nipple, but hardly released her. Instead—her dagger now poised at Sonja’s heart—her off-hand went down to the redhead’s hip and undid the knot that held together her loincloth. The moment it loosened, the weight of the chainmail jerked the leather band down, leaving Sonja naked save for her boots. Belit ran her hand down Sonja’s belly to cup her mound, and the thatch of pubic hair that protected it.
“Your hair’s so soft…”
Sonja tried to close her legs, but Belit jabbed the dagger between her breasts. She didn’t break the skin—perhaps only because Sonja slackened her thigh muscles and allowed Belit her way.
“You have a nice clit, Sonja.” Belit moved her hands together, now stroking the flat of her blade along Sonja’s hooded clit. “I hear that in Keshan, they’re cut off. One swift cut and it’s all gone. Perhaps I’d be doing you a favor. Without the temptation of finding out what that little thing could do, you may prove undefeatable.”
Sonja trembled despite herself. Her own fear, more than anything else, made her darken with sudden rage. “Damn you, see how quick you can kill me, for every second you tarry is another hell I’ll visit upon you!”
“Sonja!” Conan cried. “Know sense! Your pride may be regained in time, but your life—once shed—can never return to your veins. Do not sell it so blissfully!”
Sonja gritted her teeth and saw the truth of Conan’s words. Moreover, she saw the irony of the barbarian himself pointing out to her the urbanity that should rule her animal instincts. Conan might lack some of her poise, but his experience still proved keen.
“I yield,” she muttered.
Belit was merciless, drawing the blade over Sonja’s chiseled abs, never more than an inch from vital organs. From where her tip visited, she could cut Sonja in a half-dozen ways—both women knew this.
“What’s that to me?” Belit asked with casual cruelty befitting a goddess, even a self-styled one. “Why should some word sate me more than your lifeblood?”
“Belit,” Conan thundered, dark with anger. “She has surrendered.”
“And she is my enemy, not yours!” the she-pirate barked. “Do not tell a predator what’s to be done with her prey! Aye, you were little enough use when I fought her. Did her body tempt you too much to bloody, Cimmerian? Will it still call out to you when ribboned in her own red?”
Many underestimated Conan because of his Cimmerian accent, his admittedly barbaric manner, his disdain for civilization and veneration of action over thought. But as mighty as he was, many were the foes he had faced who could not be conquered by strength alone. Were he not cunning, not possessed of a keen grasp on the interworking of the world he trod—he would not have lasted long away from his native soil.
True, Conan existed primarily to sate his own urges and exert his own strength, but he could put surprising thought into the best way of going about that.
“No,” Conan admitted. “But if yours is the mind that births our raids, mine is the arm that carries them out. Consider now, o great mind, that you have overcome Red Sonja in honorable combat. It is not me her body should call out to, but you.”
Belit looked at Sonja’s naked body in surprise, now noticing the obvious appeal of Sonja’s bare flesh—and her blush was especially evident on her milky white skin.
“You have a keen eye for women, Conan,” Belit remarked. “And you’re right. As much fun as it would give me to end her life, she has still more pleasures to offer me…”
First she spun Sonja around, then she traced her dagger over the redhead’s beautiful face—a pointed reminder that she could end the she-devil’s life at any time she chose. And then her own lovely face was buried in Sonja’s ample breasts, kissing the nubile flesh as it so obviously deserved.
Sonja tried to remain cool, but the feel of Belit’s lips on her chest was all too exciting. Belit, in contrast to her virginal inexperience, knew what she was doing. It only took a few seconds and then Sonja’s nipples were stiff, all the more vulnerable to Belit’s sucking mouth. As well, Sonja knew her sex was dripping wet, as though trying to tempt Belit away from her swollen nipples, her heaving breasts. And without even the meager protection of her loincloth, there was nothing to keep anyone from seeing it.
Comments
P. C.
I love the style. This is gorgeous writing.
